The area of the old Mount Hood wilderness and much besides was Lord Protector's personal reserve, land under forest law where nobody could hunt or cut timber without special leave. Odard and the priest looked over at her as she snorted laughter.
"It's just that technically speaking, this is my land we're on. Yet I'm sneaking through it like a poacher afraid of a whipping from the verderers!"
The two men chuckled. Odard lifted his head. "And speaking of poachers, I think I smell venison cooking. Good man, Alex. And a dab hand with a crossbow."
Mathilda tested the air; there was woodsmoke and grilling meat, sure enough. A minute later the narrow road turned and revealed a small stretch of meadow, an ancient campground. Twenty-odd years and heavy rains had left nothing of picnic tables save green mounds, but the stone hearth was still usable. Odard's manservant Alex was there, with five hobbled horses, their pack saddles… and yes, pieces of venison on skewers over glowing coals, giving off a smell that made her mouth water. The neatly butchered carcass of a yearling doe hung in sections from a branch; Alex had wrapped the chunks he was cooking in bacon from the supplies, since the meat would be lean this time of year.
It had been a long time since their breakfast at Castle Odell, and it would have looked suspicious to pack along supplies for what was supposed to be a short trip to look at the flowers.
"Your Highness," Alex said, bowing, not even a twitch to show he was surprised at seeing three riders instead of two. "My lord Odard. And most reverend father in God. No sign of the foresters who ought to be patrol ling. Even if the Princess was graciously pleased to give me a signed warrant, they should have checked, the idle bastards. It's not as if I'm hiding."
Odard grinned; he'd told her Alex could manage get ting their gear ready and meeting them with it, and evidently he'd been right.
"No problem getting past the road patrols?" he said to his servant.
Alex shrugged. "I'm just another commoner, my lord. Nobody notices us-and there's no tax on goods leaving Association territory. It's not like the old days, when they were on the lookout for runaway peons."
Ouch, Mathilda thought. Well, those were hard times; hard measures were necessary. The thought was well-worn and increasingly unsatisfying.
She dismounted; they took a moment to unsaddle and hobble their horses, and pour out oats from the packsad dles. Those contained a little food, but mostly the essentials of their gear, things you couldn't buy in a town market. Principally their armor, since a really first class suit had to be fitted like fine clothing. Her battle harness included a set of titanium mesh-mail, the priceless work of half a dozen specialists laboring for years, stronger than even the best steel and only a third the weight, besides being rustproof.
Sneaking it out of the palace had been a major pain. She'd felt a quiet glow of accomplishment when she man aged it without-she very much hoped without-anyone important noticing. Right now the venison kebabs felt more important. Alex had fresh bread with them, and butter and soft cheese and pickled vegetables…
Two days later Mathilda's horse drank, and then raised its dripping muzzle from a pool. The spring that made it flowed from a split in the dark basalt lava, and they'd paused to fill their canteens and let their mounts drink. Hers nosed towards a tall purple stalk of larkspur; she put her hand on its muzzle and pushed against the hairy weight to distract it-the plant was pretty, but its other name was poison delphinium.
"How did you beasts survive before we people came along to look after you?" she asked it with rhetorical indignation and fed it some dried apple.
Then the animal lost interest in water and feed both. Its ears cocked forward and it raised its head, snorting and staring westward. A crow launched itself from the boughs of a willow that stood a little downstream trail ing its branches in the water, calling gruk-gruk gruk as its wings flogged the cool air. A pair of pintail ducks swam away, then decided to follow it, skittering down the little creek with their feet splashing at the surface as they made their takeoff.
"Heads up, Your Highness, Father," Odard said quietly. " Told you we were on Warm Springs land by now. The Three Tribes are touchy about their borders, too. There was a lot of raiding around here in the old days."
"Yeah," Mathilda said, tightening the girth. "Someone spotted us yesterday, I think. They probably hightailed it for help."
She swung back into the saddle, and stopped her hand on its way to the bow cased at her knee with an effort of will; they weren't here to fight. Her warning hiss made Alex stop his hand reaching towards the light crossbow he kept hanging at his, and the four of them rode up out of the hollow onto a long open swelling. The grass land was green with spring and starred with white flow ers and sage that gave a strong clean scent when hooves crushed it, and scattered with dwarf juniper. Mount Hood loomed directly west, which meant they were on reservation land.
The rumble of hooves grew louder, and a dozen horsemen came out of the rise half a mile southward. They headed straight for the travelers at a gallop, and then split and surrounded them amid high yelps and ki yi! yips and thundering hooves; that was good tactics, and it would give them a psychological advantage. All of them had bows, quivers over their backs, shetes at their waists and lariats hanging from their saddlebows. They had round painted shields as well, and one or two carried light spears; their hair was in braids, and most wore feathers in it. More feathers and beads and shellwork picked out their gear and horse harness and the leather vests they wore over colorful shirts or bare skin.
"Let's hope they're honest," Odard murmured as the noise and dust enveloped them.
Mathilda nodded, and her mouth went a little dry; their horses and gear were worth a good deal. The strangers' leader reined his own beautiful white-spotted Appa loosa in; he had a band of white paint across his upper face and black circles around his eyes and a tanned wolf head on his steel cap, with the muzzle shading his face like the bill of a hat and a fall of hide covering his neck.
He looked as if he were about thirty, with raven-black braids hanging past his shoulders and halfway down the steerhide vest sewn with stainless-steel washers he wore as display and armor. He also had the nearly beardless ruddy-brown skin, high cheekbones and nar row black eyes of a full-blood Indian; his followers were all younger, and they ranged from looks much like his to tow hair and blue eyes. People had moved around a lot right after the Change, even out here where the die off hadn't been so bad, and then mostly copied the customs of whoever took them in. Or the customs those people put together out of half memories and legends in a world gone mad…
"So," he said, after looking them over. "You folks are from the Protectorate, right? And maybe the priest, too?"
Mathilda felt herself flush at the tone. He could tell where she and Odard and the servant came from by their dress-boots, baggy pants, and belted T-tunics worn over full-sleeved linen shirts. She and Odard had left off the golden spurs of knighthood and avoided the distinctive roll edged round hats with dangling side tails that nobles wore, using broad brimmed Stetsons instead. She flushed again as she realized that the man had seen her reaction.
The other Indians talked among themselves in a lan guage she recognized-Chinook Jargon-but couldn't speak. She didn't think they were making compliments, though; and they were probably using the tongue to psych out the intruders, since she knew they spoke English at home most of the time. Her temper boiled over.
"The charter of the Meeting at Corvallis says people from all member states can travel freely through the ter ritories of the others on peaceful and lawful business," she snapped. "Last time I looked, the Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs were members of the Meeting."