"Keep an eye on them," she called into the tube, and then took another bite. Her next remark went to the courtyard in general: "Turn out, everyone: wall-stations. But not the gate, not yet."

Booted feet pounded up the steep staircases as someone beat on a triangle, and hastily donned helmets showed along the crenellations of the battlements. The drawbridge was worked by counterweighted steel levers, which made it easy to close quickly; they had to be cranked down, but that was usually less urgent.

"And load the engines," she went on, a little less distinctly as she finished the heel of the sandwich.

A series of deep chrunk-tunng sounds came from the catapults and bolt-throwers as valves were opened. Water from the reservoirs in the towers flowed into the hydraulic bottle-jacks built into the war machines, pushing back against the coil-springs and throwing arms until they were cocked and locked with the trigger mechanisms. Those engines could cover half a mile around the fort with showers of forged-steel darts and globes of homemade napalm. Or at least they could when visibility was good, which right now it wasn't.

"Now let's see what we've got," she said, wiping her mouth with a napkin and tossing it into the lunch-basket.

She dusted off her metal-backed steerhide gloves, settled her sword belt and picked up the glaive that leaned against the stone of the inner wall. That was much less cumbersome than a pike in the strait confines of a fortress interior; five feet of ashwood with a heavy pointed length of steel like a giant kitchen knife on it, and a hook welded to the base of the thick, straight back of the blade. Then she walked out onto the drawbridge over the moat, careful not to step beyond the edge of it. The counterweights could snatch it up quickly, and she'd slide down to the bottom on the inside with nothing lost but dignity. That would leave plenty of time to close the steel-shod gates and drop the portcullis.

Not that she expected trouble. Enemies or bandits would have to be insane to attack here; the fort was strong, and it had a garrison of thirty, and there was another just like it where the bridge met the city wall on the west bank of the river, and the city itself could muster near two thousand defenders almost at once if the call to turn out in arms came. It was probably just some Mackenzies, or possibly travelers from east over the Cascades: though the passes would be difficult, this time of year. Or it might be Bearkillers, though they'd be more likely to come from the north, past the border station at Adair.

She scowled slightly, and absently snapped down the triangular three-bar visor of her helmet and peered out into the fog. Mackenzies were all right, she supposed-sort of bizarre in varying degrees, but all right. Bearkillers: well, they weren't cutthroats and thugs like the Protector's men, but they were almighty hard-boiled, and their A-listers were often outright arrogant. They made her glad Corvallis had avoided developing a landed aristocracy of the type that seemed to be growing up like mushrooms on cowflops in most places.

Leaning on the shaft of the glaive, she waited. The lookout in the balloon didn't say anything more, so the riders were still coming on, and she hadn't recognized them. Her second-in-command came up, a long-hafted war-maul across one mailclad shoulder as he stroked his square-cut brown-yellow beard with his free hand. He was also her next-door neighbor, a house carpenter, a member of their regular Friday-night bridge club and they'd been in several classes together back in 1998.

"What the hell do you think it is, Sally?"

"Jack, I keep telling you, it's Lieutenant, Lieutenant Chen or ma'am, when we're on duty!"

A grin. "OK, ma'am, what the hell do you think it is?"

"Damned if I know, Jack," she replied.

"Hey, when we're on duty that's Sergeant Jack to you, bitch," he said, and they both laughed.

A moment later Chen shoved her visor up for a better look at what came looming out of the fog. "Mud lun yeh!" she said, startled into swearing in Cantonese for the first time in many years. "What the fuck?"

"Erainnath Dunedainon nelmet, Astrid a Eilir!" Astrid Larsson called, reining in where the roadway met the fort's drawbridge.

Her Arab mare Asfaloth tossed her wedge-shaped head, and her long mane flew silky, wound with bright ribbons as the slender legs did a little dance in place. Astrid raised her right hand high, palm-out in the gesture of peace.

"Ennyn edro hi ammen!" she cried.

"But darling, the gates are open," Alleyne Loring murmured.

"Greetings, Lady Astrid, in the name of the people and Faculty Senate of Corvallis," the militia officer said; or at least Eilir thought so, even though uncertainty made the movements of her lips less crisp than the deaf woman would have preferred.

That's irritating, she thought. Lip-reading is hard enough even when people enunciate properly!

There was wonder in the Corvallan's eyes as she looked down the row of mounted Dunedain, with the brace of baggage-carts bringing up the rear. The column of twos had halted with a single surge and stamping, and the Rangers sat their horses nearly motionless: except for wondering eyes on the watch-balloon overhead.

"Mae govannen," Astrid said graciously. "Or in the common tongue, well met."

Eilir smiled to herself at the way the militia soldiers' eyes were bugging out; Astrid had laid herself out for Yule presents, and the entire column of Dunedain was wearing the new black tunic-vests with the silver tree, stars and crown, while Eilir herself held the banner with its cross-staff. They'd also agreed that if the Rangers were to be a thing they lived rather than did in their spare time they should look more alike, and not like Bearkillers or Mackenzies on holiday. The pants felt strange on her legs, and she missed her kilt and plaid, but she supposed she'd get used to it again: and they'd also agreed they could wear what they liked when visiting their kinfolk.

I used to think this was goofy, she mused, rolling her eyes down at the tunic for an instant. Of course, I did always think they were sort of cool as well, and it looks less goofy with us all dressed this way.

The Larsdalen artisans had done them well, and the mesh-mail-and-nylon lining was very comforting, when you didn't have time for real armor.

Dread Lord and merciful Mother-of-All, I don't even really remember what it was like when nobody was trying to kill me.

There were three men with the column not in the new: well, Alleyne had called it the national costume. Alleyne himself was in his suit of green-enameled plate armor, with his visor up but the heater-shaped shield with its five roses on a silver background on his left arm, and a long lance in his right, the butt resting on a ring welded to his right stirrup-iron. John Hordle wore a green mail shirt, and an open-faced sallet helmet pushed up until it rested on the back of his head, with his bow and long sword worn crosswise across his back; the cob he rode had a goodly share of Percheron in it, which was only fair considering that he weighed more than Alleyne did riding armored cap-a-pie in steel.

Sir Jason Mortimer was in the pants and quilted gambeson he'd worn under his armor, complete with old bloodstains, and cuffs that ran through a ring on the pommel of his saddle securing his right hand; he looked frowsy and disheveled, even apart from the way his shield-arm was in a sling. Nobody had hurt him, and his wounded shoulder had been competently tended, but they hadn't been all that considerate either; he'd spent Yule locked up in a storage shed near Mithrilwood Lodge, with a lump of salt pork, waybread, water and a bucket for his necessities.