1
She had never in her life had such a strange night, and it was probably not surprising that she didn't hear the rider approaching from behind until he was almost upon her.
The thing that troubled her most as she made her way back toward town was her new understanding of the compact she had made. It was good to have a reprieve - months yet before she would have to live up to her end of the bargain - but a reprieve didn't change the basic fact: when the Demon Moon was full, she would lose her virginity to Mayor Thorin, a skinny, twitchy man with fluffy white hair rising like a cloud around the bald spot on top of his head. A man whose wife regarded him with a certain weary sadness that was painful to look at. Hart Thorin was a man who laughed uproariously when a company of players put on an entertainment involving head-knocking or pretend punching or rotten fruit-throwing, but who only looked puzzled at a story which was pathetic or tragical. A knuckle-cracker, a back-slapper, a dinner-table belcher, a man who had a way of looking anxiously toward his Chancellor at almost every other word, as if to make sure he hadn't offended Rimer in some way.
Susan had observed all these things often; her father had for years been in charge of the Barony's horse and had gone to Seafront often on business. Many times he had taken his much loved daughter with him. Oh, she had seen a lot of Hart Thorin over the years, and he had seen a lot of her, as well. Too much, mayhap! For what now seemed the most important fact about him was that he was almost fifty years older than the girl who would perhaps bear his son.
She had made the bargain lightly enough -
No, not lightly, that was being unfair to herself... but she had lost little sleep over it, that much was true. She had thought, after listening to all Aunt Cord's arguments: Well, it's little enough, really, to have the indenture off the lands; to finally own our little piece of the Drop in fact as well as in tradition . . . to actually have papers, one in our house and one in Rimer's files, saying it's ours. Aye, and to have horses again. Only three, 'tis true, but that's three more than we have now. And against that? To lie with him a time or two, and to bear a child, which millions of women have done before me with no harm. 'Tis not, after all, a mutant or a leper I'm being asked to partner with but just an old man with noisy knuckles. 'Tis not forever, and, as Aunt Cord says, I may still marry, if time and ka decree; I should not be the first woman to come to her husband's bed as a mother. And does it make me a whore to do such? The law says not, but never mind that; my heart's law is what matters, and my heart says that if I may gain the land that was my da's and three horses to run on it by being such, then it's a whore I'll be.
There was something else: Aunt Cord had capitalized - rather ruthlessly, Susan now saw - on a child's innocence. It was the baby Aunt Cord had harped on, the cunning little baby she would have. Aunt Cord had known that Susan, the dolls of her childhood put aside not all that long ago, would love the idea of her own baby, a little living doll to dress and feed and sleep with in the heat of the afternoon.
What Cordelia had ignored (perhaps she's too innocent even to have considered it, Susan thought, but didn't quite believe) was what the hag-woman had made brutally clear to her this evening: Thorin wanted more than a child.
He wants tits and arse that don't squish in his hands and a box that 'll grip what he pushes.
Just thinking of those words made her face throb as she walked through the post-moonset dark toward town (no high-spirited running this time; no singing, either). She had agreed with vague thoughts of how managed livestock mated - they were allowed to go at it "until the seed took," then separated again. But now she knew that Thorin might want her again and again, probably would want her again and again, and common law going back like iron for two hundred generations said that he could continue to lie with her until she who had proved the consort honest should prove her honestly with child as well, and that child honest in and of itself . . . not, that was, a mutant aberration. Susan had made discreet enquiries and knew that this second proving usually came around the fourth month of pregnancy ... around the time she would begin to show, even with her clothes on. It would be up to Rhea to make the judgment... and Rhea didn't like her.
Now that it was too late - now that she had accepted the compact formally tendered by the Chancellor, now that she had been proved honest by yon strange bitch - she rued the bargain. Mostly what she thought of was how Thorin would look with his pants off, his legs white and skinny, like the legs of a stork, and how, as they lay together, she would hear his long bones crackling: knees and back and elbows and neck.
And knuckles. Don't forget his knuckles.
Yes. Big old man's knuckles with hair growing out of them. Susan chuckled at the thought, it was that comical, but at the same time a warm tear ran unnoticed from the comer of one eye and tracked down her cheek. She wiped it away without knowing it, any more than she heard the clip-clip of approaching hoofs in the soft road-dust. Her mind was still far away, returning to the odd thing she had seen through the old woman's bedroom window - the soft but somehow unpleasant light coming from the pink globe, the hypnotized way the hag had been looking down at it...
When Susan at last heard the approaching horse, her first alarmed thought was that she must get into the copse of trees she was currently passing and hide. The chances of anyone aboveboard being on the road this late seemed small to her, especially now that such bad times had come to Mid-World - but it was too late for that.
The ditch, then, and sprawled flat. With the moon down, there was at least a chance that whoever it was would pass without -
But before she could even begin in that direction, the rider who had sneaked up behind her while she was thinking her long and rueful thoughts had hailed her. "Goodeven, lady, and may your days be long upon the earth."
She turned, thinking: What if it's one of the new men always lounging about Mayor's House or in the Travellers' Rest? Not the oldest one, the voice isn't wavery like his, but maybe one of the others . . . it could be the one they call Depape...
"Goodeven," she heard herself saying to the man shape on the tall horse. "May yours be long also."
Her voice didn't tremble, not that she could hear. She didn't think it was Depape, or the one named Reynolds, either. The only thing she could tell about the fellow for sure was that he wore a flat-brimmed hat, the sort she associated with men of the Inner Baronies, back when travel between east and west had been more common than it was now. Back before John Farson came - the Good Man - and the bloodletting began.
As the stranger came up beside her, she forgave herself a little for not hearing him approach - there was no buckle or bell on his gear that she could see, and everything was tied down so as not to snap or flap. It was almost the rig of an outlaw or a harrier (she had the idea that Jonas, he of the wavery voice, and his two friends might have been both, in other times and other climes) or even a gunslinger. But this man bore no guns, unless they were hidden. A bow on the pommel of his saddle and what looked like a lance in a scabbard, that was all. And there had never, she reckoned, been a gunslinger as young as this.
He clucked sidemouth at the horse just as her da had always done (and she herself, of course), and it stopped at once. As he swung one leg over his saddle, lifting it high and with unconscious grace, Susan said:
"Nay, nay, don't trouble yerself, stranger, but go as ye would!"
If he heard the alarm in her voice, he paid no heed to it. He slipped off the horse, not bothering with the tied-down stirrup, and landed neatly in front of her, the dust of the road puffing about his square-toed boots. By starlight she saw that he was young indeed, close to her own age on one side or the other. His clothes were those of a working cowboy, although new.
"Will Dearborn, at your service," he said, then doffed his hat, extended a foot on one bootheel, and bowed as they did in the Inner Baronies.
Such absurd courtliness out here in the middle of nowhere, with the acrid smell of the oil patch on the edge of town already in her nostrils, startled her out of her fear and into a laugh. She thought it would likely offend him, but he smiled instead. A good smile, honest and artless, its inner part lined with even teeth.
She dropped him a little curtsey, holding out one side of her dress. "Susan Delgado, at yours."
He tapped his throat thrice with his right hand. "Thankee-sai, Susan Delgado. We're well met, I hope. I didn't mean to startle you - "
"Ye did, a little."
"Yes, I thought I had. I'm sorry."
Yes. Not aye but yes. A young man, from the Inner Baronies, by the sound. She looked at him with new interest.
"Nay, ye need not apologize, for I was deep in my own thoughts," she said. "I'd been to see a ... friend ... and hadn't realized how much time had passed until I saw the moon was down. If ye stopped out of concern, I thankee, stranger, but ye may be on yer way as I would be on mine. It's only to the edge of the village I go - Hambry. It's close, now."
"Pretty speech and lovely sentiments," he answered with a grin, "but it's late, you're alone, and I think we may as well pass on together. Do you ride, sai?"
"Yes,but really - "
"Step over and meet my friend Rusher, then. He shall carry you the last two miles. He's gelded, sai, and gentle."
She looked at Will Dearborn with a mixture of amusement and irritation. The thought which crossed her mind was If he calls me sai again, as though I were a schoolteacher or his doddery old great aunt, I'm going to take off this stupid apron and swat him with it. "I never minded a bit of temper in a horse docile enough to wear a saddle. Until his death, my father managed the Mayor's horses ... and the Mayor in these parts is also Guard o' Barony. I've ridden my whole life."
She thought he might apologize, perhaps even stutter, but he only nodded with a calm thoughtfulness that she rather liked. "Then step to the stirrup, my lady. I'll walk beside and trouble you with no conversation, if you'd rather not have it. It's late, and talk palls after moonset, some say."
She shook her head, softening her refusal with a smile. "Nay. I thank ye for yer kindness, but it would not be well, mayhap, for me to be seen riding a strange young man's horse at eleven o' the clock. Lemon-juice won't take the stain out of a lady's reputation the way it will out of a shirtwaist, you know."
"There's no one out here to see you," the young man said in a maddeningly reasonable voice. "And that you're tired, I can tell. Come, sai - "
"Please don't call me that. It makes me feel as ancient as a . . ." She hesitated for a brief moment, rethinking the word
(witch)
that first came to her mind. ". . . as an old woman."
"Miss Delgado, then. Are you sure you won't ride?"
"Sure as can be. I'd not ride cross-saddle in a dress in any case, Mr. Dearborn - not even if you were my own brother. 'Twouldn't be proper."
He stood in the stirrup himself, reached over to the far side of his saddle (Rusher stood docilely enough at this, only flicking his ears, which Susan would have been happy to flick herself had she been Rusher - they were that beautiful), and stepped back down with a rolled garment in his hands. It was tied with a rawhide hank. She thought it was a poncho.
"You may spread this over your lap and legs like a duster," he said. "There's quite enough of it for decorum's sake - it was my father's, and he's taller than me." He looked off toward the western hills for a moment, and she saw he was handsome, in a hard sort of way that jagged against his youth. She felt a little shiver inside her, and wished for the thousandth time that the foul old woman had kept her hands strictly on her business, as unpleasant as that business had been. Susan didn't want to look at this handsome stranger and remember Rhea's touch.
"Nay," she said gently. "Thankee again, I recognize yer kindness, but I must refuse."
"Then I'll walk along beside, and Rusher'll be our chaperone," he said cheerfully. "As far as the edge of town, at least, there'll be no eyes to see and think ill of a perfectly proper young woman and a more-or-less proper young man. And once there, I'll tip my hat and wish you a very good night."
"I wish ye wouldn't. Really." She brushed a hand across her forehead. "Easy for you to say there are no eyes to see, but sometimes there are eyes even where there shouldn't be. And my position is ... a little delicate just now."
"I'll walk with you, however," he repeated, and now his face was somber. "These are not good times. Miss Delgado. Here in Mejis you are far from the worst of the troubles, but sometimes trouble reaches out."
She opened her mouth - to protest again, she supposed, perhaps to tell him that Pat Delgado's daughter could take care of herself - and then she thought of the Mayor's new men, and the cold way they had run their eyes over her when Thorin's attention had been elsewhere. She had seen those three this very night as she left on her way to the witch's hut. Them she had heard approaching, and in plenty of time for her to leave the road and rest behind a handy pinon tree (she refused to think of it as hiding, exactly). Back toward town they had gone, and she supposed they were drinking at the Travellers' Rest right now - and would continue to until Stanley Ruiz closed the bar - but she had no way of knowing that for sure. They could come back.
"If I can't dissuade ye, very well," she said, sighing with a vexed resignation she didn't really feel. "But only to the first mailbox - Mrs. Beech's. That marks the edge of town."
He tapped his throat again, and made another of those absurd, enchanting bows - foot stuck out as if he would trip someone, heel planted in the dirt. "Thankee, Miss Delgado!"
At least he didn't 't call me sai, she thought. That's a start.
2
She thought he'd chatter away like a magpie in spite of his promise to be silent, because that was what boys did around her - she was not vain of her looks, but she thought she was good-looking, if only because the boys could not shut up or stop shuffling their feet when they were around her. And this one would be full of questions the town boys didn't need to ask - how old was she, had she always lived in Hambry, were her parents alive, half a hundred others just as boring - but they would all circle in on the same one: did she have a steady fellow?
But Will Dearborn of the Inner Baronies didn't ask her about her schooling or family or friends (the most common way of approaching any romantic rivals, she had found). Will Dearborn simply walked along beside her, one hand wrapped around Rusher's bridle, looking off east toward the Clean Sea. They were close enough to it now so that the teary smell of salt mingled with the tarry stench of oil, even though the wind was from the south.
They were passing Citgo now, and she was glad for Will Dearborn's presence, even if his silence was a little irritating. She had always found the oil patch, with its skeletal forest of gantries, a little spooky. Most of those steel towers had stopped pumping long since, and there was neither the parts, the need, nor the understanding to repair them. And those which did still labor along - nineteen out of about two hundred - could not be stopped. They just pumped and pumped, the supplies of oil beneath them seemingly inexhaustible. A little was still used, but a very little - most simply ran back down into the wells beneath the dead pumping stations. The world had moved on, and this place reminded her of a strange mechanical graveyard where some of the corpses hadn't quite -
Something cold and smooth nuzzled the small of her back, and she wasn't quite able to stifle a little shriek. Will Dearborn wheeled toward her, his hands dropping toward his belt. Then he relaxed and smiled.
"Rusher's way of saying he feels ignored. I'm sorry, Miss Delgado."
She looked at the horse. Rusher looked back mildly, then dipped his head as if to say he was also sorry for having startled her.
Foolishness, girl, she thought, hearing the hearty, no-nonsense voice of her father. He wants to know why you 're being so standoffy, that's all. And so do I. 'Tisn't like you, so it's not.
"Mr. Dearborn, I've changed my mind," she said. "I'd like to ride."
3
He turned his back and stood looking out at Citgo with his hands in his pockets while Susan first laid the poncho over the cantle of the saddle (the plain black saddle of a working cowboy, without a Barony brand or even a ranch brand to mark it), and then mounted into the stirrup. She lifted her skirt and glanced around sharply, sure he would be stealing a peek, but his back was still to her. He seemed fascinated with the rusty oil derricks.
What's so interesting about them, cully? she thought, a trifle crossly - it was the lateness of the hour and the residue of her stirred-up emotions, she supposed. Filthy old things have been there six centuries and more, and I've been smelling their stink my whole life.
"Stand easy now, my boy," she said once she had her foot fixed in the stirrup. One hand held the top of the saddle's pommel, the other the reins. Rusher, meanwhile, flicked his ears as if to say he would stand easy all night, were that what she required.
She swung up, one long bare thigh flashing in the starlight, and felt the exhilaration of being horsed that she always felt . . . only tonight it seemed a little stronger, a little sweeter, a little sharper. Perhaps because the horse was such a beauty, perhaps because the horse was a stranger .. .
Perhaps because the horse's owner is a stranger, she thought, and fair.
That was nonsense, of course . . . and potentially dangerous nonsense. Yet it was also true. He was fair.
As she opened the poncho and spread it over her legs, Dearborn began to whistle. And she realized, with a mixture of surprise and superstitious fear, what the tune was: "Careless Love." The very lay she had been singing on her way up to Rhea's hut.
Mayhap it's ka, girl, her father's voice whispered.
No such thing, she thought right back at him. I'llnot see ka in every passing wind and shadow, like the old ladies who gather in Green Heart of a summer's evening. It's an old tune: everyone knows it.
Mayhap better if you're right. Pat Delgado's voice returned. For if it's ka, it 'II come like a wind, and your plans will stand before it no more than my da's barn stood before the cyclone when it came.
Not ka; she would not be seduced by the dark and the shadows and the grim shapes of the oil derricks into believing it was. Not ka but only a chance meeting with a nice young man on the lonely road back to town.
"I've made myself decent," she said in a dry voice that didn't sound much like her own. "Ye may turn back if you like, Mr. Dearborn."
He did turn and gazed at her. For a moment he said nothing, but she could see the look in his eyes well enough to know that he found her fair as well. And although this disquieted her - perhaps because of what he'd been whistling - she was also glad. Then he said, "You look well up there. You sit well."
"And I shall have horses of my own to sit before long," she said. Now the questions will come, she thought.
But he only nodded, as though he had known this about her already, and began to walk toward town again. Feeling a little disappointed and not knowing exactly why, she clucked sidemouth at Rusher and twitched her knees at him. He got moving, catching up with his master, who gave Rusher's muzzle a companionable little caress.
"What do they call that place yonder?" he asked, pointing at the derricks.
"The oil patch? Citgo."
"Some of the derricks still pump?"
"Aye, and no way to stop them. Not that anyone still knows."
"Oh," he said, and that was all - just oh. But he left his place by Rusher's head for a moment when they came to the weedy track leading into Citgo, walking across to look at the old disused guard-hut. In her childhood there had been a sign on it reading authorized personnel only, but it had blown away in some windstorm or other. Will Dearborn had his look and then came ambling back to the horse, boots puffing up summer dust, easy in his new clothes.
They went toward town, a young walking man in a flat-crowned hat, a young riding woman with a poncho spread over her lap and legs. The starlight rained down on them as it has on young men and women since time's first hour, and once she looked up and saw a meteor flash overhead - a brief and brilliant orange streak across the vault of heaven. Susan thought to wish on it, and then, with something like panic, realized she had no idea what to wish for. None at all.
4
She kept her own silence until they were a mile or so from town, and then asked the question which had been on her mind. She had planned to ask hers after he had begun asking his, and it irked her to be the one to break the silence, but in the end her curiosity was too much.
"Where do ye come from, Mr. Dearborn, and what brings ye to our little bit o' Mid-World ... if ye don't mind me asking?"
"Not at all," he said, looking up at her with a smile. "I'm glad to talk and was only trying to think how to begin. Talk's not a specialty of mine." Then what is. Will Dearborn? she wondered. Yes, she wondered very much, for in adjusting her position on the saddle, she had put her hand on the rolled blanket behind . . . and had touched something hidden inside that blanket. Something that felt like a gun. It didn't have to be, of course, but she remembered the way his hands had dropped instinctively toward his belt when she had cried out in surprise.
"I come from the In-World. I've an idea you probably guessed that much on your own. We have our own way of talking."
"Aye. Which Barony is yer home, might I ask?"
"New Canaan."
She felt a flash of real excitement at that. New Canaan! Center of the Affiliation! That did not mean all it once had, of course, but still -
"Not Gilead?" she asked, detesting the hint of a girlish gush she heard in her voice. And more than just a hint, mayhap.
"No," he said with a laugh. "Nothing so grand as Gilead. Only Hemphill, a village forty or so wheels west of there. Smaller than Hambry, I wot."
Wheels, she thought, marvelling at the archaism. He said wheels.
"And what brings ye to Hambry, then? May ye tell?"
"Why not? I've come with two of my friends, Mr. Richard Stock-worth of Pennilton, New Canaan, and Mr. Arthur Heath, a hilarious young man who actually does come from Gilead. We're here at the order of the Affiliation, and have come as counters."
"Counters of what?"
"Counters of anything and everything which may aid the Affiliation in the coming years," he said, and she heard no lightness in his voice now. " The business with the Good Man has grown serious."
"Has it? We hear little real news this far to the south and east of the hub."
He nodded. "The Barony's distance from the hub is the chief reason we're here. Mejis has been ever loyal to the Affiliation, and if supplies need to be drawn from this part of the Outers, they'll be sent. The question that needs answering is how much the Affiliation can count on."
"How much of what?"
"Yes," he agreed, as if she'd made a statement instead of asking a question. "And how much of what."
"Ye speak as though the Good Man were a real threat. He's just a bandit, surely, frosting his thefts and murders with talk of 'democracy' and 'equality'?"
Dearborn shrugged, and she thought for a moment that would be his only comment on the matter, but then he said, reluctantly: " 'Twas once so, perhaps. Times have changed. At some point the bandit became a general, and now the general would become a ruler in the name of the people." He paused, then added gravely, "The Northern and West'rd Baronies are in flames, lady."
"But those are thousands of miles away, surely!" This talk was upsetting, and yet strangely exciting, too. Mostly it seemed exotic, after the pokey all-days-the-same world of Hambry, where someone's dry well was good for three days of animated conversation.
"Yes," he said. Not aye but yes - the sound was both strange and pleasing to her ear. "But the wind is blowing in this direction." He turned to her and smiled. Once more it softened his hard good looks, and made him seem no more than a child, up too late after his bedtime. "But I don't think we'll see John Farson tonight, do you?"
She smiled back. "If we did, Mr. Dearborn, would ye protect me from him?"
"No doubt," he said, still smiling, "but I should do so with greater enthusiasm, I wot, if you were to let me call you by the name your father gave you."
"Then, in the interests of my own safety, ye may do so. And I suppose I must call ye Will, in those same interests."
" 'Tis both wise and prettily put," he said, the smile becoming a grin, wide and engaging. "I - " Then, walking as he was with his face turned back and up to her, Susan's new friend tripped over a rock Jutting out of the road and almost fell. Rusher whinnied through his nose and reared a little. Susan laughed merrily. The poncho shifted, revealing one bare leg, and she took a moment before putting matters right again. She liked him, aye, so she did. And what harm could there be in it? He was only a boy, after all. When he smiled, she could see he was only a year or two removed from jumping in haystacks. (The thought that she had recently graduated from haystack-jumping herself had somehow fled her mind.)