By S. M. Stirling
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Extra info for A Meeting at Corvallis: A Novel of the Change (Dies the Fire)
Banditry wasn't a very well-paying profession for most practitioners, particularly in winter. "Well armed, though," she said thoughtfully. Their crossbows were good, smoothly finished with rifle-style wood stocks and leaf-spring steel bows, and spanning cranks at their belts; the others had competently shaped yew bows; all of them had some sort of sword, most often the heavy machete-like choppers known as falchions … or as machetes, outside the Valley. Several had boiled-leather jerkins strapped with pieces of sheet metal, and a couple had bowl or kettle helmets.
Mary and Ritva turned puzzled eyes on their elders. "I bet that was written by someone over forty," Havel chortled. They turned right again and into a district where most houses were a century old or more; this part of Corvallis was laid out along a grid, and the streets were broad and tree-lined. Traffic was thick as the sunlight died, another strangeness in a world that mostly went home with the sun. Bicycles and pedi-cabs were numerous, and oxcarts and horse-drawn wagons, people on foot still more so as men and women walked home from work.
That might actually scare him off and we could avoid the war altogether. " "Ouch," Jones said, shaking his head. "You know me, Mike, I'm all for it. " Havel's fist hit the table, and a bottle of Chardonnay wavered. "Well, Christ Jesus, that's the problem! " Jones spread his hands. "You don't have to convince me, Mike! " A hesitation. " "Not a chance, in the present situation," Havel said. "The trade would do the Bearkillers good, as well as Corvallis and Portland," Jones argued. " "It would strengthen him more than us.
A Meeting at Corvallis: A Novel of the Change (Dies the Fire) by S. M. Stirling