"Well, there's a sight, and no mistake," the bigger man said.
"Like the hall of Meduseld," Alleyne said quietly.
"Just so!" Astrid replied.
Hey! My house! My mom's Hall! Eilir thought. That's where I live!
"We haven't seen anyone from overseas since the Change, much less from England! You'll have a lot to tell us!" Astrid continued enthusiastically.
"Si vanwa na, Romello vanwa: England," he said, laughing again; his teeth were very white. Eilir's nostrils flared; he had a very pleasant masculine scent, clean and hard beneath the usual odors of horse and leather and woodsmoke.
Another figure moved. Eilir started; she'd noticed the man-it was hard not to, since he was six-seven and broad in proportion-but only out of the corner of her eye. He waited until she was looking straight at him before speaking, which was a courtesy she appreciated.
"Nattering on in Elvish again, is he?" he said; it was probably the sort of voice that felt like a bass rumble under your fingertips, if you touched his chest or throat while he spoke. "Bad habit of his: John Hordle's my name."
You do Sign? Eilir asked; the lipreading was a bit more of a strain than usual, given his accent.
Little bit. Want more.
Juniper was looking over her shoulder. Eilir started forward with the others, still feeling a slow burn as she stared at Astrid's back.
I'm your anamchara, not the designated sidekick!
They led their mounts over to the stables and spent a minute tending to them; she saw without surprise that Alleyne Loring knew his way around horses with an easy competence. In fact he moved so gracefully that John Hordle leapt backward, his mouth open in what must have been a shout of alarm. Eilir grounded her pitchfork with a wince and privately thanked the Lady that he'd been wearing a mail shirt; otherwise something rather nasty might have happened.
Astrid looked at her in astonishment: Where were you, anamchara? she signed.
Deep thought, Eilir replied, flushing and racking the long two-tined hayfork. Sorry. Apologize for me, would you?
Alleyne smiled, and after a moment so did John Hordle.
"That's my mom," Rudi Mackenzie said proudly; the Chief of the Mackenzies winked at him as she rode by and he waved enthusiastically.
"Well, yeah," Mathilda Arminger said, deliberately unimpressed. "I saw her when she attacked my train, you know."
There was the trace of a sulk still in her voice; Rudi ignored it; it was only natural to miss her family, when she couldn't go home. Then she went on: "Who's the guy in the funny armor?"
"That's the real English baron," Rudi said proudly. "He and my mom rescued Lord Bear."'
"Oh, him," Mathilda said, sticking her hands in her pockets; she was wearing a Clan-style kilt, though in a plain gray guest-weave rather than the Mackenzie tartan, and a baggy sweater.
"Don't be a grouch," Rudi said. "Want to go and see if we can get something in the kitchens? I'm starving and it's a while until dinner."
"OK," Mathilda said. "But why can't you just tell them to give you something?"
"Did your mom and dad let you eat anything you want between meals?" Rudi said; he knew that was wrong, but it sounded like fun too.
"Welclass="underline" no. I mean, my mom didn't."
Her face crumpled for an instant, then firmed; she shrugged off the sympathetic arm he put around her shoulder.
"She didn't like me hanging around low places and peons, you know."
"Lady bless, hanging around the kitchens is fun," Rudi said. "It's a lot better than arithmetic lessons, that's for sure."
"Yeah, but they make you do stuff. Chores; And that's not what lords and ladies are supposed to do."
"My mom's a Lady," Rudi pointed out reasonably. "And she does chores. That's fun sometimes too. Anyway, it's got to be done."
Mathilda considered this and nodded, looking a little uneasy. "I suppose so. I don't think my mom would like it, though."
"Look-" He glanced around. "Want to know a secret?"
"Yeah!"
"My mom got a letter from your dad." He smiled as her face glowed. "He's going to send someone to talk to my mom about you at the Sutterdown Horse Fair, after Lugh-nassadh. And you can write a letter back. So why don't we go hit the kitchens, like I said?"
After a moment, Mathilda replied, "Maybe they'll have some of those sweet buns with the nuts?"
"And there's some new kittens there," he said.
"I miss my cat Saladin," she said. "But kittens are always fun."
They trotted off through the dispersing crowd. As they went, Mathilda caught sight of the stars-and-tree sigil on Astrid Larsson's tunic.
"Oh, that stuff again," she said. "Doesn't she ever get tired of it? She's a grown-up."
"Don't you like the story?" Rudi asked. "I liked The Hobbit best, but Astrid says that's 'cause I'm still a kid."
"I think I'll still think it's way too long and full of boring stuff when I'm old, even if Dad got the idea for the flag out of it," Mathilda said. She giggled and dropped her voice to a whisper: "Have you heard about the other Ring story?"
"Other story?"
"The one where the hero's called Dildo Bugger?"
Rudi's face twisted in an expression halfway between fascination and disgust. "You've got to be kidding, Matti."
"No, really-"
Dun Fairfax, Willamette Valley, Oregon
July 22nd, 2007 AD-Change Year Nine
"It took me two Harvests to really get the trick of this, even though I already knew how to drive a team," Juniper called over her shoulder; then as she came to the end of the row: "Whoa! Dobbin! Maggie!"
There were two horses pulling the reaper, big platter-hoofed draft beasts with dark brown hides, sweating after a long day working in the hot July sun. They stopped as she called and leaned back against the reins; then she rose and rubbed at her backside for a moment; the metal bicycle-seat of the machine was hard, and muscling the big horses around was real work. Her hands and forearms were sore with day after day of doing it from can to can't, and the long sinews of her legs ached as well.
Eilir waved from the seat of the other reaper, pausing a second. I'll take the last of it! she signed, and Juniper bowed from the waist and waved a hand.
"Be my guest, daughter mine! Too much like hard work for us crones!"
They'd been working their way in from the edges of the field since the dew lifted with no more rest than the horse teams required, and only one ten-foot-wide band of standing grain remained, stretching from east to west along the contour of the hillside. It still wasn't nearly as hard as cutting wheat with twenty pounds of cradle-scythe the way they had their first two harvests, though; she didn't have the height or heft to use one of those. And a reaper could harvest many times the amount a cradler did in a single day, which was a blessing. Summer rainstorms were van-ishingly rare in the Willamette's reliable climate, but you still had to get the wheat and barley and oats in as fast as you could. Too much delay and the grain would start to shatter, drop out of the head and be lost on the ground.
"It took you a while to learn the trick because of the slope?" Nigel Loring asked, straightening as he bound the last sheaf of a row and rubbing at the small of his back for a moment.
"Yes," she said. "You have to be careful on a thirty-degree slant like this, or you keep heading down and the horses get into the wheat-and you only get to practice two weeks in the year. It's a lot easier out on the flat, say over at Dun Carson west of here. More difficult on a hillside for the team, too, but Dobbin and Maggie are good-hearted and willing for all they're young."