A Meeting At Corvallis

feet tall, blondly handsome, dashing, charming, from a far-off foreign place and in the process of saying—
"Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar, vanimalion noastari … "
"Onen i-Estel Edain—" Astrid replied in the same liquidly pretty tongue, which sounded Celtic but
wasn't; Havel understood not a word of it.
My languages being limited to English, a bit of Ojibwa, rudimentary Finnish and some Arabic
cusswords I picked up in the Gulf, he thought. None of the Tongues of Middle-earth included in the
package.
"You're looking like the coyote that met the rabbit coming 'round the rock," Signe said.
"Thanks to those Tasmanians—poor bastards—and their world survey voyage I think we may finally
have gotten your little sister hooked up," Havel said. "And out of our hair."
"Hey!" She punched him on the shoulder. Since he was wearing a hauberk with padded gambeson
beneath, that was mostly symbolic, but her voice was only a little defensive as she went on: "Astrid's
been … useful."
"And a lot less trouble since she started up that Ranger outfit out in the woods. But she's still trying to
trick us all out in costumes from those books she likes. She makes Norman Arminger sound as everyday
as a dental hygienist."
"Granted she's a flapping wingnut, but a handy wingnut to have around. A lot of stuff we've done
wouldn't have been nearly as popular if we hadn't had her to slap some cool, antique name on it and give
it some style. It kept those Society types we recruited happy too, they love fancy titles and playing
dress-up. Useful … and if they're here being useful to us they're not up north being useful to Lord
Protector Arminger, who was one of their own after all. Besides, this lords-and-ladies stuff … once it
stops sounding so silly it sort of grows on you."
"And fungus grows on your toenails if you aren't careful. Yeah, she's useful, and also a goddamned
pain in the ass. For a while I thought she'd probably settle down with Eilir, who's sensible, sort of—"
His wife shot him a look; the sisters had quarreled all their lives, but he liked the way they closed
ranks. "Astrid isn't gay."
"Nothing so convenient or conventional. She's an elf instead," he said dryly.
Signe grinned. "I think she's settled on being a, what's the word, Numenorean instead of an elf."
"I thought it was Dunadan … or is it Dunedain? I forget which."
"Dunedain is the plural … " She smiled wickedly as he mimed clutching at his head. "Dunadan is
the word for Numenorean … in another language."
"Another invented language? Christ Jesus, didn't the man have anything else to do with his time?
Trimming the shrubbery, visiting the pub? How many of them are there?"
"Let's see … the Common Speech, the Black Speech, the tongue of the Ro-hirrim, Halfling dialects,
Quenya elvish, Sindarin elvish … "
"Stop! Stop! Anyway, why … whatever … instead of an elf? Hell, I've got to admit, she looks like
one."
"But elves don't get cooties on campaign, or smell. Or have monthly cramps, which she does, bad.
Anyway, Eilir's just her best friend."
"Alleyne there will do even better, nothing like kids to calm you down. Someone who shares her
interests—"
"Is nutbar about the same stuff?" Signe clarified helpfully.
"Nah, he just likes the books; he's not goofy over living it all out. He's a pretty regular guy, once you
get past that Jeeves-old-chap-fetch-me-a-biscuit accent. But liking the books'll help him keep her from
doing a swan dive into the deep end. Christ Jesus knows nobody else ever had much luck at that!
Foreign prince—well, son of a baronet—exotic, great warrior. It's a natural! And I get a first-rate fighting
man on my side, too; he can king it off in the woods with her in between wars. Win-win situation."
"You haven't said anything about it to her."
"Christ, no! That'd be the best way to spoil things."
"Well, maybe you're learning after all," Signe said, and touched an ear when he started to reply.
They were leaning together and speaking quietly, and the rumbling clatter of hooves, the crash of