Kingdom River Read online

  "Oh, Weather..." Unbuttoning canvas. Then the Boston girl's sleek head, white face. "It's the leader of all!" It was difficult to find her pupils in eyes so dark. The wind spattered her face with tiny flecks of ice.

  "A freezing 'leader of all.'"

  "A moment." More unbuttoning, then the flap drawn aside.

  "Ice-rain!"

  For a moment, Sam saw no one who could have said it. Then the girl's little creature moved down the tent-pole, opened its mouth, and said again, "Ice-rain!"

  It was the first time Sam had seen the thing — known to all the camp, of course, despite some effort to conceal it — as more than shadowy motion in its basket. More, proved unpleasant.

  "Webster loves ice-rain," Patience said, closing the entrance flap behind them. "He loves what hawks hate."

  "But you haven't sent him flying." Sam brushed meltwater off his cloak.

  "Not yet." She stood, observing him. "Are you going to fight the Kipchaks now, or wait? Fight seriously, I mean, not these little scootings back and forth across the border."

  "Well... I would prefer the little scootings back and forth."

  "Please sit; my tent is your tent.... So, you are going to fight him seriously — and would have to be allied with Middle Kingdom."

  Sam lifted his sword's harness from his back, then shrugged his cloak off and laid it along the tent's canvas floor. He sat on the girl's cot, the sword upright before him, resting his folded hands on its pommel. "We're discussing the possibility, Ambassadress."

  The girl clapped her hands together. "It's going to be a war!" Couldn't have seemed more pleased.

  "I would appreciate it — the army would appreciate it — if you could delay a report of that possibility. Delay it... three weeks? Four?"

  "And why should I do that, Captain-General?"

  "Well, you've already delayed sending your…?"

  "Mailman. Webster is a Mailman."

  "Ah... well, you haven't yet sent him to report our cavalry's preparations to go north. And there was no disguising that from someone already in camp."

  Patience stared at him, head slightly turned. Perfect pale little face. Perfect teeth. "I haven't sent him — for my own reasons."

  "Then might you also… pause, before reporting the possibility of a larger movement to the Boston people in Map-McAllen? Again, for your own reasons."

  The Boston girl smiled. It seemed to Sam to be a smile in layers, like a bridal cake — but one baked in sweet and bitter layers. "You believe that pride is my fault? Wishing to be ambassadress to greater and greater?"

  "I hope so."

  "But, milord, New England doesn't want you winning — you and that fierce Queen — against the so-brilliant and, I believe, very handsome young Khan." No smile now.

  "I know. But New England — Boston — is going to be disappointed, and will have to await a later occasion. If I live, and the Kingdom fights with us, Toghrul will probably lose."

  "And you say that — why?"

  "Because he's certain of victory... and victory's never certain." Sam stood with his sword in his hand, bent to pick up his cloak, and swung it to his shoulders. "Also, the Khan enjoys war. I don't. His enjoyment is a weakness."

  "I see."

  "And, in exchange for three or four weeks of silence — your little friend not flying to Map-McAllen — you can come with our army to the River war, and see everything. You can come and hover above the dying, like Lady Weather."

  "Mmmm..." Patience thrust out her lower lip like a child. "You are a bad man, to tempt me."

  Her little monster toed the tent-pole where he clung, and called, "Weather."

  ... Outside, in darkness, Sam trudged a long diagonal of freezing mud behind the Boston girl's tent, over to the next setup's small, canvased toilet trench. A Light Infantry corporal, one of Margaret's Headquarters people, sat behind the screen, balanced on the poop-pole and peering through a little gap in the rigged canvas. A great horned owl, huge golden eyes furious under soaked feathers, shifted on his right wrist with a soft jingle of jess-bells.

  The corporal stood up. "Sir."

  "Sorry to stick you with this duty, Barney. She probably won't be sending her creature tonight. Probably won't be sending him at all."

  "If she does, sir, Elliot'll hear it fly, and go kill it."

  The owl, Elliot, hissed softly at its name, and fluffed its feathers.

  "Who has the daytime, now?"

  "Elmer Page, sir. Civilian. He's got a hunting red-tail."

  "Okay. In the morning, tell Citizen Page that his help is much appreciated. — And Corporal, remind him politely to keep silent about it."

  "Sir."

  Sam walked down to the tent. Finding the entrance flap unbuttoned, he set it aside, said, "May I?" and ducked in.

  "Milord." Neckless Peter, in a hooded brown robe too big for him, stood up from behind a small camp desk.

  "Sit," Sam said, set his sword against the tent's wall, and let his cloak fold to the floor. "What are you reading?"

  "Please…" The old man gestured to his cot. "I was writing, sir. A record... a memoir of our doings."

  "Well..." Sam sat on Peter's cot, and stretched to ease his back. "Well, if you're troubling to do that, you may as well write the truth. No use wasting the work on inaccuracies."

  "The truth, sir. Yes."

  "Sit, Peter. Sit. And let me thank you for the use of your toilet trench. An inconvenience, but necessary."

  "I understand. And the watchers have courteously stood aside for my necessities."

  "Still, my thanks.... We're going to have a dinner, Peter, at the fort. In... oh, about a glass. I'd like you to come over. Any guard will direct you to officers' mess — one of those all too appropriate Warm-time names."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Peter, smile for me. You're not on the menu."

  The little man smiled. "But perhaps your officers would prefer I not come."

  "My officers' preferences, I think, we can set aside in favor of good advice from you. And, by the way, I won't permit questions about Toghrul Khan that might offend your honor as his teacher."

  The little man sat looking at Sam — a librarian's regard, as if Sam were a copybook that might prove interesting. "There are… there are two things that may prove useful, and that Toghrul would not mind my telling you."

  "Yes...?"

  "First, I've seen that you and your people — officers and soldiers — are friends."

  "Not always, Peter. But usually, yes."

  "Toghrul Khan has no friends."

  "Mmm…. A disadvantage, when friends might be needed. An advantage, when friends might be lost."

  "That's so, of course, sir. And second, I believe you are sometimes afraid. The Khan, however, is afraid of nothing and no one."

  "Now that's very useful. Very much worth knowing."

  "Yes, so it seemed to me."

  "Then..." Sam bent to pick up his cloak, stood to fasten its catch at his throat. "We'll see you at dinner?"

  The old man got up from behind his desk. "Yes, milord."

  "'Sir.' Or 'Sam,' if you prefer."

  "Sir."

  "And bring an appetite, Peter. It'll be army food, but plenty."

  "I will."

  "By the way" — Sam paused at the tent's entrance — "since you're now in our councils. I'm sending Howell Voss north, with all our cavalry assembled. North into Texas. First, as a counterblow to the Khan's harassment across the Bravo to the west.... And second, for a more important reason."

  "Heavens," Neckless Peter said — a perfect use of that wonderful old word. "A 'counterblow.' Toghrul will find that... interesting."

  "So I hope," Sam said, set the tent-flap aside with his scab-barded sword, and ducked out into sleet become snow.

  * * *

  An Entry — which, I suppose, must be only a footnote to my history of North Map-Mexico and its Captain-General. In his person, the young man represents his land and people so well that that alone may be his guaran
tee of command. Young, strong — certainly ferocious, but never, I think, wantonly, carelessly. A fierce shepherd of the mountain shepherds' country.

  He sat on the edge of my cot, and the light of my lamp went to him so he seemed outlined, vibrating with energy to be released as, supposedly, did the internal engines of wheel-cars on Warm-times' hard black roads.

  A sturdy, broad-shouldered young man, sandy hair cropped short and shaved at his neck — looking very much like a countryman come to a fair to wrestle for prizes. A prosperous young countryman though marked by harsh weather, dressed in good cloth, soft leathers, fine boots. His forearms thick as posts, his large hands as fat with muscle as most men's fists.

  He sat, elbows on his knees, and spoke to me — welcomed me, really, into his close company. A closeness likely to cause me difficulties with Eric Lauder....

  What marked him commander? The light that seemed to go to him was surely only my attention. So, his calm... yes. A readiness to act — certainly that; when he wears his long sword, its grip hovers over his right shoulder like an odd impatient demon, close enough to whisper in his ear.

  It seems to me, considering, that the marker of his command lies in the great division, a canyon's space, between the young man as plainly seen — intelligent, forthright, absolutely capable — and the infinitely subtle expression in his eyes. Eyes the color of those semiprecious stones comprised of mixtures of light brown, light green, and light yellow, seen sometimes in streams run down from the mountains of Map-California.

  In his eyes was nothing forthright or simple, but rather complication, inquiry, examination… and an odd affection — perhaps for me, perhaps for everyone.

  When he left, I sat as one sits after reading an important copybook, of which only a portion has been understood.

  CHAPTER 12

  "Get that damn rat off the meat!"

  Elvin, quick for a dying old man, picked up a roll and threw it down the table. It missed Butler's dog — a yapping single-handful — and hit Sam as he was carving. The mutton seemed tenderer than usual, and had little bits of pepper stuck in it here and there. Oswald-cook grown enamored of southern spices, after cooking a thousand dull kettles of Brunswick slumgul.

  "Don't hurt my Poppy!" Phillip Butler wore ground-glass imperial spectacles held to his eyes on thin, twisted wires that curled behind his ears. He looked over the spectacles more often than through them. Short, gray-bearded, he seemed more a children's tutor than a colonel of Heavy Infantry.

  Poppy scurried down the table with a mutton scrap in tiny jaws, jumped a platter, and leaped down into Butler's lap. "There, Candy-lamb," the colonel said, looking still wearied by the five-day ride from Hermosillo Camp to Better-Weather.

  "What's this about Howell going up into Texas," he'd said to Sam that afternoon, "and what nonsense are you up to, sir?"

  "Serious nonsense, Phil."

  Sam stooped, found the roll on the floor, then threw it back, sidearm. The brothers leaned apart so the roll flew between them, and Sam went back to carving mutton — cutting Ned's portion into small pieces, for one-handed eating. Oswald-cook had put many little peppers in the meat.... Sam handed the loaded pewter plates to Margaret to pass down the long, narrow table. They were eating in a room of stone walls; ground floor in the fort, therefore no windows.

  Around the table were all those close to him — except Portia-doctor, still with the wounded at Clinic, and Charmian, already gone west to annoy the Khan's people come over the border.

  Margaret sat to his left, looking somewhat harried, preoccupied. Below her, Howell, looming eye-patched over his plate. Then Phil Butler, then Ned, eating one-handed and looking grim. The Rascob brothers at the end of the table, backs to the iron stove — called a Franklin, after some Warm-time person. And up the other side, Eric, who seemed annoyed, then Charles, then the little librarian, shy and silent, on Sam's right.

  His friends, and only family... though there'd been others through the years. From the Sierra, and later. Paul Ortiz... Lucy... John Ott. All dead. Paul killed at Tonichi. Lucy caught by imperials, raped, then burned to death tied to the Jesus tree in the temple at Malpais. And John Ott lost for nothing, wasted for what had seemed a useful notion.

  "I'm glad I'm dying," Elvin said through his bandanna, as if he'd mind-read Sam's thoughts. "Better death, than these fucking dinners with those dogs!"

  Jaime elbowed him. "Be quiet."

  "Don't tell me to be quiet." Elvin, his plate arrived, settled to mutton and potatoes, tucking forkfuls under a flap of bandanna to prove his good appetite.

  The plates went round. Sam sliced and served, Margaret passed... and with thanks to Lady Weather or Mountain Jesus by those who cared to give it, they ate spiced mutton, broken potatoes with mutton gravy, and broccoli steamed with garlic. They ate this main course quickly and in silence, from campaign habit... then took second helpings for the same reason.

  Margaret got up from the table-bench twice to go round, pour barley beer for them. She bent beside Elvin to whisper in his ear. "You don't have to eat what you don't want, Old Sweetheart."

  "Mind your own business," Elvin said, then put down his knife and two-tine fork — like all their mess silver, a spoil from God-Help-Us. "I've had enough. Those little rats of Phil's have spoiled my appetite, running around the damn table."

  "You can have some custard, El," Jaime said.

  "You have some fucking custard."

  ... When — after the last of mutton, almost the last of potatoes and broccoli — the custard bowl was passed with a cruet of honey, conversation came round with it.

  "Anything at the races, Howell?" Charles and Howell both placed long-running wagers on the races at El Sauz — though betting only with civilians.

  "I won on Barbershears, Charles. I'm sorry, pigeon said Snowflake didn't show."

  "Surprise me," Charles said. "Amaze me. A horse with three first finishes — and for me, no show."

  Ned was eating a dish of chicken-egg custard with his left wrist's bandaged stump held carefully away from the table's edge. "Lesson, Charles — don't bet on white horses. Does anybody here know of any white horse winning consistently? There's something wrong with their bones… more white a horse has on his hide, the more easily broken down."

  "Silver," the little librarian said, the first thing he'd said at dinner.

  "What?"

  "The Warm-time horse," Neckless Peter said. "Hi-yo Silver was extraordinary."

  "Oh…. Well, Warm-times." Ned poured honey on his dish. "Different breeding."

  Sam listened to horse talk for a while, then set his beer-jack down, pushed his custard dish aside. "I'm sorry," he said, "to break the rule of no war conversation at mess."

  There were several small sounds of metal on oak, as knives and forks were put down. The duller taps of horn spoons.... Margaret stood and went to the dining-room door, by the weapons rack.

  "Empty corridor," she said, "except for two of Charles' silent people on guard. One dog. Louis."

  "Louis?"

  "The dog, Sam. Name's Louis."

  "Okay.... What's said here, is not repeated." Sam waited for nods. "You all know that Howell's going north into Map-Texas."

  "With all the cavalry we've got."

  "That's right, Ned. Picking up the divisions on his way. Every mount, every man and woman."

  "And if he loses those people? — Excuse me, Howell. But what if all those people are lost?"

  "Then, Ned," Sam said, "we go for a swim in Sewer Creek. So Howell is ordered not to lose those people."

  "Takes care of that," Howell said, and cut a small chew of tobacco.

  " — Also Howell, when you reach Map-Fort Stockton, kill what fighting men you can, of course, and any women who fight beside them, but otherwise, harm no women or children."

  "That's tender, Sam." Howell tucked the tobacco into his lower lip. "Tender…. But why?"

  "Because, in the future, I want the Khan's troopers fighting only for him, not for their families
' lives."

  "Good policy," the little librarian said, then closed his mouth when the others looked at him.

  "But bad policy" — Eric drummed his fingers on the table — "bad policy to have one here who was the Khan's... and still may be."

  "My Second-mother, Catania," Sam said, "found Neckless Peter to be a good friend, and honest. Is there anyone now in North Map-Mexico with better judgment in these matters?"

  Sam waited through what Warm-time copybooks called 'a pregnant pause.' A small gray moth, alive past its season, fluttered at a hanging lamp.

  "... None I know of," Eric said. "Librarian, I apologize."

  "Unnecessary," Neckless Peter said. "A chief of intelligence should act the part."

  "Okay. Charles, any problem with the staging of remounts — any problem with payments, with moving the herds up the line?"

  "Lots of problems, Sam. Lots of angry ranchers. But your horses will be there, Howell."

  "Eric?"

  "Sam, fodder's already wagoned and waiting. Hay and grain at Ocampo and La Babia. Rations, horseshoes, spare tack, sheepskin blankets for the horses. Sheepskin mitts, cloaks, overboots, and sleep-sacks for the troopers. Ten of Portia's people mounted to accompany with medical kits and horse stretchers."

  "All costing an absolute fortune," Charles said.

  "And only the first expense, Charles."

  "Meaning what, Sam?"

  "Meaning that Howell and the cavalry are not coming back south.... Meaning that during the next two to three Warm-time weeks — presuming the Kipchaks intend nothing serious west of the Bend — during the next two to three weeks, all the army, all reserves, and selected militia companies, will gather to march north over the border, up the Gulf coast into Map West-Louisiana, then north again into Map-Arkansas and the Hills-Ozark."

  Sam finished speaking into a silence that seemed deep as dark water.

  "…. My God Almighty." An oath from Jaime Rascob that would have called for burning, a few decades before.

  Another silence, then, until Phil Butler broke it. "About time." Butler had a rusty voice. "If the Khan takes the Kingdom, we're next. There's no doubt about that." One of his tiny dogs — not Poppy — climbed up onto his left shoulder like a cat. "Yes," Eric said. "I suppose… about time. But surely after the winter would be better."