Abel Heuisink whispered to Kate, and she cleared her throat. An attendant rang a bell, and the aides and assistants stepped back. The principals gathered around a table shaped like an elongated oval and sat-or at least everyone but Artos did. There were startled looks at the Iowans as he went to the position at the head of the table, and more as he drew the scabbarded Sword from the frog at his belt and laid it on the polished maple before his place.
He’d dressed for the occasion in the ceremonial version of Mackenzie gear that he’d left here in Des Moines last year; a fine tartan kilt and knee-hose with the little sgian dubh tucked into it, polished brogans, tight green Montrose jacket with its double row of silver buttons and froth of lace at cuffs and throat, and the long plaid caught at the shoulder with a knotwork brooch and a tasseled fringe on its ankle-length trail. A broad black leather belt with a massive worked buckle cinched his waist and held his badger-fur sporran at the front and the dirk on his left hip, and a spray of raven feathers rose from the Triple Moon clasp on his tam-o’-shanter.
With his six foot two of narrow-waisted, broad-shouldered, longlimbed height he made a striking figure; the more with the jewel-cut handsomeness of his cleft-chinned face, framed by the red-gold of his hair and given gravity beyond his years by the scars. He paused for a moment to let everyone look-a King had to be something of an actor as well-then inclined his head a little to the bewildered dignitaries. Dress and titles had altered less here in the Midwest than elsewhere, though that was changing. He gave a silent plea to Brigid for wisdom, to Ogma of the Honey Tongue for the skill to express it, and to the Mother of this earth with her gift of sovereignty for permission to speak. Then he began:
“In the name of the Divine by all the names we call Them, be welcome, friends and allies. I am Artos, High King in Montival in the west; on the old maps, that would be Oregon and Washington and British Columbia, for a start. The government of the great Provisional Republic of Iowa has asked me to preside at this meeting.”
There was a low murmur as rulers leaned back to listen to the whispers of their advisors. He let it die, and continued with a slight bleak smile.
“With me you see those”-some of those, but let’s not complicate matters-“who accompanied me to Nantucket. There we found the source of the Change, and were granted visions. . and the Sword of the Lady.”
The looks were dubious, until he laid his hand on the hilt. Then there was a. .
Shock, he thought. Yet there’s nothing physical, and no one could swear that anything happened at all.
. . followed by a deep quietness. Awe, he thought, and perhaps some fear, as well as confusion in plenty.
“We are gathered here to meet the menace of Corwin’s black evil, of the Prophet Sethaz and the Church Universal and Triumphant,” he went on. “And his ally in Boise. With me are many who have suffered from that evil, and who can bring their strength to oppose it as well. Not least-”
His eyes flicked aside, and Fred rose, standing at parade rest with a face that might have been carved from dark polished wood.
“-Frederick Thurston.”
Another murmur, and he raised a hand for silence as Fred sat again.
“Yes, the son of General-President Lawrence Thurston, and his rightful heir. Unlike the murdering parricide and usurper who currently holds that city and realm, who conspired with the Prophet to kill his own father.”
Some of the Bossmen glanced at each other, or whispered eagerly with their advisors. Others sat with faces that might have been cast metal. None looked particularly surprised. Nobody who took or held power in these times needed to have a map drawn to show them where that could lead. He nodded to acknowledge it and went on:
“Now, you’ll be wondering what I bring to this alliance that mighty Iowa gives me precedence here-besides a fancy Sword and a strange costume, that is.”
A few flickering smiles. He nodded gravely and went on:
“I bring forty thousand men to the field in the High West. And more from other parts of my realm.”
The Bossmen of northern Fargo and Marshall had been giving Red Leaf an occasional hard look. Now the lord of Fargo spoke.
Dan Rassmusen, Artos reminded himself. Thin, a bit older than Ingolf, and a dangerous man if I’ve ever seen one. He fought the Sioux as a general for his older brother, and succeeded to the bossmanship four years ago in a neat little coup after the brother died, according to Matti. . who is never wrong on such matters. Ignatius thinks him a capable man, but bad.
“Where, exactly, is Montival, Mr. Mackenzie? Yah, I’d like to know where these troops are coming from, also exactly.”
He was whipcord and sinew, with cropped yellow hair, a short beard showing the first silver threads and cold gray eyes. Two fingers were missing from his left hand. Judging from his glares at the Sioux, Artos suspected he knew exactly who’d removed them.
The Mackenzie met the northerner’s gaze for a moment. “Well, my lord Bossman, what concerns the two of us is where the eastern border of Montival runs, does it not? For my realm stretches from there to the Pacific shores. And for that. . well, better to show than tell.”
He drew the Sword. This time the shock was definite and palpable, if still nothing that a camera or the machines of the old world would have recorded. The Fargo Bossman looked at it, winced a little, and then forced his eyes back to the gleaming length that seemed to draw in the sunlight from outside the pavilion’s shadow until it blazed like the sun itself. Beads of sweat appeared on his tanned brow, and he was visibly compelling his breath to a slow even rhythm.
“What the hell...” he muttered.
His hands clenched on the arms of his chair, and he was far from the only one. Somewhere a dry sob sounded, under a chorus of gasps.
Artos took four steps backward, reversed the Sword and thrust it downward. Eyes widened as it sank ten inches into the fitted oak-wood planks of the pavilion’s floor with no more effort or sound than it would have made piercing so much water. Red Leaf rose, levering himself up against the arms of his chair with a slight grunt; he was fit for a man his age, but he was also well into his middle years, and he’d been pushing himself very hard indeed. Then he came to face Artos across the Sword, looking directly into his eyes.
“Hope I’m doing the right thing,” he muttered. “Hope I talked everyone into doing the right thing.”
Then he sank to his knees. His calloused hands reached out and clasped the antler-embraced crystal pommel of the Sword, and his eyes went wide in amazement.
“Damn,” he whispered. “And I didn’t think anything weirder than the Change could happen.”
Artos reached out and laid his hands around the Indian’s. For a moment he felt a wrenching disorientation, as if he was Red Leaf rather than himself, and staring at himself; then he was:
A man in a breechclout who raced his horse up a stretch of grass, shaking his Henry rifle over his head, shrieking Hoon! Hoon! in savage exultation as the blue-clad troopers fell before the warriors who swarmed about.
A man creeping on hands and knees through tall grass towards a herd of buffalo with spear-thrower in hand and dart clenched between his teeth.
A man who stood and lifted a hand in respect as the mammoth blundered belly-deep into the tundra bog and his tribesmen closed in around its wounded majesty.
A man who drew a flint knife and sang the high wailing chant of his death-song as the sabertooth flattened its ears and slunk closer. .