Free Tales of Downfall and Rebirth by S. M. Stirling

smoke.
    He offered her a place at his mother’s fire, and a skewer of roasted buffalo. “You came with Lester Pica.”
    â€œDoes that surprise you?”
    He nodded.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThe Old One’s partial to the rodeo folk. This thing with your baker; they’ll be angry he’s helping you.”
    She ate the meat and then, as the weather was clear and dry, opened her satchel and took out her book. Taking up an ancient charcoal crayon, she began to draw, sketching the lines of the camp, the porcupine shadow of the Fortress, the shadows of totems on the far bank of the water.
    â€œI’m Raki,” the young man said.
    â€œFinch.”
    â€œDo you sing?”
    She nodded; of the five music badges, she had four.
    Raki cast an admiring gaze over her picture. Feeling strangely shy, Finch tore it free and rolled it, holding it out. “It’s not waterproof.”
    â€œI won’t get it wet, then.” An ember of flirtation within those smoky eyes drew a smile from her—then his mother called, and he darted off with a wave.
    Feeling strangely moody—homesick, she supposed—Finch circled back to the Twelvestepper wigwam. The Baron and his men were up, dressed, and armed.
    â€œDid our Scout see anything interesting?” Huon asked.
    â€œThey socialized all night, off and on. Chief Jane had more visitors than most.”
    â€œPeople asking our business here.”
    â€œYes,” she agreed. “Lester crossed the lake; he went into the Fortress, and later into the woods near the Hat totem.”
    â€œAnd made it back for breakfast.” The old man popped out from behind the shelter with a delighted caw at having surprised them. “Lotta folks arrived last night.”
    â€œThe Kip Kelly Rodeo?” Huon asked.
    â€œRough riders always run late.” Lester shook his head. “C’mon, want you to meet Chief Lundy.”
    The Lundies were bards, singers of songs from both before the Change and since, keepers of stories and, thus, a useful source of information. They had arrived pulling travois laden with instruments both ancient and modern. Finch recognized a fiddle the Baron had included among last year’s gifts.
    They brought a drink made of roasted dandelion root, Saskatoon jelly sweetened with beetroot sugar for the morning bannock, and four plump ducks, shot by their archers on the way to the Hoedown. They offered the first serving to Lester and then, while the others were eating, sang a lengthy song about the people of Raven—the Haida, they meant—and that people’s first post-Change Chiefs, the ones who had set them on the path of piracy. They said Huon could share this story with his king, by way of thanks for the violin.
    Finch wondered if Huon would have to compose an ode if he wanted to ask about Chuckwagon Charlie. But Lester laid the situation out in a few sentences, between helpings of the jam.
    Lundy said:
    â€œI know your baker. Was us found him round old Wetaskiwin, like to freezing. He says he was baking that morning, up early. Some fella showed him a badge, covered in rubies. Mean anything to you?”
    The Baron nodded. “It happened a great deal: the CUT had put many people under their thrall.”
    He didn’t add that others had gone to them willingly.
    â€œNext thing Charlie knew, Lady Death’s guard was kicking him, as a prelude to dropping him in the dungeon. Things were a bit crazy, after the attack. He got a chance to burrow into a wagon fulla horse shit, caught a ride out.”
    This time the Baron couldn’t hide his surprise. “He confessed, to strangers?”
    â€œWe Lundies are Winter’s historians. We demanded his tale before we saved him.”
    It was easy to follow the turn of Huon’s thoughts: revealing the truth might be the act of an innocent man, or a careful one. The betrayal would be a familiar tale to all who knew Charlie now. There could be no