A Meeting At Corvallis

snowfields at the edge of sight. Overhead a red-tailed hawk floated, the spread feathers of its wings
sculpting the air, then stooped on a rabbit. The air was crisp and colder than usual, cold enough that the
frost still rimed grass and twig and brush with white even at noon; the breaths of men and horses
steamed, a light fog strong with the mounts' grassy scent. A four-horse wagon brought up the rear with
their gear, a few household staff walking beside it and the Bearkiller's chief physician riding atop; he'd lost
a foot to some Eaters soon after the Change, and loathed riding as well.
Havel and Signe were mounted and armed but in civilian garb; tooled-leather boots, broad-brimmed
hats, brown serge jackets and precious intact pre-Change bluejeans, almost new, and cunningly
reinforced on the inner thighs with soft-tanned deerskin. Their eldest children were with them,
eight-year-old twin girls identical down to the silver rings on the ends of their long, tow-colored braids
and the slant to their cornflower-blue eyes; he'd left young Mike Jr. behind at Larsdalen, with the staff
and nannies and indulgent grandfather and step-grandmother, since he was at the stage where he could
move pretty quickly but still had a toddler's suicidal lack of common sense. Mary and Ritva were excited
enough to bounce up and down in their silver-studded charro-style saddles, or would have been if they
hadn't ridden nearly as long as they'd been walking. They pointed and exclaimed as the drawbridge on
the fort came down and the gates swung open.
Eric Larsson commanded the Bearkiller escort; he had a crest of scarlet-dyed horsehair nodding
from front to rear of his round bowl helm, gold on the rivets that held the nasal bar at the front of it and
the mail aventail at the rear and the hinged cheek-pieces, and more on his belt buckle and the hilt of his
backsword. The metalwork of his war-saddle was polished bright, and the animal he rode was eighteen
hands at the shoulder and groomed to glossy black perfection, an agile giant of Hanoverian warmblood
descent. The man made a hand signal to the rider beside him; Luanne took up the trumpet slung on a
bandolier across her chest and blew a complex measure. The column of lancers reined their mounts
about as one to face westward, turning their formation into a double line; then they brought their lances
down in salute until the points almost touched the patched asphalt of the roadway, and back up again in a
flutter of long, narrow pennants.
A small party came down from the fort, four mounted figures, the metal of their armor colored an
inconspicuous greenish-brown that barely showed against the thick woods of the hills behind; the
McDonald Forest had been University property even before the Change, and well cared for. Havel
recognized the one who led them, a medium-tall man with brown hair and brown eyes behind the
three-bar visor of his helmet and a pair of sports glasses.
"Major Jones," he said.
"Lord Bear," the other man replied; he was in his early thirties, of medium height but deep-chested
and broad-armed; he'd been a Society fighter and teaching assistant in the Faculty of Agriculture before
the Change.
He saluted; Havel returned the gesture, turning in the saddle to make it towards the banner one of the
Corvallans carried, its pole resting in a ring on his right stirrup. The flag was orange, with the
brown-and-black head of a beaver on it, attempting a ferocious rodentine scowl; privately Havel thought
it was dorky beyond words, but it had been the University's symbol for a long time and they were
devoted to it.
"Welcome, Lord Bear, in the name of the people and the Faculty Senate of Corvallis," Jones said
formally.
Then he stripped off his metal-backed gauntlet and shook hands, a dry, firm grip: "Good to see you
again, Mike. And you, Signe, Eric, Luanne."
Eric had been looking at the weapons his escort carried. "Finally got that quick-loading crossbow
working, Pete?" he said.
"Yeah," the officer said. "Gear, ratchet and bicycle chain in the butt and fore-stock, crank inset
underneath. Turn it six times, and the weapon's cocked and ready to go as soon as you pull the trigger.
Double the rate of fire of the old type and you can do it lying down, or in the saddle."
Havel's crooked smile quirked. "Easy to build and repair?" he said.
"Well … we're still working on some problems with production and maintenance," Jones said