176
Places
Rodolfo Montdragón picked up his sword for the third time in five minutes and stood regarding his opponent. “You are quick”, he said finally, “and you are strong.” He reviewed how he’d just been disarmed. “And you are very, very good.” The man bowed; Montdragón bowed back, their eyes locked. The caballero sheathed his blade. “Come – tell me of your family.”
Samson looked up from his desk, annoyed at having an intruder. Knack for organization or no, he still had to deal with paperwork – and not waste paper! – and keeping it organized meant physical space and patience.
Patryk makes sheet metal, but the smiths won’t approve the metal for filing cabinets, he grumbled as he did daily – sometimes hourly. Knowing they had good reason, that there just wasn’t enough metal, didn’t help.
There were only two men on the mesa who could walk in on him with impunity. Fortunately for the visitor, he was one of those. “Captain Montdragón”, he said, changing his greeting as fast as he noticed the caballero wasn’t alone. “Who do you bring me?”
“Into your precious morning time, I bring one worthy of the invasion”, the captain of Antonio’s forces declared. “This is Julian, a master of the blade.”
Since the captain was no slouch at that art, Samson’s interest was caught. “As good as you?”
“He disarmed me not an hour ago – three times in succession, each time differently.”
“Disarmed.” To Samson’s knowledge, that was more difficult than just killing. He looked the man over: Julian showed some Quistador blood; he was of average height but with wide shoulders and legs somewhat longer in proportion than the usual. “Do you want me to rate him an instructor?”
“Ah, Steward, that would be a good use of him! But such was not my thought, for which I have a question: might he be knighted?” The English word flowed easily, its use by the Quistador stirring Samson’s respect for his equal in Antonio’s service. “Might the two of us not act together for this?”
Samson leaned back in his office chair, its stout oaken structure resisting any potential creaking. Drumming his fingers on the wide arm end – a design he considered would be excellent for a computer remote (what Wizard Ryan called a “mouse”) – he considered. “We are the two halves of Count Antonio’s authority”, he agreed. “But I don’t see making a case that we can ennoble someone in his stead.” Brushing a loose strand of hair from his left eye, he leaned forward and dropped both elbows to the desk, slipping his fingers between those of the opposing hand, to make a tent with poles sticking out. “Though if we agree it should be done, Lord Ryan is not so far away.”
Montdragón nodded. “Master Devon’s road is a wonder! Not so good as some in the Realm, yet better for that its quality wavers not. Better also”, he amended, “for that it fears not to charge through obstacles, wasting not distance to go around.”
Samson grinned; Montdragón wanted him to assent without having to argue for it. “What recommends him to be ennobled?” He himself had already seen one problem: at first glance, Julian appeared to be a Celt. “Is the blade sufficient?”
Antonio’s captain grunted. “It is not. His speech is lacking, but Druid Prentiss is able to correct that.” He shook his head; it had been a strange experience, to have Druid Eraigh bestow both their Common tongue and then Celtic on him. “His horsemanship is deplorable, but that is but a matter of time. His manners are not the highest – though they reside above those of some notables of the Realm. As for his honor, it is far higher than that of one recently deceased Count.”
Antonio’s Steward couldn’t help but shake his head and chuckle at that. From most, he’d have suspected it was a way of saying, “Look what a great thing I helped with – now give me what I want!”, but not with this man. Montdragón measured his own status by the standing of the one he served, and would never claim any added credit for something he considered to have merely been his duty. “If Druid Prentiss is amenable, I won’t object to his correcting that deficiency.” Though he wondered at how well an overlay of one’s own language onto one’s own language would work. “For his honor – I would never question your word on that. Horsemanship isn’t a major hurdle, at least until the Count is ready to reveal those to the Realm, and for that he looks to Grand Earl Rigel.” He wasn’t really opposed to Julian being knighted, but he didn’t want to make it seem easy, either, so he asked another question. “What of his family?”
“He is hidalgo.”
Samson’s lack of knowledge tripped him up. “I haven’t heard of that house.”
Julian coughed into his fist. “Master Steward, fidalgo is not a house, it is a station.”
“Wait – ‘hidalgo’ and ‘fidalgo’ are the same thing?” Samson wished for enough paper he could just take notes!
“Sí, señor Samson”, Montdragón replied. “A difference in pronunciation. Perhaps the bishop of Lago Blanco could explain the matter. For your concern, it means a family of notable status, yet without vassals or castle or extensive lands.”
“And no true name”, Julian added.
“Ah! Sort of the paupers of the nobility, then?” Samson inquired. Both his visitors nodded. The Steward got a playful grin. “Which pronunciation is more common?”
“Hidalgo”, they answered together.
“So if we made you don Julian de Fidalgo?”
Julian looked aghast, but Montdragón laughed. “A jest against those who treat the hidalgos as an insult to notables! Señor Samson, I find your proposal pleases me. Friend Julian, you would find many chances to employ your skill.”
Samson hadn’t seen that far. “Oh – challenges. For the arrogance?” he guessed.
“The audacity, yes”, Montdragón agreed. “I say those who objected would deserve their fate.”
“You think he can beat any challenger?” Samson sat back again.
“My skill is in the second hundred of the Realm”, the captain asserted. “With what I have learned from Lord Rigel and Major Tanner, perhaps in the top. Of those who have defeated me, Julian would best two of three.”
Now Samson was interested. “Don Rodolfo, in the Realm, may one employ a champion for challenges?”
“If one is not of age, is one is crippled or elderly, if one is wounded and may not stand for himself, if one’s skill is so less than the other that all recognize a duel to be a farce – yes. Steward, what is your target in this?”
Samson turned to Julian. “Don Enrico has vassals who won’t like him taking over as Count. They’re probably people I won’t approve of as notables near my lord Antonio’s border. I feel confident I can arrange for some of them to take offense or give offense with people who could claim the use of a champion. What do you think of such an idea?”
Julian frowned, clearly dragging the notion through his personal set of standards. “If I agreed a notable was a disgrace, I would call it an honor to serve as champion!” he declared after a quiet half-minute.
Samson smiled. “Excellent! Señor Montdragón, I’ll send word to Lord Ryan requesting don Julian be knighted. Julian, if messages fly swiftly, you may get to be a champion before that happens.”
Montdragón frowned. “You have a foe selected? Who?”
“I don’t know his name”, the steward conceded. “But don Enrico mentioned a viscount who was somewhat devoted to House Nevarez because he shared the Count’s vices. And don Delgado knows a few, himself. See”, he went on, “if I can improve the quality of our neighbors, don Antonio will be pleased. If I can improve the quality in the Realm, don Rigel will be pleased.”
His partner in wielding Antonio’s authority caught something in his tone. “But you wish Inquisidores could be challenged.”
“True”, Samson conceded. “But one thing at a time.” The pleasure of showing Brother Dismas just what all the landscape changes around the mesa were for returned. “One thing at a time”, he repeated, his eyes afire, “each thing in its place.”
Lady Lopez put fingers to mouth and whistled. It was piercing, but failed to reach more than the two dozen nearest the Speaker’s stand. Lord Lopez had broken his walking stick from beating on the stand; now the council’s moderator turned in appeal to Regent Reyes-Ortega. There was no point in shouting; the tumult that had erupted when Victor related that Emilio had been murdered merely for suspicion of being a friend of Escobar’s made it hard to hear one’s own voice when yelling. Ortega lifted his hands in admission he saw no way to restore quiet to the gathering.
A rifle shot roared and echoed. Tongues stopped, hands going to ears, and eyes sought the offender. Scout ears pinned the location immediately, while others were confused by the reverberations. “Aodh”, Oran whispered to Rigel, pointing. Others saw the direction the Scout indicated.
“Lord Lopez, I think they can hear you now”, Aodh declared, cycling the bolt to drop hot brass on the floor. His companion, young lord Diego Gomez, stood there laughing. Among the younger lords present, that laughter proved somewhat contagious, so it was into sounds of humor rather than wrath that the moderator’s voice came to be heard.
“War!” someone yelled.
Lopez ignored him. “You have heard the testimony of those who went to discover if any of our blood remain in the north. Regent Ortega, have you a conclusion?”
Manuel Ortega was too much a gentleman to snort in public, though he had coughed at the refusal of lords Peralta and Barraza to commit to any position. Stepping forward, he answered, “I do. And I say it is no time to speak of war.” His stern gaze slowly swept the assembly, which included the lords from the Hills of Saint Rigel plus Ordóñez and Acosta out of the chain across the savanna to Hills’ Edge. “I have listened to the reports, and read every word, and questioned our investigators at length. Now I have listened to their reports again, with all of you. I find no reason to believe there are any Escobars in the Realm. I propose this be affirmed by this Council.”
“I agree!” called Tomas Ramirez, another whom Osvaldo had nominated for Regent. The third of those nominees, Valiente Rodriguez, stood and declared his agreement as well. When Zacarías de Cadiz, Marshal Escobar, stood and stated his agreement, the rest swiftly stood as well.
Osvaldo, dressed in the same clothes as when he had last addressed the Council, turned to Lady Rosalina. “Mother – we made it”, he whispered.
“So we did, my son. Now you must talk them out of war”, she admonished. “And you must swiftly wed, to get an heir.”
His grin was still a teenager’s. “You could make me a little brother”, he teased. “You could marry Earl Rigel.”
She glanced aside at the object of that proposal. “He would make you a fine father”, she mused. “But the man must be willing.” They both laughed softly. “Now, go.” She turned him and gave a little push.
Lord Lopez greeted him, then turned to the Council again. “We are now a Conclave”, he declared. “For the first time since Señor Jadriano Escobar failed to–“
“No.” Rigel didn’t consciously decide; he just blurted it out, jumped to the platform and crossed it. Shocked, Lord Lopez stood silent, mouth open, and stepped backward before Rigel’s determined advance. “No, Rigel repeated, not taking the podium but staying a stride behind it. “Lord Jadriano did
not fail. If he had failed, we would not be here today. He planned, and there was Refuge, and his descendants thrive. If he had failed, I and my people would not be riding the superb horses he saved, to provide for the future. If he had failed, the Celts would have no king, but would be scattered remnants hiding in the mountains and hills. If he had failed, there would have been no Realm to the north for your investigators to visit.” His look dared anyone to disagree.
“No – the only failure was that of your cousins’ ancestors, cowards who broke their given word, who fled and hid rather than stand.
They failed, because they quit.” The Sword of Escobar slid, hissing, from its sheath, and he held it high. “He never quit. When this blade fell from his dead hand, he was still killing the Foe. That is
not failure. And because he struck until he died, he succeeded: the battle was won, the Celts lived, the cowards who abandoned him lived, and his House lived.” Not a one moved; the chamber was silent.
“Now you have a lord again. Confirm him. And we can build on the
success of Señor Manuel Jadriano Ferdinando Escobar.” Rigel turned to the moderator and bowed. “Lord Lopez.” Formally, he took three steps backward before turning. Many eyes, from angry to speculative to admiring, followed him.
Lopez cleared his throat. “We have an Heir, and we know there is no other. It is time for him to speak, and for us to decide.” He stepped away, clearly flustered at having had his planned remarks thrown awry, and waved Osvaldo forward.
Osvaldo pointedly didn’t look at Rigel, just finished crossing the space his mother had launched him into. He stood at the podium, plainly his father’s son – a point that brought pride to some, resigned recognition to others. “For the first time since the establishment of this Refuge, we know the fate of our House”, he began. “We are our House. We are Escobar.” A few lords his own age began cheering. It spread; he stood smiling, not grinning as though in acceptance of triumph or honor accorded him.
“Our representatives were slighted in the north. I have a plan for dealing with them – if you confirm me.” With that, he bowed slightly, and retreated to stand with the Regent and his mother, who had come forward to join Ortega.
“Much shorter than what you wrote”, Rosalina commented to her son.
“When conditions change, plans must adapt”, he commented. Rigel’s attention snapped to Osvaldo; the words were an echo from the Sword – had Osvaldo absorbed that in his brief moment before the duel, or... where?
“I, Diego Gabriel Tiberio d’Aragon Gomez, stand to confirm”, a young voice rang out.
“And I, Tomás Felix Salvador Ramirez!”
“I, Valiente Roberto Gaspar Rodriguez, stand!”
“I also!” cried a man Rigel remembered only as “El Señor de Sombras”, from the days of campaigning on Osvaldo’s behalf before that previous Council.
Diego Gomez, still standing with Captain Aodh, was next, side by side with Jaspar de Medina and lord de Cadiz. They were the last whose voices could be recognized individually.
There were, of course, dissenters, but unlike in the previous Council, none dared display it by not standing. Officially, at least, the confirmation of Heir Osvaldo as El Señor Osvaldo Rudolfo Beltrán Escobar, Lord of House Escobar, was unanimous.
“Thank you, brothers, sisters, cousins”, Osvaldo declared softly. “Now – we have endured an insult. But hear what has already been done. Victor?”
Austin slipped out of the council chamber with Airein. “You’re his squire till I get back”, he told his squire. “If he wonders where I went, look to Rita – don’t try to explain.”
“I’m not to explain you’re slipping off to meet a lady”, Airein said skeptically.
Austin thumped him on the chest. “Not just a lady”, he said, an odd tone to his voice. “I think God made her for me. She’s the only girl who’s ever stirred me at all. And she’s been waiting for me.”
Understanding struck the younger squire. “Oh! The one you rescued from the cathedral!”
Austin grinned, a sort of dreamy look in his eyes. “Yeah – Valentina Raquel Espinoza. Regent Ortega sort of made himself her uncle, ‘cause her dad wouldn’t take her back.” His eyes went a touch unfocused.
Airein laughed softly. “And you don’t even like girls. Wow.”
Impulsively, Austin took his squire by the cheeks and planted a kiss in the lips. “No – I don’t like girls, but I like
girl... this one. Now don’t screw up!”
Shaking his head, Airein watched his master go.
Rita sank into the three layers of fur and stared at the ceiling. “Osvaldo, you rule”, she asserted, then giggled; the pun just didn’t translate. “Sorry – in our language, it would be a joke”, she told him.
“She means you were awesome, and took charge, and that’s the same word as ‘rule’ or ‘reign’”, explained Oran. “Anaph, you should give him all our languages.”
“Later”, the Druid replied. “Eraigh discovered it’s easier to do when someone is asleep. Osvaldo, tomorrow at breakfast you’ll know our Common tongue plus Celt.”
Osvaldo laughed. “And the British? Rigel said you found the British.”
“Close enough to Common to work”, Rita told him. “But back to my point: they confirmed you, but after that you – well, charmed them, inspired them, and now most will follow because of that, even if you weren’t their lord.”
“And they’ll follow Rigel”, Osvaldo added.
“You could have warned me”, Rigel groused. “Naming me ‘Captain of the Host’, ‘High Commander of the Armies of Escobar’, ‘General of the United Forces’ – couldn’t you make up any more titles? And then telling them I’ll rule the north, because your cousins have dishonored the whole heritage?” He threw up his hands – the right one slowly, since it bore a steaming mug of kaf and wine.
Osvaldo blushed. “I got carried away. But Rigel, I cannot rule that Realm! It is too far away, and I have too much to do here! But if it is left independent, lords here will continue to grumble. They know you cannot betray us, not while you have the Sword of Escobar – so you have to do it. It’s your place.”
“Frak.” Rigel stared at his mug, and felt like throwing it – but there wasn’t really any target. Fate, the Snatcher, circumstances, his friends, forces beyond his control with no one chief among them had put him in this position, leaving him with no single target. So he slammed the contents, immediately wishing he hadn’t.
“Scorch your throat?” Rita asked, slightly amused, slightly concerned.
“Not enough that it would slow Austin or Miguel down”, Rigel cracked. “Ack. Somebody hand me something cold!”
After his throat was aching from cold, Rigel felt calmer. “Okay – they trust me because of the Sword. Well, there’s something I want to do. Just listen – no protests.
“You’re its rightful owner, now”, he told Osvaldo. “I want it to know you. I’m not handing it over, just – just in case you end up having to take it, I don’t want the whole thing to be a shock. So, pull that chair over here and let’s see what we can do.”
Rosalina wasn’t happy. “Osvaldo....”
“Mother, we can trust Rigel – and we can trust our Ancestor’s Sword”, Osvaldo asserted. Still, he seemed a touch apprehensive as he settled in, knees touching Rigel’s.
“Austin – my blade. Osvaldo, put your hands by mine – Austin, lay it across our palms.” It came to Rigel as an old friend, like he’d been carrying it for a lifetime, but Osvaldo flinched at the first contact. But it was Airein who brought the Sword; concentrating already, Rigel didn’t notice.
It was hardly a spectator sport. The two sat, Rigel showing no reaction, Osvaldo tensing occasionally, his back arching once, finishing with trembling that faded to relaxation. The newly confirmed lord dropped his hands and stared at the Sword.
“I did not truly believe”, he whispered. “Is it alive?”
Anaph answered. “Everything is alive. It is alive in a different way than a plain piece of metal. But it has no life-pattern, no aura. The energy patterns it has are confined, and limited. It does as it was... trained to do.”
“It’s like a machine, in some ways, but like a faithful animal in others”, Rigel added. “Mostly it acts when you put it to use, but sometimes it offers when you don’t ask.”
“Like tactical advice”, Osvaldo guessed.
“Yes – your ancestor was a pretty smart general, and captain. So – it hit you pretty hard?”
Osvaldo considered. “Not so much as it did you, when it took you. It was urgent, like a teacher insisting I pay attention to lessons.”
“Were you Jadriano in the final battle?”
The young man shrugged. “I saw with his eyes.” He searched Rigel’s face. “You... were him?”
Rigel nodded. “I’ve done that three times now, and every time I live it. I feel the sweat, hear the Horn, feel Corredor launch himself... feel the–“ He shuddered. “The final fight with the Foe. And I feel the joy at the sight of them dying, the sense of triumph. That’s why Lord Lopez was wrong – Jadriano knew he’d won. He knew the Others were stopped, even if only for a while. He knew his House was safe in Refuge, and he knew enough horses had been hidden to provide for the future.”
“Why don’t the Quistadors have horses?” Miguel asked.
“The blight”, Anaph answered, and all eyes turned. “It strikes here, it strikes there. I think it never strikes the same animal or plant twice. When it strikes, very little survives. What survives is changed.”
Rita heard the tone of expectation, and pondered. “It struck horses, didn’t it? It struck cats, too. But it didn’t wipe them out, so the ones that survived were bigger and stronger.” She paused. “And smarter, too, aren’t they?”
Anaph nodded. “What it doesn’t kill, it makes stronger”, he said with a grin. “But tell me, Wise Woman – why did those two survive?”
“I know”, Oran claimed.
“Say”, Rita told him.
“They had access to the Valley – to the LifeGem. It kept this blight from killing them, but not from changing them. So they got some intelligence, and size. The Quistadors remember cats, but they haven’t had any in ‘way over a century, and at the end they were seeing new cats that were larger, and had the spiny mane. But the cats didn’t want to be pets, so they left.” He shared a grin with Chen at the notion of Streaker or one of the others being a pet; the reality was closer to the other way around.
“The cats had humans once before”, he shared, “but they disappeared. Streaker was really glad to find humans who treated him like a person – the Quistadors just shoot as them, when they ever see one. Mostly they think they’re demons. Idiots.”
“So the Quistador horses died out – why did the ones here live?” Miguel wanted to know.
“Distance”, Rita answered. “The Celts had no horses, so there was no way for the blight to get here. Two different places.”
“But will it not still wait in the north, to kill horses again?” Osvaldo’s long-time protector asked.
“Possibly”, Anaph responded. “But the horses left by your Ancestor are immune to it.”
Miguel pressed on. “But our horses, who never faced this blight – are they safe?”
Anaph’s eyes closed. Rigel looked from the Druid to his suddenly quite serious Wise Woman. “Oh, frak”, he swore.
Rigel gazed at the spire of stone emerging at a slight angle from a blocky mass of stone. A crumbled manor house clung to the slope below, as disreputable as the scraggly cover of grass tufts and clumps of brush. The rest of the company – all the Snatched, both “Vortex”, as Vaidynanaath had started calling Rigel and his friends, and Yankee – spread out in the level area long the road, what looked to have once been a field. “Interesting. Kinda sad. It’s why we detoured?”
Osvaldo laughed. “Yes. It’s yours. It came to the House four generations back, but, well, laws are funny, and no one could do anything with it until the House had a Lord. It failed because the estate was just too small and the soil was too thin. But now the House has a Lord, and the Lord is giving it to you.”
Rigel laughed abruptly, caustically. “Great – it can’t support itself, so you give it to me?”
Osvaldo laughed delightedly. “Got you! The look on your face!” He laughed harder.
Rigel gave him a sour look. “Okay, who infected you with that sense of humor? Oran?”
“And Casey”, Osvaldo admitted, still laughing. “But it’s not that bad. On the other side is another estate. Combine them, and they’ll support themselves. Besides, you need a... ‘home away from home’, I think Chen called it. ‘Your own place’, Oran said. Even if it couldn’t support itself, you can sell timber here for a hundred years to support it.”
His tone changed. “You made some lords angry when you insisted your timber this time go to those who need it most and can least afford it. And when you gave that hauler to the three facing crippling debt” – he grinned again – “At least the ones they owe gold will be paid.”
Rigel shrugged and didn’t looked at his friend. “I hate seeing people hurting from no fault of their own – okay, da Silva dug his own hole, but why should his family suffer for it?” He chuckled. “Okay, I accept the estate.”
“I told Ortega to draw up papers for da Silva”, Osvaldo related quietly. “He owes the House, too. If he’ll step aside for his second son, I’ll forgive that debt.”
Rigel blinked and turned to the Lord Escobar. “Generous! But why the second son? Why not the eldest?”
“I think”, Osvaldo said slowly, “that Refuge is too small for Constantín. And he is an excellent swordsman – I think he will do well in the tourney.”
Antonio smiled. “You put gold on him – admit it.”
“Yes, I did. The tourney was an excellent idea, Rigel! I’m going to make it an annual event.”
“You could enter”, Rigel teased.
“Sure – and if you let me use the Sword, I’d win. But that would be cheating”, Osvaldo asserted.
An idea came to Rita. “Rigel, Osvaldo – you should let the top ten fight against the Sword. Osvaldo, it would show those without trust that Rigel recognizes who the Sword belongs to. Rigel – the Sword will learn the moves used against it, right?”
The two lords stared at each other. “Whoa”, Rigel breathed. “Brilliant – or should I say ‘Wise’? Ten matches, and the Sword picks up the best skills in Refuge.”
Osvaldo was shaking his head. “I can’t fight ten matches in a day. Rigel, you take half.”
“You’re determined to keep me here, aren’t you?”
“For ten days”, Osvaldo replied glibly.
Rigel glared. “Three.”
“Eight.”
Rigel growled. “Seven.”
Osvaldo laughed. “Six – you have to stay for my Confirmation Mass.”
Something in his tone made Rigel suspicious. “Why?” he asked with narrowed eyes.
“You’re my vassal – all my vassals have to attend.”
“I’m your what?!”
Rita burst into laughter. “He really did get you! Rigel, you accepted the estate – that makes him your overlord.”
Rigel looked at the two of them as they laughed and exchanged a high five, something Osvaldo had picked up from Casey. “Okay, I’ve been had. Six. And did I accept one estate, or two?”
“One. You have to buy the other one – the lady is selling it; the lord died and his son is not old enough to inherit, and she wishes to give the house a new start. I think they’ll go with del Rio, to the hills south of here.”
“South – you’re really expanding! I like it”, Rigel said with a grin. “Now, tell me about this family.”
Twenty minutes later he’d decided to pay what it took to set them up at least as well in their new place as they had been in Refuge.
“Lord Rigel?” asked a Yankee, one of Devon’s engineers, the moment Rigel and Osvaldo shook on their agreement. Rigel had been introduced, but... he touched the Sword to pluck the memory.
“Akaya. What’s up?”
“Lord Rigel, that’s volcanic – it’s a volcanic rod sticking out of a volcanic choke”, the engineer told him.
Rita shook her head. “In our terms, a volcanic neck sticking out of a volcanic plug, I think.”
“A volcanic plug is really hard lava that cooled in the volcano’s throat, right?” Rigel guessed.
“Right. And the neck, or rod, is a harder core that cooled there, and then got shoved up by the magma below – no eruption, generally.” She looked up at the stone with a different perspective. “Akaya, what’s the importance?”
“One – it could even be harder than the gabbro at Lord Ordóñez demesnes Two --. you’ll never cut that stuff except using one of your Cutters. Three – these hills are probably the wreckage of the giant volcano of which that was the core. Four – carve a fortress into it, and nothing will crack it for a century. Five – you could get rich selling the rock you carve out.” Akaya frowned. “Six – it’s truly ancient, because Druid Anaph couldn’t find any heat below to make hot springs. It’s cooled thoroughly.”
Devon nodded. “Akaya knows geology, Rye. If we’re staying a week, this is as good a place to camp as any – and I can at least carve an inside stairway to the top. Be kinda fun.”
“Is it the highest spot in Refuge?” asked Austin.
Miguel took the question. “No – but it’s the highest solid one. The highest is near Avila and Bilbao, called Mount Corona. The second is between San Orofino and Segovia Nueva, called Mount Escudo. They are great heaps of dirt that becomes mud in the rain.” He grinned. “I think you could build a tower on top this, and be higher than those.”
Rita looked around; there were few trees worthy of the name. “As deforested as the Hills are, you could probably sight it with a transit – and don’t say we don’t have a transit; your Wizard team is working on one.”
“What, are we going to start surveying?” Rigel asked wryly.
Rita chuckled. “No – their goal is a range-finder for the cannon. They’re engineers, and they don’t trust eyeballs.”
“Even mine”, Oran piped up. “Infidels.” The few Scouts nearby laughed.
“They trust your eyes; they just don’t trust you”, Austin quipped. Squire and Scout glared, then laughed.
“Whatever. Rita, keep the children quiet, please”, Rigel teased. “Okay, Devon – have at it. Eldon, Tanner, settle ‘em in. Osvaldo – show me this other estate.”
“Certainly, Count Rigel.”
Rigel started. “Huh?”
“Well, my vassal can’t outrank me”, Osvaldo declared gaily.
“Rita, can I spank him?” Rigel asked rhetorically. Wisely, she didn’t answer.
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