He liked the way she stood up to him-had in the old days, too, even after a beating; she'd stabbed him in the foot, once, when he knocked her down, put him on crutches for weeks.
"Yeah, I'll work on that," he said mildly.
It was a warm day, and he didn't bother with a shirt. He did pick up his great sword in its silver-chased leather sheath, buckling it across his back on a harness that left the hilt jutting over his right shoulder ready to his hand. The weapon was a favorite of his, a present from the Protector like a lot of their new gear; it had a winged skull as a pommel, and the two-handed grip and long double-edged blade suited his style. The knife he tucked into its sheath along his boot was an old friend from before the Change, though.
Then he went out into the corridor. "Moose, Hitter," he said to the men on guard, slapping their armored shoulders in passing. "Go get some eats, bros."
They were old-timers from the Devil Dogs; not too bright, but loyal as dogs. Pleased grins lit their faces as they clanked away.
The place did smell a little gamy as he walked down to the staircase. On the floor below, big arched windows looked down from the corridor onto the courtyard. Iron Rod threw one of them open-the air outside was fresher.
The block off to the east had been the church; it had the two towers, and big doors gave in onto it. From the rear, two wings ran back to enclose the court, ending in a smooth curtain wall.
They used the church as the main dining hall these days; his followers were spilling out of it right now, except the ones nursing hangovers. The big hairy men were loud and happy this morning, after a successful raid; he'd have to give them a couple of days off, before he got them working on weapons practice again, and riding. They were good guys, tough and reliable, but most of them weren't what you'd call long on planning.
Iron Rod was; he'd made the Devil Dogs a force to be reckoned with in Seattle's underworld over the last ten years, made those washed-up old geezers in the Angels back off, and the gooks and greasers and niggers respect him. The drug trade was competitive; you didn't stay in business long-or stay breathing-if you couldn't think ahead and figure the angles. He'd come through the automatic-weapons anarchy of the crack epidemic still standing because he thought with something else besides his fists and his balls.
Another man approached along the gallery, and Iron Rod watched him with the same instinctive wariness he would have a brightly patterned snake.
Baron Eddie Liu wasn't one of Duke Iron Rod's gangers. Neither was the huge figure that followed him, dressed in rippling armor made from stainless steel washers on leather, faceless behind a helmet with only a T-slit for vision and carrying a heavy war-hammer over his shoulder. Even among the Devil Dogs he was impressive.
Those two were the ambassadors from Portland, the Protector's men… from what he'd heard, Liu was one of the Protector's roving troubleshooters.
And he's smart, too, he thought, watching the slender figure in the dark silk shirt, black pants and polished boots and fancy chain belt.
But this ain't Portland, Iron Rod thought. This is my turf now.
Then he turned to the archway, raised his fists and bellowed, a guttural lion roar of dominance and aggression. All eyes in the court turned to him. He knew he cut a striking figure; as huge as any of his followers, with thick curly black hair falling down on massive shaggy shoulders and a dense beard spilling down the pelt of his chest.
Unlike most of his men he was flat-bellied, though-had been before the Change, too. Muscle ran over his shoulders and arms like great snakes wrestling with each other; every thick finger bore a heavy gold ring, and two gold hoops dangled from his ears. The face between was high-cheeked, hook-nosed, the eyes brooding and dark.
"Devil Dogs!" he shouted. "Dog-brothers!" That brought a chorus of howls and barks and yipping.
"Devil Dogs rule! We beat these sorry-ass farmers again! We took their food and their cattle and their horses, we burned their barns, we fucked their bitches!"
A roaring cheer went up and echoed off the high stone walls of the courtyard.
"Pretty soon, we'll have Sheriff Woburn hanging from a hook!"
There were half a dozen set in the walls now, between the towers and over the old church doors, taken from a slaughterhouse and mounted in the stone. All were occupied at present, but he'd clear one for Woburn, when they caught him. A wordless howl of hate went up at the sheriff's name, hoarse and strong.
I got a serious jones for Woburn, the Devil Dog chieftain thought. Worst I've had since those pissants ran us out of the Sturgis meet back in '94.
"The prairie is mine! All bow to the Iron Rod!"
A chant went up, falling into a pattern: "Iron Rod! Iron Rod! Duke! Duke! Duke!"
Most of them hadn't known a Duke from a Duchess and thought both were country and western stars, back before the Change. He'd been fuzzy on it himself until the Protector's people explained, but he liked the sound now.
When he turned from the window, Liu and his troll were there, which he liked rather less; so was Feitman, the Devil Dogs' own numbers man, a skinny little dude in black leathers with a shaven head and receding chin. He also carried two knives, and he was as fast with them as anyone Iron Rod had ever seen. The boys respected him, despite the time he spent with ledgers and books, and with computers before the Change.
"We just wanted to say good-bye," Liu said.
He was skinny too; some sort of gook, although he had bright blue eyes. You didn't want to underestimate him, though.
"The Protector's going to be real pleased with the progress you guys are making," he said. "And with the horses, provided we can get them down the river and past the locks."
Iron Rod grunted. Then he spoke: "Something I've been wanting to ask."
Liu made a graceful gesture.
Fag, Iron Rod thought, then shook his head. Nah. He'd made quite an impression on the girls here. And even if he was a fag, he'd still be dangerous as a snake. Watch him careful.
"What I'd like to know is why the Protector is giving us all this help over the past couple of months," Iron Rod went on.
And it had been a lot of help; weapons, armor, some skilled workers and a couple of instructors. Surprisingly, those had been even more useful than the swords and scale shirts; disconcertingly, they'd stayed more afraid of the Protector than of Iron Rod, even behind his walls and among his men.
Most useful of all had been the advice on how to take over this turf, and how to run it afterward.
"He's not exactly giving it all away," Liu said, his left hand on the hilt of his long curved sword-a bao, he'd called it.
"We're getting the cattle and horses-those'll be real useful, and they're sort of scarce west of the Cascades right now. When you're set up here, you'll send men to fight for the Protector on call, like we agreed. And you'll want to buy lots of stuff from Portland; we'll take a rake-off on that."
Iron Rod nodded. "Yeah, yeah, but that's all sort of, what's, the word, theoretical. And does the Protector trust me that much?"
The blue eyes went chilly. "Nobody stiffs the Protector, man," he said, in a flat voice the more menacing for the absence of bluster. "Nobody. Not twice, you hear what I'm saying?"
Iron Rod wasn't afraid of Liu, or his master; he wasn't afraid of much. He was good at calculating the odds, and he blinked as he thought.
"Maybe," he said. "My word's good on a deal, anyway. It's the Protector's angle I'm trying to figure."
Liu looked at him with respect-he'd always been polite, but Iron Rod knew that his appearance made people underestimate his brains. That was useful, but it was still pleasant to see the gook's opinion of him revise itself.