Despite the splendor it wasn't a forbidding room; just right for music and dancing, or a ritual gathering, or for children to play in on a winter day and listen to a story, or for simply sitting by the fire reading in the comfort able chairs and sofas that surrounded the hearth, a bowl of hazelnuts and apples at your elbow and a cat curled up on your lap.

"They do use it when we're not here, my dear; it's a civic center and doesn't sit empty and sorrowing. And making you feel guilty so you'd come and use it more often was a large part of the intent!"

Just then a sound came from the vestibule that gave on the street door. An apprentice bard named Mabor-he was living with a family at Dun Juniper and study ing with Juniper herself, and several others-came in. He was a young man with black hair and eyes and olive brown skin; his father had been Mexican. Now he cleared his throat and straightened his plaid, face shining with excitement.

"Lady Juniper!" he said.

He was young, just seventeen, but his voice already had a trained singer's resonance. Mackenzies thought highly of bards, not least because Juniper herself had fol lowed that trade before the Change, busking and playing the RenFaire circuit. Every dun wanted one trained at her hearth, and they served as heralds and messen gers as well, and their songs nurtured the Craft. A little self importantly he went on in the formal cadence that for some reason always made Juniper sigh and roll her eyes a little:

"Emissaries from abroad, bringing the word of their king. They ask audience and guesting of the Mackenzie."

"Well, they're welcome," Juniper said. Her brows rose. "Not another cardinal, I hope?"

Nigel hid a grin. The papal nuncio had visited when he came to reestablish contact with Oregon's Catholics, and not so incidentally put an end to the schism of the Portland Protective Association's homegrown antipope. Despite being an American by birth himself, the good cardinal had found it a bit of a strain, since while Juniper was polite to a fault she was as sincere in her fashion as the ecclesiastic was in his…

"No, not a cardinal, lady." Mabor drew another breath, delighted. "I am to herald the right honorable the Count of Azay, ambassador of His Britannic Majesty, William V, called the Great, Defender of the Faith, King of Eng land, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland, King of France and Spain and his dominions beyond the seas, Ham mer of the Moors, Rex Britanniae Maioris et Imperator Occidentalis!"

Nigel's eyebrows shot up. "Good God," he said quietly.

They'd heard some news from Europe since he arrived here on a Tasmanian ship, fleeing Mad King Charles and dropping all unknowing into the War of the Eye. But no direct contact…

There were two guards in full fig by the entranceway, longbow and quiver over their backs, sword and buckler at belt, and spears with the long heads polished bright in their hands-a mistake by Sutterdown, for while Juniper loved ceremony she hated swank. Now the two snapped to attention and rapped their spear butts on the ground.

Six of the party that entered were guardsmen, one in the full plate of a man-at arms and the others longbow men in chain mail shirts and open-faced sallets. Nigel knew the gear; he'd designed the green-enameled armor himself on the Isle of Wight, that first winter while they were fighting off the hordes of starving refugees and wondering if they'd survive to the next harvest.

A tall man with a limp came through behind the soldiers; he was in riding breeches and a coat of Harris tweed, with a plain sword belt around it and an equally plain longsword whose hilt had sweat stained rawhide bindings. The man was near Nigel's own mid-sixties, countenance scored by years and turned ruddy by a youth spent under the unmer ciful sun of the hot countries. He still had a full thatch of hair, white with some gray, and his hard scarred face was dominated by a great beak of a nose above a wide thin-lipped gash of mouth and a knobby chin; the little finger on his left hand was missing. His eyes were dark green, level and watchful, marksman's eyes.

"Good God, " Nigel said, still quietly. "Tony Knolles!"

The last time they'd seen each other had been more than a decade ago, over lowered lances. Charles had still been king then, and Knolles still a strong supporter…

"Nigel!"

The aquiline face split in a smile-not much of one, but a great ear to ear grin if you knew the man, who made Nigel Loring look like an excitable Latin. Nigel stepped forward, hand outstretched; they gripped with sword callused strength and each searched the other man's face. Nigel was suddenly conscious of how he'd gone egg-bald himself except for a fringe and his mus tache, and white haired except for a few fading streaks of yellow. For the rest he was still trim and upright, even if things creaked and moved more slowly nowadays.

"Good God, Tony!" After a moment of struggling to find words: "And a count, no less!"

"His Majesty was badly advised enough to do me that honor."

Nigel shook his head again, hauling his wits together by main force. "My dear, an old friend and comrade in arms, Tony Knolles, who saved my life many times."

"And only tried to kill him once," Knolles said, bowing over her hand. "Lady Juniper."

"My husband has told me a good deal of you, Lord Anthony," she said. With an impish smile: "Both the good and the bad of it, sure."

Two small figures came through the crowd. Nigel went on:

"Our eldest daughter, Maude."

At twelve Maude was already nearly as tall as her mother's five foot-and a-bit, slender and all limbs and hands and feet, her hair a darker red, her eyes blue as Nigel's. She curtsied, solemn in her green shirt, silver buckled shoes, kilt and plaid and feathered Scots bon net. Knolles winced slightly; Maude had been the name of Nigel's first wife, Alleyne's mother. She'd been killed by the Icelandic mercenaries holding the Lorings prisoner on Charles's orders, during the rescue and escape.

"And Fiorbhinn, our youngest," he said.

"Hello, Lord Anthony." The eight year old had her mother's leaf-green eyes; her long hair was the yellow white color of ripe wheat. She gave the English emissary's hand a confident shake.

"Fiorbhinn means Truesweet," she went on, with a wide white smile. "It's the name of a famous harp. I can play the harp already! And Mom says I have perfect pitch. She knows 'cause she does too."

Nigel smiled, watching Knolles blink, and knowing that that hard-souled man of war was instantly made a slave for life.

The visitor cleared his throat. "And this is my son Robert, Lady Juniper. Robert, your godfather."

The guard commander in the suit of plate slid the visor of his sallet up. The face within was Knolles's own, minus forty-odd years and with the nose shrunk to more human proportions, though paler and freckled and with a lock of raven hair hanging down on the forehead.

Nigel shook his hand after he made his bow to Juniper-carefully, which you had to do when the other man was wearing an articulated steel gauntlet; he marveled a little, remembering the gangly child he'd known… Where did the years go?

Down into the West without returning, he thought, and added aloud, "I hope your mother's well? She was expecting when I… ah… left England."

"Mother is very well, thank you, Sir Nigel," he said, with a charming smile of his own. "And I have two younger sisters and a brother now. My brother's name is Nigel, by the way."

"Ah…" Knolles senior pulled himself together. "My credentials?"

Nigel saved him from embarrassment with a quick flick of the eyes, and he presented the ribbon-bound documents to Juniper.

She took them gravely. "Be welcome here as my guests and the guests of Clan Mackenzie, Lord Count, Lord Robert. Welcome as the voice of your king, and still more for yourself."