Ian looked up, but kept to his disguise of being mute and just nodded. Ritva felt a glow of approval; he’d picked up tradecraft very quickly indeed. The Force—it had Royal in its formal title, oddly since none of the Dominions were monarchies—was like the Rangers in that it patrolled against bandits, protected trade routes and put down the messier sorts of crime. Its military role in time of war was more conventional, though, probably because the Dominions had taken less of a beating after the Change than her part of the world. Drumheller and Moose Jaw and Minnedosa were all big, the same order of size as the PPA, they all had strong central governments, and they’d had less in the way of conflict and internal squabbling than the lands of Montival-to-be. The Dúnedain did a lot more in the way of clandestine operations.

Which means we’re a lot better at sneaking.

When the inn servant had put the baskets on the table, told them where the jakes were (without telling them they couldn’t miss it) and left, he did speak.

“You must be clean,” he said, a little teasing. “I know that it takes women longer to wash than men—”

“That’s because we actually wash, and have a better sense of smell,” Ritva said loftily.

“But forty-five minutes?”

“I went . . . exploring.”

“Ah, you got lost too!”

They both laughed. Ritva admired the way he did it, wholeheartedly but gracefully, with a hint of shyness.

Maybe I’m getting over my Big Bad Boys fixation, she thought. By Ever-Young Vána of the Blossoms, I hope so. The bad boys can be a lot of fun, but they wear. Oh, how they wear! I grant Ingolf was big and bad but not a bad boy, but Mary won him. I will never, never let her use her own special lucky coin for something important again.

Meanwhile Ian was unloading the baskets. “Nice picnic, eh?” he said.

There was crusty bread, half a dozen types of cured meat, several of cheese, a double-walled crock that kept a savory-smelling ham and bean soup warm, a salad, and a bowl of fruit, along with various accompaniments, a jug of apple juice, and two bottles of a very decent red wine she remembered from her previous trip through.

“But why not go down . . . oh, ah?”

“This is the first time we’ve had any privacy in weeks, and not been exhausted and smelly to boot, right? I thought we should . . . use it to get better acquainted. The others could start getting in as early as tonight.”

“Right. Absolutely right. Who wants a crowded common hall anyway?”

Ritva gave a long slow smile. “And you’ve never done it until you’ve done it in Elvish, believe me.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT

COUNTY OF AUREA
PORTLAND PROTECTIVE ASSOCIATION
(FORMERLY CENTRAL WASHINGTON)
HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL
(FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA)
AUGUST 5, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD