She shrugged. The man nodded, a little sympathy softening his hard scarred face.

“You’re not the only one on the road. The good Sisters do what they can, but times is hard hereabouts too. All the younger menfolk gone with the call-up, and fewer hands to do the work and taxes higher than ever so the Ranchers have trouble payin’ the ones they do have.”

She looked at the wounded hand; it was healed, but the mutilation must have been fairly recent from the purple flush still around it. He shrugged. “Damn Protectorate shellbacks got me at Pendleton last year, the knightboys. Anyway, tell ’em up at the convent that Seven-Finger Jack passed you through.”

She nodded respectfully, and walked her horse forward as he reined aside.

Rudi would have left Idaho alone if Martin Thurston hadn’t allied with the CUT and attacked us, she thought. He is a wicked man, a parricide and a bad ruler and he must be put down, but I wish we didn’t have to kill and maim honest farmers and herdsmen to do it. If we can bring all these lands into the new High Kingdom and under the King’s Peace, people can live safely by their own firesides and reap what they sow. Now that’s worth fighting for!

“Even worth dying for,” she murmured very quietly to herself. “Though I’d rather not. It’s a fine summer’s day and I’m young yet.”

She rode past a gate. There were tents up in what was usually a pasture, and more in the orchard beyond; their occupants seemed to be mostly women and children. Closer to the main buildings of the abbey several long sheds were under construction, with work-crews pounding earth down between the moveable frames and trimmed logs and shingles waiting to make rafters and roof.

One of the workers looked up and then climbed down the ladder to walk over towards her; Ritva politely dismounted and even more politely hung her saber from the saddle over the bow-scabbard. The greeter was a nun, not much older than Ritva and with her dark robe kirted up to her knees, showing practical denim pants and boots beneath. Her sleeves were rolled back from hands thick with mud, and more splashed on her cheeks and her off-white headdress.

“Seven-Finger Jack said to tell you he’d passed me through,” Ritva said, and gave her cover story again.

“I’m Sister Regina,” the nun said. “Welcome to St. Hilda’s! I’d shake hands, but—”

A laugh, and a wave of a capable-looking muddy paw.

“What can we do to help you, child of God?”

“Ah . . . I’m looking for a place I can sleep safe and not be bothered ’cause I’m female while I look for work,” she said. “I’m more than willing to pitch in with anything here, too. I can rope and brand, do any sort of ranch job with stock or crops, milk and churn, spin and weave. I’m not afraid of sweat and I’m not picky.” She put on a scowl. “I tried the army, but they’ve got this fool new regulation against women, even if they can pass the tests and volunteer. Didn’t used to be like that in the old General’s time! Not for the cavalry, at least.”