S. Stirling - Dies The Fire

"You're supposed to say but not as pretty as you," she said.

"I suppose that's one reason I'm still single, not saying silly stuff like that," Havel said, smiling back. "I mean, you are pretty; you're beautiful, in fact. But you aren't a sunset."

"So, is this our first date?"

"Well, if you don't count fighting cannibals together-"

They shared a chuckle, then sat in companionable silence for a while.

"They seem like nice people," Signe said. "The Woburns, I mean."

Havel nodded; dinner had been pleasant. "Nice to eat at a table again, too."

"Yeah!" A pause. "You know, this is a very pretty area, too. Looks like very good land, as well."

He turned and looked at her; she'd laid her head on her knees, and the last sunlight gilded her hair. He replied to her unspoken question.

"No, I don't think settling down here after"-he nodded towards the outline of Cottonwood Butte where Duke Iron Rod laired in his monastery-cum-fortress-"we take care of him would be a good idea. Doable, perhaps: but not a good idea."

"There's a lot of vacant land, good land, with good houses and fencing already in place. And they'll be grateful; we could help them set up their defenses."

He nodded. "Gratitude is worth its weight in gold."

She thought about that for a moment and then made a growling sound and hit him on the shoulder.

"You are the most cynical man I've ever met!"

"I was a blue-collar kid," he grinned. "And then a grunt. Dirty end of the stick all the way. Cynical I can do in my sleep. No, the main reason is up there."

He nodded north. "This was all Nez Perce land once. They haven't forgotten-Running Horse told me more than he intended, I think. What's more, you're right, it's good land and well watered, about the best farming country in Idaho that doesn't need to be irrigated. Much better than anything the tribe have left. Give it a generation or so: well, I wouldn't want to leave my kids that sort of war as an inheritance."

"Oh," she said. "And I suppose the Protector would be after us too, if we knocked off his local boy. And Sheriff Woburn might cause problems."

"Bingo, askling," Havel said. "You're not just a pretty face, you know?"

She hesitated. "Mike, do you like me?" At his raised brow, she went on: "I mean, I think you do-we get on better than I ever have with a guy: but then: "

He leaned back on his elbows, plucking a grass stem and chewing on the end; it was sweet as honey.

"Didn't think you'd want to be bothered with men hitting on you for a while, judging by our last try."

She looked down at his face. "Better not let anyone else hear that," she teased. "It might spoil the great, ruthless Lord Bear's reputation."

"Hmmphf." He hesitated in his turn. "Well, if you want to know the absolute truth: The other problem's been that while I do like you, I'm in charge here. Had to be really sure you reciprocated, you know?"

"You're a gentleman, and a gentle man, in your way, Mike."

"Within limits," he grinned; his arms came up and encircled her.

"Lord Bear! Lord Bear! Lord-oh, shit, I'm sorry!"

The messenger turned and dashed back down the hill, standing looking ostentatiously away thirty feet down-slope.

Mike Havel looked down into Signe's face. A little of the glaze went out of her eyes; then she wrapped arms and legs around him.

"If you stop now, I'll. I'll make sure you never can again!"

"Come back in ten minutes!" Havel shouted.

Signe giggled again and bit him on the shoulder; Havel gave an involuntary yelp, loud enough for the messenger to hear. They could hear his floundering retreat.

"Ten minutes! You unromantic beast!" Signe said, running her heels up the backs of his thighs. "Where were we?"

Signe paused as she began to tie her bootlaces, looking at Havel out of the corners of her eyes.

"Well, that sort of rushed things, didn't it?"

"Yeah, it did sort of rush things. Goddamned embarrassing interruption, too."

"You're an old-fashioned guy in some ways, Mike."

"Backwoods upbringing," he said, buckling on his sword and jamming the hat on his head. "This had better be important."

"Wait a minute," Signe said, fingers plucking. "Grass in your beard: there, got it."

"Your hair is full of the stuff: hey, kid! The message!"

She was running a comb through the dense yellow mane when the adolescent returned.

"Mr. Hutton says to tell you there's a bad discipline problem with Waters, and you're needed pronto," the boy said, still facing away.

"Tell him I'll be right there," Havel said.

And in no very good mood. Billy boy, you have the worst timing of any man I've ever met.

The crowd parted at the sound of hooves; Havel reined in, hearing murmurs of "the bossman" and "Lord Bear." He slid from the saddle and someone took the reins; possibly Signe, but he wasn't looking around right now.

Several of the lanterns that hung before the family tents were lit; that and the fires gave plenty of light, but the people crowding around were flickers at the edge of sight, their faces uneasy.

Billy Waters stood, looking sullen and flushed, two men holding him by the arms-both his neighbors. Jane Waters sat by the front flap of their tent in a boneless slump, her face covered with the red flush of incipient bruises, tears leaking down her face; her two younger children huddled near her, torn between fear and need for their mother's closeness.

Reuben Waters was not far away, lying on his back while Pamela Arnstein worked on him. Her hawk-featured face was incandescent with fury; Havel felt it through his own anger as he knelt beside Waters's twelve-year-old son.

"He was just woozy," she said. "I gave him something to make him sleep."

She touched the boy's face gently, turning it towards the brightest firelight. Relaxation made the narrow foxy hillbilly-Scots-Irish face look younger than its twelve years.

"See here? He's going to have a shiner, and this tooth is loose. Punched twice, I'd say. Those are a grown man's knuckle marks. All he needs now is cold compresses and rest. And a different father!"

Havel nodded, walked over to Jane Waters, and crouched on his heels so that their eyes were level. He touched her chin with a finger, turning her left cheek to the light and studied the swelling marks of a man's hand.

"Jane," he said. "Why don't you help Pam get your son to the infirmary tent?" She looked at him with dumb fear. "Jane, whatever happens, you've still got a place here-and your kids. Understand?"

He helped her rise, and composed his face when he realized it was frightening some of the onlookers. The stretcher-bearers took Reuben off, with his mother walking beside him.

"Angelica," he went on. "You've got some of those cookies left, don't you?" At her nod, he went on: "I think it would be a good idea if you and Annie took the kids- everyone younger than Astrid-and fed them some cookies over by the chuck wagon, and tell 'em stories. Tell 'em about Larsdalen."

Their destination was assuming mythic proportions; he hoped the reality didn't disappoint too much.

She nodded: "I'll get Sam to check Rueben over just in case and help with the kids."

Rounding up the children wasn't hard; they all thought cookies and a tale by the camp's best storytellers was far more interesting than a frightening confrontation among the grownups.

"Get all the adults here, except the sentries," Havel went on.

That took a few minutes. He ducked into the Waterses' tent-normally something never done without invitation- and rummaged. The bottle he'd expected was still three-quarters full. It was Maker's Mark, first-class Kentucky bourbon, expensive as hell even before the. Change. There was another just like it, empty.

"All right," he went on, when he brought the bottles out and held them up for the company to see. "Everyone here? Good. Now you, Fred Naysmith, you give me the details."