Free Lord of Mountains: A Novel of the Change by S. M. Stirling Page A

preparing to return to its usual somnolent existence, or something approaching it.
    They turned onto the new-made road that led to the castle gate, the hooves of the four horses crunching on the pounded crushed rock that made up its surface. It was well-engineered, but not as smooth as the ancient world’s asphalt; the only way to get that for a new road was to pry it up from an old one and re-melt it. Lantern-light came on in the slit windows of the round towers as they watched. The gates were still open, the drawbridge down and the portcullis up, but a squad of Protector’s Guard footmen crossed spears before them as they reined in beneath the deep shadow of the wall.
    “Who goes there?” the non-com in charge said, using the top edge of his shield to knock up his visor with a
clack
of metal on metal. “Advance and be recognized!”
    “Esquires Huon Liu de Gervais, of the High Queen’s household, and Lioncel de Stafford of Forest Grove, of the Grand Constable’s
menie
,” Huon said, obediently moving Dancer forward at a slow pace so that the lights would fall on his face. “Returning from a mission.”
    The man-at-arms in charge knew him; Huon blinked as the man raised a bull’s-eye lantern and shone it on his face for a moment. You didn’t take chances when you were at war with an enemy who liked assassinating leaders. Particularly with the CUT, who’d been known to do things to the minds of men.
    “Pass, young masters,” he said. “Your lieges arrived an hour ago; I expect they’ll be in the Great Hall by now.”
    Huon and Lioncel looked at each other; it wasn’t quite as bad as they’d expected, no dashing in after the tables had been removed and everyone glaring at them. They rode through into the courtyard of the outer bailey in an iron clatter of horseshoes on stone paving-blocks, handed their horses over to the grooms—not without a qualm on Huon’s part, since he preferred to see to his mounts himself in a strange place—and then did a hasty wash in a watering trough and helped each other out of their armor. Nobody would expect them to look court-sleek, but Lioncel borrowed his comb.
    “I gave mine to Ava for a keepsake,” he said a little shyly.
    “Chivalrous,” Huon said approvingly. “Really marvelous girls, even if they were lowborn.”
    Then he laughed. When Lioncel looked a question at him, he went on:
    “Back before lunch, I remember thinking how I wasn’t the type to enter the Church. Now I’m
sure
I don’t have a vocation!”
    “Clerics sin too, they’re human.”
    “Yes, but they’re supposed to feel worse about it when they do!”
    They dashed into the inner keep; all the castles they’d grown up with were basically similar, since nearly all were built to a set of standard designs, slightly modified to fit the site. Only a few of the greater ones had been worth more trouble, in the terrible years. The Great Hall here, where the garrison and staff and their families would eat most days, was built along one side of the court across from the chapel and castellan’s quarters. Lamplight shone through the high pointed windows, but without the halo of moths that would have been present a few months ago. They slowed down to a quick walk, left hands on the hilts of their swords, trying to look briskly casual and not at all tardy.
    “You’re lucky we were delayed,” Sir Rodard said.
    He was a young knight of the Grand Constable’s
menie
, standing by the doors in breastplate and tassets and fauds, half-armor. The squad of crossbowmen behind him were calmly alert, not expecting trouble but very ready for it.
    “And that we got that message from Ogier. Good work, by the way. Come on in, make your devoir and get something to eat.”
    They nodded to the brown-haired knight and ducked into the hall. It was fairly well lit by high-placed gaslights, a barnlike structure of plain plastered concrete floored in basalt blocks, and full of the smells of the evening’s inevitable stew