S. Stirling - The Given Sacrifice

That experience was the reason Ingolf didn’t particularly like pigs, as animals, though he was fond of dogs and horses, tolerated cats, and had nothing against cattle or sheep in their place. Feeding and slopping them and cleaning out pens had convinced him porkers were probably smart enough to know why people kept them around, unlike sheep and cattle who thought you loved them, and left him absolutely dead certain they were dangerous if you weren’t careful. But he did like ham and bacon and chitterlings and bratwurst and headcheese.

Which was fair, because pigs were certainly ready to kill and eat people if they got the chance; he’d lost his cookies as a teenager after running across what they’d left of a Refugee farmhand who’d passed out drunk where they could get at him, and that had put him off pork for a while. The great black bristly wild boar common in Montival’s forests and marshes were far worse, like pigs in plate armor with swords in their snouts. They swarmed like giant destructive rabbits around here, with nothing but lions, tigers, bears or people willing to take them on. Good hunting and good eating, though. .

“That little lake is best of all. It gets really dry here in the summers, from what the books say,” Ian said with satisfaction.

Someone long ago had made an earth and stone dam in the hills to the east, and it stayed filled all year long. Run-down and a bit silted now, but with a little work it would be full of catfish and perfect for a dip on a hot day with willows and redwoods for shade. The kids already loved it, and they’d been here only ten days. There were channels to bring the water to where it was needed and they were repairable, especially with easy salvage for PVC piping and similar workaday stuff in the towns just to the west.

“Yah, when we’ve gotten it into shape this place is going to make us all rich,” Ingolf said with satisfaction. “Particularly when more settlers trickle in to the valleys east and west. What with the wine, the fruit, good grazing and timber. And best of all those dead cities on the Bay haven’t been worked over at all, hardly, and we’ve got that nice juicy concession.”

“We’re a bit far away from anywhere to sell most salvage,” Ian observed. “Lot of big ruins closer to the center of things, eh?”

“Oh, not bulk metals,” Ingolf said.

The economics of the salvage trade were something he knew inside out, but they were different up in Drumheller where there were only two lost cities to be mined and both had been thoroughly worked over under tight government supervision already.

He explained: “Sure, Seattle alone has enough rebar and girders to keep Montival in swordblades and plowshares and horseshoes for a thousand years, but those places south of us are stuffed with real salvage, stuff that repays long-distance transport. Optics, machine tools that can be rigged to work on waterpower, rare metals, bearings, gears, not to mention artwork and gold and silver and jewelry. There were a couple of things in San Francisco I spotted on the second trip that are so pretty I’m going to keep ’em for myself.”

“And it’ll provide a nice non-blizzards-and-freezing place to spend our declining years in comfort, surrounded by attentive grandchildren,” Ian agreed.

The Dúnedain were organized as something like an army, something like a feudal lordship, and something like what lawyers called a cooperative employee-owned corporation: Dúnedain Enterprises, Ltd., if you preferred English, or Gwaith-i-Dúnedain, Herth , which was what was printed on the checks from the First National Bank of Corvallis. The business part was more important in peacetime. Everyone who was born into or accepted as a candidate to the Rangers got at least one share, and there were ways to get more. Being one of the Questers had proved to be worth a big chunk of common stock, for example, not to mention other accomplishments like getting this grant from the Crown for the Rangers. Theoretically all the Dúnedain lands belonged to the Gwaith , but they were leased out on a sort of franchise arrangement to the stath , which was Ranger-speak for stations and steadings.

It doesn’t hurt to be married to Lady Astrid’s sister’s daughter, either, he thought a little complacently; he’d never come across a place where important relatives didn’t count.

His eldest son and daughter ran up and started using him as an obstacle in a game of tag; they were nine now, tow-haired Malfind and his black-haired sister Morfind respectively as their names indicated. He’d learned to accept the names, after Mary had sternly vetoed his suggestion of Harry and Ethel. Her family was prone to twins on both sides, and they had two sets of fraternals now, boy-girl and two girls for the second, Eledhwen and Finduilas, who both looked as if they were going to take after Dad. Ian and Ritva hadn’t had twins, much to her disappointment-as she said, it meant she’d had a third more work for two-thirds as many children so far-but their boy Faramir made up for it in energy.

He danced around, darting and lunging at Ingolf’s twins while the adults raised their arms and laughed, until Malfind said:

“Up!”

Her brother braced himself behind Ingolf, grabbing at the back of his sword belt for an instant. Malfind ran up him and then up her father like a squirrel, leapt into the lowest branches of the oak, and gave her brother a hand when he followed. Judging by the speed and smoothness of the maneuver, they had a great future ahead of them as special operations types. . or possibly as burglars.

“No fair!” Faramir shouted up. “Dad, give me a boost so I can catch these cheaters !”

Ian was grinning as he looked up and shook his head. “I don’t need to. Take a look at what’s above those two-and looking a lot like ’em.”

Ingolf looked up along with the others. This area also had monkeys, gray-brown critters with naked pink faces and tails. One of the books called them rhesus macaques , and while they were funny as hell to watch they liked to throw things, their own dung when nothing else was to hand. Quite literally to hand. Along with Ian and his son he moved aside quickly, and laughed at the squeals of disgust as it suddenly started to rain young Vogelers, along with twigs and monkey by-products.

“Look before you leap,” he called. “Pond’s thataway and get it all out of your hair, both of you.”

They trudged away muttering variations on euuuw . Faramir followed, dancing in glee.

“Crappy-heads!” he called. “Cheaters and crappy-heads!”

He stopped with the second repetition; he was a good-hearted kid, though a bit thoughtless, even by nine-year-old standards. A minute later Elvellon came by, a solid if rather slow woman in her thirties, a former Cutter slave who’d settled among the Rangers not least because being tongueless was less of a disadvantage in a group where everyone knew Sign. She worked for Mary and Ritva as a handyperson, and seemed devoted to the kids without the least desire for any of her own. Nobody asked about her past.

They OK? Her fingers asked.

Just a bit smelly, Ingolf said, and explained.

She laughed without opening her teeth and walked after them, casting:

I get them ready for dinner. Mothers back soon, over her shoulder.

Ingolf eyed the tree, where fifteen or twenty of the monkeys were chattering and leaping around to celebrate their triumph.

“Acting a bit like my boy, eh?” Ian said.

“We’re definitely going to have to do something about them .”

“Bobcats?” Ian mused. “Falcons? Baited traps?”

“Arrows,” Ingolf said. “It’s the only way to be sure.”