Fred nodded. I wish I’d thought of making that comparison, but these men have been around the Clan longer than I have. The Clan at home earning a living, that is, and not just Rudi and Edain traveling through the wilds.

“Yes, they did.”

“They’re pretty good folks,” another said judiciously. “They remind me of my neighbors back home—except they’re so fucking weird, sorry, sir, but they are, and I don’t mean just that Juniper Lady who is deeply scary weird. They’re all weird, putting out milk for the fairies at the bottom of the garden and stuff and talking to trees and animals and going dancing through the woods buck-naked with antlers on their heads and I don’t know what else. But pretty damn friendly to us, considering everything, though.”

“Some of the girls are real friendly sometimes,” a man said dreamily, and that brought a general laugh.

“Right,” Fred agreed. “But back home, instead of keeping public land in reserve for new farms, Martin is handing out vacant tracts in great big chunks to his cronies and supporters. Not just grazing land like Dad let the ranchers keep, but good land that could support dozens of families. Your families, someday, if you’re not in line to inherit a farm from your parents.”

“Cronies and supporters like Hardass Hargood’s family,” someone muttered. “I actually heard the son of a bitch say they deserved it because of all they sacrificed to serve the Republic, like I’m here ’cause it’s so much fun? What the fuck are we, leftover mutton hash?”

He subsided at an elbow in his ribs, but there were nods at that too.

Fred struck the argument home: “And he’s assigning the Deseret refugees to work it for them. Temporarily . . . until the Fifth of Never, right? And there are these new laws about what women can do—that’s CUT stuff, and no mistake. He’s not using them, they’re using him. Right, now put all that together, and who is it who’s really likely to have killed Dad . . . the General?”

Another silence, deep and prolonged; men were exchanging looks, squads unconsciously drawing together. Squad deep was Boise slang for people you can trust. Another man spoke:

“Right, sir, what do you want?”

“I think I’d make a good President,” Fred said.

I really think I would. And I know for a fact that Virginia would dance on my face in her cowboy boots if I said otherwise. But I think I would . . . Dad was a great man but his head was stuck in the old world. This one’s a different place. Without the machinery, the people are different, and that’s not counting stuff like the CUT and the Sword of the Lady.