Dies the Fire (60 page)

Gotta get the plumbing working,
he thought, as he stamped his feet into the heavy steel-shod boots.
Pots smell and they're a pain in the ass.

The problem there was that this place was on top of a hill—it was a lot easier to defend from a height, but without power-driven pumps it was also hard to get water up here. The hand pumps on the first floor worked well enough for drinking and washing water, but not to run the toilets on the upper stories, according to the plumbers. Since they didn't change their tune after he hung one of them off the walls, they were probably telling the truth.

The rooms he'd chosen for his own were in the west corner of St. Hilda's, on the fourth floor; this one still had a window, although there was a pair of heavy steel shutters ready to swing across it and leave only a narrow slit. One of the new crossbows was racked beside it, and bundles of bolts, and a half-dozen short spears for throwing.

He liked standing there, or even better up in one of the bell towers, and looking out over the land that he was making his. A white grin split his face as he thought of that:
Even fucking wheat-country looks better when it's your very own private Idaho!

Today he went out into the outer room of this suite; it was fixed up with tables and sofas, as well as more weapons racked on the walls and his armor on a stand. It was full of the good smells of food, too, and his stomach rumbled. Martha had breakfast waiting; a big beefsteak with fried eggs on top, and hash browns and coffee. It all still tasted a little funny, except for the coffee, and the cream in that was different too. He supposed it was because it was all fresh country stuff, right from the farms or the cows.

When he'd wiped his mouth he looked at Martha; she was a tall rawboned woman with faded bleach-blond hair, a couple of years younger than his thirty-eight.

“You gotta get the girls working on keeping this place cleaned up. The doc says we'll all get sick, otherwise, especially the kids.”

“Then stop the boys crapping and pissing in corners 'cause they're too lazy to go downstairs or look for a pot!” she said. “Or tell 'em to go live in the stable with the fucking horses!”

He liked the way she stood up to him—had in the old days, too, even after a beating; she'd stabbed him in the foot, once, when he knocked her down, put him on crutches for weeks.

“Yeah, I'll work on that,” he said mildly.

It was a warm day, and he didn't bother with a shirt. He did pick up his great sword in its silver-chased leather sheath, buckling it across his back on a harness that left the hilt jutting over his right shoulder ready to his hand. The weapon was a favorite of his, a present from the Protector like a lot of their new gear; it had a winged skull as a pommel, and the two-handed grip and long double-edged blade suited his style. The knife he tucked into its sheath along his boot was an old friend from before the Change, though.

Then he went out into the corridor. “Moose, Hitter,” he said to the men on guard, slapping their armored shoulders in passing. “Go get some eats, bros.”

They were old-timers from the Devil Dogs; not too bright, but
loyal
as dogs. Pleased grins lit their faces as they clanked away.

The place did smell a little gamey as he walked down to the staircase. On the floor below, big arched windows looked down from the corridor onto the courtyard. Iron Rod threw one of them open—the air outside was fresher.

The block off to the east had been the church; it had the two towers, and big doors gave in onto it. From the rear, two wings ran back to enclose the court, ending in a smooth curtain wall.

They used the church as the main dining hall these days; his followers were spilling out of it right now, except the ones nursing hangovers. The big hairy men were loud and happy this morning, after a successful raid; he'd have to give them a couple of days off, before he got them working on weapons practice again, and riding. They were good guys, tough and reliable, but most of them weren't what you'd call long on planning.

Iron Rod was; he'd made the Devil Dogs a force to be reckoned with in Seattle's underworld over the last ten years, made those washed-up old geezers in the Angels back off, and the gooks and greasers and niggers respect him. The drug trade was competitive; you didn't stay in business long—or stay breathing—if you couldn't think ahead and figure the angles. He'd come through the automatic-weapons anarchy of the crack epidemic still standing because he thought with something else besides his fists and his balls.

Another man approached along the gallery, and Iron Rod watched him with the same instinctive wariness he would have a brightly patterned snake.

Baron Eddie Liu wasn't one of Duke Iron Rod's gangers. Neither was the huge figure that followed him, dressed in rippling armor made from stainless steel washers on leather, faceless behind a helmet with only a T-slit for vision and carrying a heavy war-hammer over his shoulder. Even among the Devil Dogs he was impressive.

Those two were the ambassadors from Portland, the Protector's men . . . from what he'd heard, Liu was one of the Protector's roving troubleshooters.

And he's smart, too,
he thought, watching the slender figure in the dark silk shirt, black pants and polished boots and fancy chain belt.

But this ain't Portland,
Iron Rod thought.
This is my turf now.

Then he turned to the archway, raised his fists and bellowed, a guttural lion roar of dominance and aggression. All eyes in the court turned to him. He knew he cut a striking figure; as huge as any of his followers, with thick curly black hair falling down on massive shaggy shoulders and a dense beard spilling down the pelt of his chest.

Unlike most of his men he was flat-bellied, though—had been before the Change, too. Muscle ran over his shoulders and arms like great snakes wrestling with each other; every thick finger bore a heavy gold ring, and two gold hoops dangled from his ears. The face between was high-cheeked, hook-nosed, the eyes brooding and dark.

“Devil Dogs!” he shouted. “Dog-brothers!” That brought a chorus of howls and barks and yipping.

“Devil Dogs
rule!
We beat these sorry-ass farmers
again!
We took their food and their cattle and their horses, we burned their barns, we fucked their bitches!”

A roaring cheer went up and echoed off the high stone walls of the courtyard.

“Pretty soon, we'll have Sheriff Woburn hanging from a hook!”

There were half a dozen set in the walls now, between the towers and over the old church doors, taken from a slaughterhouse and mounted in the stone. All were occupied at present, but he'd clear one for Woburn, when they caught him. A wordless howl of hate went up at the sheriff's name, hoarse and strong.

I got a serious jones for Woburn,
the Devil Dog chieftain thought.
Worst I've had since those pissants ran us out of the Sturgis meet back in '94.

“The prairie is mine! All bow to the Iron Rod!”

A chant went up, falling into a pattern: “Iron Rod! Iron Rod! Duke! Duke! Duke!”

Most of them hadn't known a Duke from a Duchess and thought both were country and western stars, back before the Change. He'd been fuzzy on it himself until the Protector's people explained, but he liked the sound now.

When he turned from the window, Liu and his troll were there, which he liked rather less; so was Feitman, the Devil Dogs' own numbers man, a skinny little dude in black leathers with a shaven head and receding chin. He also carried two knives, and he was as fast with them as anyone Iron Rod had ever seen. The boys respected him, despite the time he spent with ledgers and books, and with computers before the Change.

“We just wanted to say good-bye,” Liu said.

He was skinny too; some sort of gook, although he had bright blue eyes. You didn't want to underestimate him, though.

“The Protector's going to be real pleased with the progress you guys are making,” he said. “And with the horses, provided we can get them down the river and past the locks.”

Iron Rod grunted. Then he spoke: “Something I've been wanting to ask.”

Liu made a graceful gesture.

Fag,
Iron Rod thought, then shook his head.
Nah.
He'd made quite an impression on the girls here.
And even if he was a fag, he'd still be dangerous as a snake. Watch him careful.

“What I'd like to know is why the Protector is giving us all this help over the past couple of months,” Iron Rod went on.

And it had been a
lot
of help; weapons, armor, some skilled workers and a couple of instructors. Surprisingly, those had been even more useful than the swords and scale shirts; disconcertingly, they'd stayed more afraid of the Protector than of Iron Rod, even behind his walls and among his men.

Most useful of all had been the advice on how to take over this turf, and how to run it afterward.

“He's not exactly
giving
it all away,” Liu said, his left hand on the hilt of his long curved sword—a
bao,
he'd called it.

“We're getting the cattle and horses—those'll be real useful, and they're sort of scarce west of the Cascades right now. When you're set up here, you'll send men to fight for the Protector on call, like we agreed. And you'll want to buy lots of stuff from Portland; we'll take a rake-off on that.”

Iron Rod nodded. “Yeah, yeah, but that's all sort of, what's the word, theoretical. And does the Protector trust me that much?”

The blue eyes went chilly. “Nobody stiffs the Protector, man,” he said, in a flat voice the more menacing for the absence of bluster. “Nobody. Not twice, you hear what I'm saying?”

Iron Rod wasn't afraid of Liu, or his master; he wasn't afraid of much. He
was
good at calculating the odds, and he blinked as he thought.

“Maybe,” he said. “My word's good on a deal, anyway. It's the Protector's angle I'm trying to figure.”

Liu looked at him with respect—he'd always been polite, but Iron Rod knew that his appearance made people underestimate his brains. That was useful, but it was still pleasant to see the gook's opinion of him revise itself.

“It's what the Protector calls strategy,” he said. “We want to get rid of all the old farts anywhere we can—the sheriffs, the mayors, army commanders, all the types who think they can run things like they did before the Change. Those wussies in Pendleton, they look like they might cause us a lot of trouble in times to come. With you strong here, and you being the Protector's man, we'll have their balls in a vise.”

Iron Rod nodded somberly, looking westward. He wasn't worried about Lewiston or Boise; the plague was finishing off what the Change had left. Craigswood and Grangeville he could take care of himself; if he left anything standing there, it would be because it was useful to him. Pendleton—the main center of eastern Oregon's farming and ranching country—hadn't been hit nearly so hard; they were getting their shit together, and it might be a real problem later.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can see that. Tell the Protector, anytime he wants to take them on, once we've settled our accounts here—”

He put out a massive hand and slowly clenched it into a fist, as if squeezing a throat.

“First things first,” Liu said. “You gotta take care of Woburn, and then build the rest of those little forts, like the Protector said, and get men to put in 'em and keep the farmers working. You know what the Protector says. There are only two ways to live now; farming, and running the farmers. We're working on that back west of the mountains right now.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Iron Rod said; it was a good idea and he was going to do it, but he didn't like being hectored. “Don't get your balls in a twist, bro. Woburn'll be hanging from a hook pretty soon, and I'll pickle his deputies' heads in vodka before the snow flies.”

Liu shuddered. “One good thing about Portland, it doesn't snow much,” he said.

The great steel-clad figure behind him rumbled agreement.

“Pansies,” Iron Rod said, grinning. He'd been from upstate New York, back when. “Say, one thing—you're Chinese, right?”

“Right. Born in New York, father from Guangzhou—Canton to you round-eyes.”

“How come the
blue
eyes, then?”

Liu grinned back. “Hey, my momma was a Polack. Ain't you never seen
West Side Story
?”

 

 

 

Oooof,
Juniper thought, straightening up for a second and rubbing at her back. Then: “Oooof!” as it twinged her, reminding her she was thirty—thirty-one at next Yule—not eighteen, and that she'd been working from before dawn to after sunup since the grain started coming ripe two weeks ago.

Harvest
would
come just before I'd be off the heavy-labor list,
she thought.

So far all pregnancy had done for her was give her a glow and an extra half-inch on the bust.

It was a hot day; July was turning out to be warm and dry this year in the Willamette, a trial for the gardens but perfect for harvesting fruit and grain. The cool of dawn seemed a long time ago, although they were still two hours short of noon.

Ahead of her the wheat rippled bronze-gold to the fence and its line of trees. Cutting into it was a staggered line of harvesters, each swinging a cradle—a scythe with a set of curving wooden fingers parallel to the blade.

Skriiitch
as the steel went forward, and the cut wheat stalks toppled back onto the fingers, four or five times repeated until the cradle was full;
shhhhkkkk
as the harvester tipped it back and spilled them in a neat bunch on the ground; then over and over again . . . A dry dusty smell, the sharp rankness of weeds cut along with the stalks, sweat, the slightly mealy scent that was the wheat itself.