Read Online The Given Sacrifice by S. M. Stirling - Free Book Online

old days.”
    He nodded out the pointed-arch window that lit the dayroom. That looked south across
     the courtyard to the glittering gold-tipped black height of the Onyx Tower, the Lord
     Protector’s old lair.
    Tiphaine snorted slightly, but Lioncel thought it had a wealth of meaning.
    “Granted Norman blossomed into a tyrant’s tyrant when he got the opportunity, but
     he wasn’t
all
bad,” Conrad said a little defensively.
    Conrad of Odell had also been a fixture of Lioncel’s life—besides his duties, his
     Countess and her daughters were good friends of Lioncel’s mother—but at times like
     this you remembered that the unofficial uncle who’d played “bear” with you in front
     of the hearth had also been the Lord Protector’s right-hand man. He was beginning
     to suspect that being disconcerted that way by sudden shifts in perspective was another . . .
     disconcerting thing about being his age.
    Mother told me once she’d heard from the Countess of Odell that the Armingers stood
     by him when he got those burns on his face, way back before the Change.
    “Ninety percent absolutely rotten bad,” Tiphaine said shortly.
    “Except that we’d all have been gnawed bones without him.
I
sure as shit had no earthly idea what to do when the Change hit and the machines
     stopped, and he
did
. Ah, well, it’s ancient history. I think we’ve wrapped up all the essentials and
     you’ve had a chance to look over the replacements we’re sending forward. They’re eager
     enough.”
    “They’re ironhead macho imbeciles who need to be bled, to correct the balance of their
     humors,” she said crisply. “Which I will see to. Not to mention learning that there’s
     more to war than couching a lance and sticking spurs in a horse’s ass.”
    “Better to restrain the noble steed than prod the reluctant mule. Give my regards
     to Rudi . . . His Majesty . . . when you’re back in the cow-country.”
    “The Prophet’s men did a good cloud-of-locusts imitation out there to slow pursuit.
     It’s
gnawed bones
country, since you brought up the phrase, with cows pretty scarce. The buzzards there
     have to carry their own rations,” she said.
    “Speaking of which, here’s the grant,” he said, pulling a last formidable-looking
     document out of a folder and tossing it in front of her. “That’ll keep you travelling
     out there the rest of your life!”
    “Joy,” she said. “Thank you . . . I suppose.”
    “Hey, it’s free! That’s always a bargain.”
    “Like getting fifteen million tons of undelivered Arizona sand for sixpence ha’penny,”
     she said dryly. “Don’t work yourself to death while I’m gone, Conrad. I’d rather snog
     wolverines in a confessional booth than be saddled with the job you’ve got
now
.”
    The Count of Odell picked up the ebony cane that leaned against his wheelchair, tapped
     it on the marble tiles of the floor and waved it forward as he cried:
    “En avant!”
    There was a ripple of bows as his squire wheeled him out.
    “Clear this up, Tasin,” Lioncel said, when nobody was left but the Grand Constable’s
     household.
    The senior page—he was Tasin Jones, one of the younger brothers of Count Chaka of
     Molalla—slid forward and helped the younger pair clear the remains of lunch. His square
     brown face was intent; he’d entered the d’Ath household barely six months ago. Lioncel
     had been a page himself until last August, and he remembered how anxious you could
     get at the thought something would go wrong while you were attending the lords. It
     would be worse for Tasin, since he hadn’t grown up with the Grand Constable, just
     knew her fearsome reputation.
    He was shaping well, though, now that he’d gotten over homesickness. Lioncel gave
     him a discreet wink and a thumbs-up when the job was done, and got a brief broad smile
     in exchange.
    The plates held the remains of a lunch of cold spiced pork loin, a long loaf of white
     bread, sharp