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"Nah, it's not a witches-and-Christians thing, not really. Not run, not a whadyacallit, a sacred mystery. Mom says that over in Ireland they used to swear the oath of anamchara even after they became Christians themselves. You wa
"Then let's do it!"
"You sure?"
She nodded vigorously. "We'll have to get away from all these people: how long? Mom said it'd be half an hour until she was through talking."
"That's plenty of time. And we'll need some stuff. I know!"
He strolled over towards his bodyguards again. "Liath," he said quietly.
Aoife and the two Corvallans were looking at a hoof and discussing the shoeing; the horse snorted and swished its tail, but it was a good-hearted beast and stood patiently on three legs. Liath stood back a little; she was less outgoing than Aoife, who had enough self-confidence for three ordinary people and always had.
"Yeah, sprout?" she said, then bent down when he beckoned.
Rudi could smell the herbal wash on her braided brown hair, and the linseed oil on the chain-mail collar of her arming doublet; her smile was open and friendly. They got along well, and he'd known her off and on for most of his life, she having been part of Sam Aylward's household until just lately; she and Aoife were talking about handfasting, though most thought them too young. He didn't know her quite as well as he did Aoife, who'd lived in the Hall at Dun Juniper all his life:
But Aoije is a lot more strict about things. Better not to ask her, she'd be all questions.
He spoke quietly, not quite whispering: "Liath, could you get us some stuff? This is real important to Matti and me."
"Sure. What?"
"Oh: ummm: a couple of candles, three cups, and could we borrow your war-paint kit? I know you've got it along. And two blessed wands."
Liath's brown eyes went wide. She darted a look at Aoife and licked her lips. "Are you sure about that, Rudi?" she said seriously.
She's thinking she should tell Aoife, Rudi thought, and pushed at her with his will. "Well, duh, would I be asking if I wasn't? C'mon, Liath, this is real important."
She looked at Mathilda then; the girl nodded, her lips compressed into a line of determination, dark circles of worry and stress under her eyes. Rudi shifted from foot to foot.
"Please, Liath. We've gotta do it now, before the grown-ups get everything messed up."
"OK. But if you get me in trouble-"
"Don't worry. Mom'll understand."
Liath sighed. "OK. But keep it quiet, sprout."
She strolled over to her own mount and made a show of checking its feed-bag. Then she took a few small cloth-wrapped parcels from her saddlebags. Most Initiates on a long trip would have the basics for casting a Circle or spell-work with them. They sidled to the edge of the paved strip and waited until no eyes were on them; Liath leaned casually against the wall with her bow in her crossed arms, one boot heel up against the stucco, whistling as the wind scuffed dried leaves across the asphalt, and then Rudi vaulted into the open window.
Mathilda followed with something of the same eel-quick efficiency. The room within was empty and looked as if it had been deserted all their lives; the window on the other side was lodged open, and there was a rain-stain and a scattering of old leaves across the floor.
"What do we do?" Mathilda asked, a little breathless.
Rudi had the words memorized; such things came easily to him. Mathilda knew a lot less than most Mackenzies would, of course, though it wasn't a secret rite reserved for Initiates.
"Do we have to mix our blood in the cup and stuff like that?"
"Yeah," Rudi said absently. "Sorta. We've got to mix our blood, but we mix the drink in the cups: " He closed his eyes and breathed out, feeling for what was right in this time and place. OK, this will have to be a little different 'cause Matti's a Christian: "OK: you've got your crucifix with you, right?"
Mathilda pulled the silver-and-diamond amulet from under her shirt and jacket. "Now, here's how we'll do it-"
Twenty minutes later they knelt facing each other. Matti lifted the cup to his lips; it was cold tea from Liath's canteen, acrid and pleasant.
"I drink deep from the cup that the Goddess offers to the Lord," he said, then took the cup from her and held it for her.
"I drink deep from the cup that Mary held for her son," Mathilda replied, her eyes solemn in the candlelight; the early winter night was coming.
They lit the candle between them from the other two, each holding one flame to the wick, and spoke the words together. Then they picked up their knives and each nicked the back of the other's right wrist; the touch of the steel was a gentle sting, and Mathilda concentrated with squint-eyed care as she made the tiny wound. His own hand moved in a single small, swift flick. They pressed the cuts against each other, the thin hot trickle of blood mingling as their wrists locked in the chilly, damp air of the room as the chant went on: ": I am your brother"-he paused a little so Mathilda could say sister- ": your parent and your child. I will teach you and from you I will learn. I am the shield on your shoulder, the sword in your hand, the lamp that lights your feet. By earth and air, by fire and water, by the blood we share and the steel that shed it, we are one soul! All my wisdom and all my secrets I will share with you, as long as this life endures. Until we meet in the world beyond the world, so mote it be!"
"Amen," Mathilda added and signed herself, kissing the crucifix before she dropped it back around her neck.
"Oh, dear," his mother's voice said. "Oh, dear. Oh, dear."
Both of the children looked up, shocked from exultation back into the dying light of common day. Juniper Mackenzie and Sandra Arminger stood in the doorway, with Liath and Aoife and the dark-clad blond bodyguard in the back- ground. The bodyguard looked amused; Liath looked as if she wanted her vital functions to stop right then and there; Aoife was scowling like a summer thunderhead.
"Oh, dear," Juniper said again.
The two mothers shared a look. When the Lady of Portland spoke, it was with crisp assurance.
"Oh, shit."
"What's their problem?" Tiphaine asked the barkeeper casually.
The Suds and Spuds was a respectable tavern near the riverside part of the city wall, but not fancy. A long room held tables and booths, a bar, a kitchen in the back and rooms upstairs; blackboards listed prices. And rather astonishingly there had been a four-piece chamber ensemble playing until a moment ago, students performing for food, beer and what tips the audience could afford. She herself was dressed like a local, of the same class as the laborers and roustabouts and carters who made up the clientele, or like a farmworker in town for a day-there were plenty of such, with a meeting of the Faculty Senate due soon, which was the story she'd given when she rented a room.
An equivalent riverfront place in a Protectorate town would probably be named the Slut and Brew-there was a well-known dive in Portland called exactly that-and conducted accordingly, with more noise and worse smells and without the clean sheets.
"Them?" the barkeeper said, polishing a glass and looking at the two men. "They got fired, and they're not happy about it. Wouldn't have pegged them for whiners, but you never know." He set the glass down and wiped the bar down with the rag. "Didn't you hear about the murder at Hatfield's? Man got his throat cut while those two were supposed to be guarding him. It's a three-day wonder. You want a beer, or what?"
Tiphaine nodded, and the man took a mug down and filled it from the wooden barrel as she grabbed a handful of pretzels from an orange plastic bowl on the bar. He slid the chipped mug over to her and she sipped; it was passable, and coolish if not cold. The two men were definitely Harry and Dave, looking sullen. There was a fair crowd in, and some of them were listening to the two of them holding forth.