Free The Sword of the Lady by S. M. Stirling

High King over all the realms. And they most certainly would accept it if by my marrying that man they could have their own Lord Protector′s blood on the throne in another generation . . .
    The thought passed through her mind in an instant, but her blood leapt at an image of Rudi beside her and a cheering host of Associates and Mackenzies, Bearkillers and Corvallans and manymore below crying him hail. Her heart beat even harder at the thought of him leading her to a bride′s bower. How Rudi would love that, and hate the idea of a crown! And how well he′d do at both . . .
    But right now he′s over there in the wilderness and I′m a prisoner in everything but name, and likely to lose my head if my attention strays. Concentrate, woman!
    Kate had sighed and nodded, looking around.
    ″There are always people who won′t live peacefully, like the Heuisinks. Why, why, when we have all this?″
    Candles burned on the tables whose snowy linen held the buffet; the aide brought them a second set of hand-sized plates, this time with garlicky meatballs on toothpicks and little skewers of hot spicy grilled chicken and tiny, tender vegetables. Some of the guests plowed stolidly through cold meats and breads and salads and dishes of spiced pickled fish or nibbled on candied fruits, while others punished the wet bar and grew red-faced and expansive or brooded in corners.
    ″It scares me sometimes,″ the Bossman′s wife said softly. Then in an undertone, but fiercely: ″And people are always flattering Anthony, and, and telling him anything he wants to hear. It′s like water dripping on iron!″
    Mathilda turned away diplomatically, watching the crowd as Kate stammered and flushed and then cast her a grateful look for letting the matter drop. Younger men and women flirted; serious-looking ones in middle age stood in small circles, holding drinks and talking politics and business . . . or possibly just gossiping. A chamber group of musicians tootled away at something soothing in a corner, and the air smelled of fine food, wine, perfume, warm linen and wool, a little of sweat and perfume, and strongly of expensive beeswax candles.
    Like the feast before the High Council meets, Mathilda thought.
    If you mentally substituted colorful modern tunics and hose and cotte hardis for the drab, antique Iowan costumes, and tabards for the servants′ white coats and bow ties. The occasional lidded glances were easy enough to catch, and the way factions avoided each other accidentally-on-purpose. She′d grown up in a real court, after all, where her own frowns or smiles could set feuds going. Granted, it was the court run by her mother—her father had been killed in the Protector′s War when she was ten—but the Lady Regent had known how to do things. She′d been in the Society before the Change, where the knowledge of such things was kept alive. Iowa was large, and rich, and far more populous than any of the realms around the Columbia and Willamette, or even all of them together . . .
    More than two and a half million people! A hundred and twenty thousand just in this one city!
    . . . but in some ways it was a bit old-fashioned. A good many of the older men here were actually wearing suits with jacket and tie, for example, or military uniforms based on those of the old American republic. Though more favored the bib overalls and billed feedstore cap that were a gentleman′s garb in Iowa, the mark of a Farmer or Sheriff, which was what they called knights and barons.
    And they′re running a court, but doing it badly, as if they were stumbling through an unfamiliar dance, or like children in a catechism class with a half-literate teacher. What they really need is someone to tell them how to do it properly !
    ″That dress looks absolutely gorgeous,″ Kate went on, brightening once more. ″What′s it called again?″
    ″A cotte-hardi. There′s an arcane terminology for every bit of it—this headdress is a wrapped wimple, for