A Meeting At Corvallis

him had proved crucially useful in his rise to power. Society people—at least the less squeamish of
them—had been very handy as a training cadre in pre-gunpowder combat and a dozen other skills, but
there were problems … what had been their slogan?
Silently, he mused to himself: "Recreating the Middle Ages as they should have been."
They were perhaps the only people in all the world who'd felt vindicated when the Change killed all
high-energy-density technologies between the earth's surface and the Van Allens in a single instant of
white light and blinding pain.
I'm more interested in the reality. With some refinements, of course. Showers and flush toilets
are technologies I approve of. At least for me.
"My lord Protector," Molalla plowed on, sweating as he trudged through a speech obviously
memorized in advance and probably written by his wife. "I sent the Princess Mathilda back on a
well-guarded train as soon as the outposts reported a Mackenzie raid out of the Table Rock wilderness,
thinking they'd be safe in Portland before the enemy could penetrate the lowlands—and I sent my own
son along. My own younger brother commanded the escort, and was killed in the ambush on the
railroad. I admit error, and I beg your mercy for it, but I claim innocence of any malice or disloyalty.
Would I have done either if I hadn't thought it the safest course for the princess?"
Sandra spoke, her voice soft and careful: "But it wasn't as safe, lord baron, as guarding them in your
keep would have been. Raiders could ambush a train— which they did. They could not storm a castle,
which they didn't even try to do. And while the Mackenzies released your son at once, they did not
release my daughter! For more than half a year, she has been captive among the Satan-worshippers."
A heavy silence fell. The burly black nobleman opened his mouth, and then closed it.
Wise, Arminger thought.
The whole past spring and summer had been a series of disasters. The Mackenzie raid, the failure of
his attempt to salvage something useful from the old chemical-warfare dump up the Columbia at
Umatilla—those damned Englishmen who'd come in on the Tasmanian ship had been responsible for that,
suckering him completely—and then the rescue mission for Mathilda had crashed and burned
spectacularly. If it hadn't been for the way the Umatilla expedition had extended the Association's
influence into the Pendleton country, it could have been a dangerous blow to his prestige. As it was, land
for new fiefs would keep discontent to a minimum.
When he spoke it was to his steward. "Why is Baron Molalla unarmed? Bring his sword at once; it
isn't fitting that a trusted vassal should appear without a weapon."
A man came up with the long blade, the belt wrapped around the scabbard and showing a buckle
bearing the barony's sigil, a rampant lion grasping a broad-bladed assegai. Molalla donned it ; his face
stayed impassive, but sheer relief suddenly put a beading of sweat on his forehead, glittering in the
candlelight. Servants handed sheathed daggers to his wife and son.
"Use it well in my service, and in the interests of the Association," Arminger said.
He noted how Phillipa's eyes sought Sandra's again, and how her face relaxed slightly at the consort's
smile and nod.
Easy enough to see who's got the political brains in that family, though Jabar's a good fighting
man, Arminger thought.
Chaka was looking at the Association's overlord worshipfully, too. Arminger suppressed a sudden
wave of murderous fury at the thought of Mathilda lost among the fanatics; they wouldn't harm her
directly, but every moment she was exposed to that poisonous brew of superstition and make-believe
was one too many.
And if you screw up again, Jabar, all three of you are going to spend your final hours hanging
from iron hooks on the wall outside!
He smiled instead of snarling the threat. It wasn't necessary; the baron and his family bowed and
backed six paces away, among a crowd that didn't avoid them like plague carriers anymore, but Phillipa
was looking extremely thoughtful. With an effort of will Arminger thrust gnawing worry aside; he couldn't
afford distraction, and could do his daughter no good if he was crippled. Instead he made a gesture.
Another trumpet blast echoed.