A Touch of Power (A Cat Among Dragons Book 5) Read online

  Something about the Faire began gnawing on Eastman. The farther they went among the tents, booths and stages, the more uncomfortable he grew, and he began shifting into patrol mode, searching every shadow for an attacker and sizing up the people as they passed. A group of re-enactors in chainmail and carrying halberds trooped by, followed by a rotund gent in Franciscan brown, and Eastman started edging away, seeking partial concealment by a stack of saddles and horse blankets.

  “Stand down, John,” Rachel murmured in a quiet voice. “There’ll be no pogroms here.”

  Surprised, he stumbled in mid-stride before catching himself. Eastman checked his shields, relieved to find them up and firm. Rachel tugged his arm and they turned off the main way, passing between a tent selling jewelry and an herbalist’s stand. Once out of traffic, he did stop, making himself relax as she pretended to re-tie a shoelace. “Is that what it is?”

  She stood again and shook straw out of her skirt hem. “I don’t know. Is it? You shifted into enemy-territory mode after we read the notice of King John’s visit.”

  Eastman thought about it as he watched a woman leading a donkey past the back of the tent row. The royal court at this faire included King John and Richard the Lionheart. He’d grown up hearing stories about the evil King John and how he’d robbed England’s Jews and driven them out of the kingdom. Just thinking of his grandmother’s tales made his heart race: she lived through pogroms in Russia and incorporated her memories into her vividly realistic descriptions of English history. “It may be. I’ll try to relax.” If she was an untrained empath like Rachel, and I wasn’t shielding, could she have implanted her own memories, trying to protect us? He smoothed the hairs that had begun standing on the back of his neck.

  Rachel beamed up at him. “You really should, John. This isn’t a classroom, for heaven’s sake, you don’t need to be correcting everyone’s account. Just play along and enjoy the lovely day. That’s what I’m going to do,” and she winked her good eye.

  They returned to their stroll and after some work, Eastman managed to relax. The falconry show helped. He’d always wondered what it would be like to have a falcon of his own, not that he ever could. But he appreciated the effort and time it took, and admired the man’s way with the birds, especially after he lifted the eagle-owl. Eastman’s shoulder ached just watching the huge bird. Finished with the birds-of-prey, the falconer let a crow walk up his arm and perch on his shoulder. Rachel shivered and Eastman tapped on her shields.

  <>

  So they each had their own irrational fears, he smiled to himself. Thus encouraged, he let her convince him to buy them cider. It took some work to keep her moving as they walked past the booth selling smoked turkey legs. “You’ll spoil dinner,” he teased. Rachel fluttered her eyelashes at him. “And you don’t want greasy fingers if you’re going to be looking at lovelies.” They’d passed two booths selling costumes and shawls and each time her steps lagged.

  That perked her up considerably, enough so that one of the Faire denizens, a shepherd, chuckled as he walked past. “Aye, good sir, she be like me wife. Costlier every year, mark my words, if I might be so bold.”

  “You have the truth of it,” Eastman sighed, playing along. Rachel harrumphed, flicked the hem of her skirt at the men, and flounced off. Eastman gave a “what-can-you-do” shrug and the other man laid his finger beside his nose, winking. Then he went on his way and Eastman hurried to catch up with his advisor.

  A musician with a guitar strolled past and smiled at Rachel. She smiled back, polite but not encouraging, and he slowed, as if studying her, before moving on. She watched him go, perhaps admiring the cut of his costume. Eastman took her arm, steering her away from a jewelry booth. <> she sent.

  <> They stopped at the blacksmith’s shop, watching the demonstration in progress of making chainmail.

  <>

  Eastman started to protest but caught her wink just in time. <>

  <>

  By the time the guitarist began his act, Rachel and General Johnny found no other obvious sources of mischief, aside from the official ones. The guitarist, Wade Poorman, belonged to the traveling folk group from the States, and the two investigators made a point to catch the act. They took places at the back of the audience as a fiddler finished his set.

  Poorman, smiled and bowed before taking his seat on the stage. He wore a blue shirt and faded brown pants, and combed a flop of light brown hair off his forehead as he settled the guitar onto his knee. He had rugged good looks and an easy smile—Eastman could see why he might catch ladies’ eyes. Poorman began with some lively tunes, then a setting of “Scarborough Fair.” Eastman gritted his teeth. Why does every folk singer think they have to do that one and “Barbara Allen?” Then the lanky baritone began “Shady Grove,” and Rachel leaned forward, intent.

  “Shady Grove, my little love, shady grove I know/ Shady Grove, my little love,/ I’m bound for Shady Grove,” Poorman began, picking an elaborate harmony on his guitar. Rachel felt the power seeking her and she thinned her outer shields even more. As she’d guessed, Poorman directed his Gift through music, as she did, and she tasted his hints and suggestions. Why did she stay with a skinflint?

  “Lips as red as the reddest rose/hair of the deepest brown/you are the darlin’ of my heart/Stay till the sun goes down.” And she could stay, because he’d keep her company long after the man at her side had gone.

  “Wish I had a jug of wine/ And meat enough for two/ I’d serve them up to Shady Grove/ We’d love the whole night through./ Shady Grove, my little love . . .” The lust in the sending made Rachel want to fan herself. “Went to see my Shady Grove, she was standing by the door/ Shoes and stockings in her hand, little bare feet on the floor. Shady Grove . . .”

  Bloody amateur, stick with hints instead of beating me over the head, why don’t you? But she acted as if his tuning had worked, and he turned his attention elsewhere, sure he’d have her attentions, and her money, for the rest of the faire.

  She felt him shifting as the music flowed into a reel called “Money Musk.” Rachel admired his skill and control. But she also felt his demands and the false sounds as he channeled his Gift through the music. Poorman played well, but not as well as he made you think he did. Someone resisted his push, blocking by instinct alone, and Poorman turned his attention to the man, singing a song about a miser and forcing his victim to empty his wallet into the upturned hat at the edge of the stage. Then Poorman turned his attention to another young woman in the crowd.

  “Will you go, lassie, go/ and we’ll all go together to pluck wild mountain thyme/ From among the bloomin’ heather/ Will ye go, my lassie, go?” He put the full force of his Gift behind his call and Rachel felt herself leaning in, ready to let him draw her to his side. Oh no, enough’s enough.

  She raised her shield and began humming along. “Link to me, please,” she hummed at Eastman, “He’s trying to hurt someone,” and she pointed to Poorman’s latest target.

  Eastman obliged. He’d felt something pounding on his shields and liked it not one whit. He could see a young woman near the front of the audience turning red and then pale, then flushing again as she began edging forward on the bench. She seemed reluctant to join Poorman but unable to stop herself. Rachel began drawing energy from him and Eastman opened his Gift to her, giving her a boost to counter Poorman’s strength. Rachel’s voice soared up in a wordless counterpoint, cutting through Poorman’s power. The audience seemed not to notice the duet, but the Poorman’s target leaned back, shaking her head and blinking as Rachel broke the glamour.

  The song ended, and before Poorman could try again, Rachel’s voice rose again, a little louder, and she started, “The
Faithless Lover,” a duet about a lying sailor. Poorman smiled and joined her as if it were part of the act, trying to overpower her song, but she blocked him. He turned his full attention back onto her and he slashed at her, tossing his verses like weapons.

  Her eyes narrowed, and on the last verse she, well, Eastman would have called it fired at the American, “Constant as the moon he was, as faithful as a cat/Had a girl in every port/ What do you think of that?/ Oh my lying, faithless rover/ Sailing o’er the main,/As steady as a raindrop/ And he’ll never come again.” A burst of power hit the guitarist’s shields and he staggered.

  A guitar string snapped as Poorman plucked too hard and he fumbled the chord, recovering with the next strum. But he’d lost his focus. The music remained good but the glamour vanished, and the crowd began grumbling. They liked Rachel’s version better. Eastman felt her fading her Gift, easing out of the song and hinting that Poorman’s next song might be more to their taste.

  Rachel didn’t want to steal the show or attract too much attention. She just wanted Poorman to stop. Off to the side of the audience, an older man, a farmer by the looks of him, caught her eye and nodded. She felt a hint of power and authority from him, and he too turned his attention on Poorman. Rachel tossed the battle to her new ally and released Eastman’s link, then closed her own shields and let the humming die away.

  They waited until the next music group began before leaving. <> Eastman began.

  Rachel gave a little headshake. <> She hummed, then sang under her breath, “We’re sailing past the river at Liverpool, heave away, Santy Anno,” and he caught a glimpse of a press gang waiting for a luckless sailor. <>

  “Authorities?” Now he shook his head. “I don’t want to know.”

  “No, you don’t and I still want a turkey leg. And you need to eat, since I drew your strength.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him again.

  He smiled and bought her the turkey leg. He found something else more to his taste and they ate in companionable quiet. A pint of ale gave him a much rosier outlook on things and he reached for her hand.

  She pulled it back. “It’s greasy,” she explained. <> She hummed a verse of “Greenwood Sidie O” and sent him a glimpse of her without her makeup. The last little thread of temptation snapped. <>

  Eastman stared at her, then began chuckling. “Good point. I just got the last of the oil-change out of this shirt.”

  That night he wondered about Rachel. He’d felt revulsion at the picture she sent of herself, but not his revulsion. No, the feelings had been hers. That had broken the glamour: his surprise at the bitter pain and self-loathing she felt when she saw herself in a mirror. What happened, Commander Na Gael? Or do I want to know? He forced himself to put the question out of his mind and go to sleep.

  At the end of the building, Rachel curled up in her bed-nest and stared up at the ceiling, humming “Greenwood Sidie-O” again and reminding herself of the limits of power.

  Calendar Whirl (1984)

  “There’s no reason to change things.”

  “Well, as it stands, it’s discriminating against everyone who is not C of E.”

  “Besides, only half the letters change. The others just stand for something different using the same letters,” a third voice opined.

  Commander “Rachel Na Gael” poked her head into the room jokingly referred to as the officers’ lounge. “Is this a private fight or can anyone join?”

  Captain Elizabeth FitzWarren shook her head. “It depends. Are you Church or chapel?”

  Rachel ventured into the dark, warm room. “Come again? I don’t follow football.”

  Two of the lieutenants looked offended and Lt. Rahoul Khan smiled. FitzWarren rolled her eyes. “We’re talking religion and the calendar, Rachel. Are you Church of England or something else?”

  Um, good question. “Something else, most likely.”

  “Only Yanks think of football as religion,” a man’s voice announced from over by the sideboard.

  “Scuze’ me, mate,” Capt. Tom Shepherd drawled. “We Aussies have been known to invoke the Lord over a close match.”

  “Well, the Celtics won’t be making the finals and Arsenal is a bunch of overpaid prima donnas, so that’s enough,” FitzWarren sniffed. She continued, despite some rude sounds and protests, “Rachel, we were talking about the proposal to re-work the dating system to make it less Euro-centric.”

  “Bwa, ha, ha,” Rachel’s laughter exploded into the lounge, startling the humans. She caught her breath. “Sorry. That has to be the single stupidest reason for changing a time-keeping or dating system that I’ve yet heard of.”

  The humans stared at each other. Lt. David Unger spluttered, “Wait . . . what? What do you mean, Commander, ‘the stupidest reason you’ve heard’?”

  “May I?” She folded her tail out of the way and flopped into a chair. “You say someone wants to change the calendar because the current system is too European.”

  Unger nodded. “Yes. Non-Christians are offended by being forced to use ‘before Christ’ and ‘year of Our Lord’ for dates.”

  “Hold up, there,” Shepherd protested. “A.D. stands for ‘after death’.”

  Lt. Khan held up one hand. “Ah, no, sir, anno Domine is Latin for ‘the year of Our Lord.’ We just translate ante Christi as before Christ, so it is BC instead of AC.”

  Which is good, because English is too confusing by half as it is. Not that German’s much better, Rachel groused to herself. “All right, so people who do not worship the Christian deity are offended by a dating system that refers to that deity. What is the proposed solution?”

  “I like years since the founding of Jerusalem,” Unger said. “It is clear, is not based on a religion per se, and although it’s from a lunar calendar, we have intercalary days so the seasons stay where they should be.”

  “But only Jewish people commonly use that system today. That’s going to roil the Muslims and Chinese,” a female lieutenant, one Rachel still didn’t know on sight, protested. “Since Islam is the largest religion on Earth, we should probably use After Haj, but keep the January one start date.”

  Shepherd snorted. “Lt. Smith, dubious population numbers aside, Islam follows a floating lunar calendar. Look, this year, Ramadan was in June. Last year it fell in February. That’s not going to help anyone keep track of events and dates. You can’t jam a solar calendar into a lunar year or vice versa.”

  Unger made a “harumpf” sound and Capt. FitzWilliam told Rachel, “The proposed change is from Before Christ and Anno Domine to Before Common Era and After Common Era. Same zero point, same months and days.”

  Lt. Stephanie Smith refused to back down. “That’s still unacceptable, ma’am. You are assuming that there’s a common era, and there isn’t. European domination of the Western and Southern Hemispheres didn’t even start until 1700, if you were to call that a common era.”

  “Which does not change my point,” Rada announced with a wicked grin. “Not wanting to offend someone is a foolish reason to change a dating system, unless that person has a life-or-death grip on your throat.”

  “So what is a valid reason to change, Commander?” Smith pressed.

  “Losing nine tenths of your population and having to abandon half of your planet.”

  Rachel counted ten pair of bulging eyes and heard several gulps. “Ah, yes, I can see that might be a memorable event,” Khan managed to squeak.

  “Being conquered by an extra-planetary force and then defeating them after several centuries also worked. That system translates to Before Conquest, After Conquest, and Post-Liberation, to use your terms.” Rachel rolled her head to ease her stiff neck.

/>   “What system do you use, Commander?” It was Smith again.

  Rachel shrugged. “Whatever the locals use. If you mean how do I count years, I don’t anymore. I’m living before I was born, so I suppose if someone wanted to get fussy they could count down, say, make this the year 4451 Before Rachel.”

  A few of the officers laughed. A few others, including Shepherd, seemed concerned for the xenologist’s sanity. Khan shrugged in turn. “That makes as much sense as any dating system does, ma’am. My Mother dates everything family-related that happened in the past thirty years to before or after the time her kitchen caught on fire.”

  “There you go. Date everything ‘before kitchen fire’ and ‘after kitchen fire.’ Completely un-offensive and totally unrelated to any previous system,” Rachel pronounced as she got up. “Excuse me, I have to go make sense of the changes in carbon 14 dating versus krypton/argon dating for archaeological materials.” She stalked back out, leaving a blend of consternation and amusement in her wake (as usual).

  Three weeks later, she crossed paths with Brigadier General Jonathon “Johnny” Eastman outside the computer simulation lab. “I understand there was a warm debate over dates in the officer’s lounge a few weeks back,” he half-asked.

  “If you refer to calendar dates, yes, sir. What did your government decide, by-the-by?”

  “Queen Sophie and the rest of government will stay with the BC/AD system, as will most of northern Europe. The French still want to use the start of the French Revolution as year zero, but,” he made a half-snort and half-sigh.