Kingdom River Page 23

  After a moment, the Queen's voice sounded out of darkness. "The only things I wish to dream of, Martha, are the Trapper mountains, and the Trapper days...."

  * * *

  Sam woke to a savage wind — Lord Winter's serious wind — whining past stone walls like a great dog begging to be let in. There was a sandy shush and rattle in it as well. Hard-driven sleet and snow.

  Strange he'd been dreaming of summer. Summer in the fourth week, when it was perfect in the fields of August, leaf-green everywhere, so winter seemed only a story that might not be repeated.

  He reached under thick wool blankets to touch his long dagger's hilt. Sergeant Wilkey would be sleeping at the room's door. Carey'd wanted the man in the room, had gone round the walls under the tapestries, looking for any secret entrance.

  The fat man's ways were Eric's. Secret, sly, often useful... often ineffective.

  The Queen wouldn't send a killer to his room, certainly not before she'd heard him out, and likely not after. His death would be no advantage to her now, though it might be later, once — if — the Kipchaks were beaten. Now, she'd make him wait a few days, then be dismissive, just short of insult. It would be interesting to see how Queen Joan ruled and decided. Interesting to see how she managed a court that might kill her on a notion... how she managed a people who still occasionally ate people.

  The duck-feather bed was too soft; it was hurting his back.

  Sam got up with his dagger, tugged the blankets with him, and padded through the dark to a carpet near a stove's dimming coals. He rolled himself in wool, felt the support of cut stone stacked deep beneath him, and went to sleep... hoping for more dreams of summer.

  CHAPTER 17

  After days of wandering, walking through glassed gardens, examining walls, fortifications, the great stone-built entrance harbors — the Silver, the Gold, the Bronze, the Iron — his inspections never seeming to disturb the officers and men guarding those places, Sam had seen enough of Island.

  It lay, a mountain of snowy, wind-struck stone in an ice-flowed river, and seemed to him about as useful as any natural mountain might have been. A great redoubt, no question, and would be very expensive to reduce — but by that time, with an enemy having won to its walls, the war would already be lost. It seemed a poor substitute for a veteran field army, well led, an army not divided into East-bank and West, with a fleet uncomfortable with both of them.

  After those inspections, Sam saw what Toghrul had seen, even though far away at Caravanserai in Map-West Texas. The Khan had seen — had sensed — the Kingdom as a giant, but bound in chains of long habit and regulation, often slow, awkward, and shambling.... All a hunting call to the Kipchaks, so numerous, so neatly swift, so wonderfully well-commanded.

  And, of course, that very instinct, that eagerness, had exposed them. Toghrul had paid no heed — after his one warning attack south — to an enemy left behind him. As a wolf pack, chasing elk, might run by a bowman waiting in a snowy wood, with nothing but glances and a snarl as they passed.

  But then, the bowman might follow, so that on a final field, the pack in battle with a furious great bull elk, arrows came whistling from behind.

  These notions were confirmed for Sam as he walked the grand stone corridors of Island, whose high ceilings stirred and eddied with lantern smoke and the smoke of torches, which flowed to any outlet of air like a gray ghost of the great river sliding past them.

  ... During meals in an echoing dining-hall of granite and oak beams, huge as a roofed landscape, the Boxcars — Extraordinaries, of course, at the high tables — were courteous enough. They asked polite and apparently interested questions about North Mexico — its longer summers, its sources of labor, what beasts there were to hunt. Then chatted of hunting, of old campaigns against the tribes. Nothing was said about the Kipchaks.

  Pleasant conversations, as by hosts to somewhat dubious guests, and all accompanied by very good food — cow roasts, stuffed geese, cabbage boiled or chopped cold — all meats spiced, carefully cooked, and sauced with gravies a little rich for Sam's stomach. And at every meal, even with breakfast's chicken eggs, fish, or pig-slices, various sorts of pickles and candied imperial fruits were served, with jellied berries from the river's thickets.

  In that hall, only breakfast was eaten without music to listen to. Banjar men, a shaman-drummer from some backwoods tribe, and a blind woman with a harp were the orchestra — or more properly, a Warm-time 'band' that strummed and drummed and plucked to ease the later dining down.

  Courteous and perhaps a little careful dealing with Sam and Margaret Mosten, the Boxcars seemed more than courteous to Pedro Darry, the lieutenant having become a favorite with the younger men — and possibly some older wives — so he laughed and joked with the Kingdom people as if born on the river.

  Sam had been glanced at by a number of the Boxcar women, and found himself, a night or two, dreaming of jeweled and furred beauties... particularly one, smoothly plump, with fiery red hair. She was apparently of some notable tribal family allied to the Kingdom, since her small white teeth were filed to neat points.

  Sam dreamed of her, but would have sought no introduction, even if there'd been the time, and this the occasion for it. None of the high-table ladies came to dine without cold-eyed husbands, brothers, or a hot-eyed lover, as escort.

  At ease with Pedro, these richly dressed men and women — their cheeks dotted with blue tattooing — remained more guarded with Sam, though friendly enough, smiling as they suggested second helpings of this or that. They appeared to wait for their Queen's decision on him, not caring to be caught wrong-footed.

  The great tables, so piled with food being busily served by Red-liveries, seemed to Sam a hint of the Queen's contempt for the courtiers' greed. He grew used to their soft, slurred speech — and sudden eruptions of temper down a table's polished hardwood when enough vodka or barley-whisk was drunk. They all, men and women, came to meals armed — their children also armed with ornate little daggers — but never drew in argument.

  "Carey says the tables here are all the Queen's," Margaret had said when Sam mentioned it, "with everyone her guests. No one draws steel on her or hers."

  Queen Joan had joined the diners only twice, for mid-meals, while Sam and his officers were eating there. She'd seemed to enjoy herself at the north table, and ate very well — particularly a pudding of preserved fruits — but paid no attention to the North Mexicans.

  On one of those occasions, the more than three hundred Ordinaries lining the low tables had raised their beer jacks to her, swayed in place, and sung a song, 'Mammy, How I Love You.'

  The high tables hadn't joined in the singing, and the Queen had stood to shout the Ordinaries to silence — "Stop that damned noise!" — which had seemed to please the singers very much. Sam saw they loved her, and were her strength against the generals, admirals, and lords of the river.

  On the fifth morning, at a breakfast of imperial coffee, slice-cut barley bread, cheese, eggs, and a sort of sausage, a servant in the Queen's blood-red livery came easing along the wall, past the high tables' seated diners.

  Margaret Mosten slid her bench-chair back a little as the man came, and hooked her little finger in her rapier's guard to loosen the blade in its scabbard.

  "Oh, I'd say no trouble there." Darry, on Sam's other side, reached for another slice-cut of bread. "Some errand...."

  The errand ended at Sam's place.

  "Milord." The servant had a murmuring, messenger's voice. "Her Majesty is pleased to give you audience.... If you'll follow me."

  "About time," Margaret said, and stood.

  "Only the Captain-General," the servant said.

  Even so, when Sam walked after the man down the hall's long center aisle — watched, it seemed, by every eye — and Sergeant Wilkey left his place at a low table to come with him, the servant said nothing.

  It was, as usual on Island, a long walk.... The servant finally stood aside at a narrow door, opened it, and bowed Sam and the sergea
nt into a large, bare stone room. There were dark double-doors at its other side, and a single heavy, carved chair as furniture. The high ceiling, vaulted gray granite, echoed their bootsteps. There was no stove.

  Sergeant Wilkey stayed standing by the narrow door, his longbow now strung. He'd taken three battle-arrows from his quiver and held them alongside the bow's grip with a curled finger, to be handy.... Sam walked to the middle of the room and sat in the carved chair, stretching his legs. He breathed out a faint cloud of frost, and wished for another mug of coffee. What was expensive and rare at Better-Weather — though so much closer to the Empire — seemed lightly come-by on Kingdom's river. Goods and gold by water shipping, he supposed. How fine would made-roads have to be, to equal that ease…?

  After a while, footsteps, a latch's turning, and the double doors swung open across the room. The Queen's armswoman, Martha, stepped through first. She was wearing a heavy, green-paneled woolen gown, the dress's hem reaching just to her low boots, not long enough to trip her. Sam saw the handle of her ax just over her right shoulder, and a gray glint of fine mail beneath a wrist's cuff. He'd seen bigger young women, but not many.

  Queen Joan came behind her, almost as tall as her fighting girl, though slender. She was dressed like a copybook queen, with an ermine wrap over sky-blue velvet laced and looped with pearls. She wore blue-dyed deerskin slippers, and a narrow crown of leaves of gold.

  Princess Rachel, behind her, was nearly as tall, but plainly dressed in a gown the color of stone. Her long dark hair was down, bound only once by a slender silver chain.

  Sam stood, bowed to the Queen and her daughter, though not deeply, then stepped back.

  Queen Joan sat, her armswoman standing behind her — and watching Sergeant Wilkey. Princess Rachel stood beside.

  "It occurs to me..." The Queen had a voice that seemed younger than she was, a voice unlined, with no age in it. "It occurs to me... do you know the tale of the Gordian knot? It's a Warm-time tale."

  "I know it," Sam said.

  "Then tell me, Captain-General — who was Small-Sam and peed down my front on occasion — tell me why I shouldn't cut one of my Kingdom's possible knots, by cutting your throat? Pigeons informed me this morning that you're no longer a guest, but an invader, with your foot soldiers marching up through West Map-Louisiana... your cavalry come, or coming, east into Map-Arkansas to join them there."

  Silence and stillness by the narrow door, where Sergeant Wilkey stood with his longbow.

  "If I'd asked your permission," — Sam smiled — "you would have denied it. My army is crossing Kingdom territory, and intends to fight on it in North Map-Arkansas, South Map-Missouri — but fight the Khan Toghrul, not Boxcars."

  "So you say. But with your throat cut, you'd say no more, issue no commands, invade no one."

  Sam took a moment before answering."...I think you won't kill me, Queen, for two reasons: Your war with the Khan has already begun badly, and I doubt you want war with North Map-Mexico as well. Kill me, and you'll certainly have it. And also..."

  "Also?"

  "My Second-mother, Catania."

  Queen Joan sat and stared at Sam, her face bleached pale as bone. "Well... Well, you have a ruler's guts at least, to use her name to me, to assume I honor her memory so much."

  "I don't know what memories you honor, Queen — I only know she honored yours."

  "You young dog... to use my own heart against me."

  "What weapon more worthy than your heart, Queen?"

  Queen Joan stared at him; she didn't seem to need to blink. "I have courtiers — ass kissers — who speak to me in just that way."

  "No, you don't. Those people fear you, and they lie. I'm as likely to bite your ass as kiss it."

  The Queen glanced over at her daughter. "Rachel, what do you think of him?"

  "He is... a change, I suppose."

  The Queen looked back at Sam. "Let me tell you something, clever young Captain-General of minor importance — let me tell you that if I were even five years younger, and had a different sort of daughter, I'd put you under the river.... Yes, and then weep for sweet Catania's memory."

  Sam nodded. "But you're not younger, Queen. You need help against the Khan. And you don't have a daughter fierce enough to follow you in this kingdom."

  "I'm here," Princess Rachel said. "Don't speak as if I were not."

  "I apologize, Princess."

  "But you are not here, Rachel." The Queen spoke without looking at her daughter. "You're only present. To be here, you would have had to do more than read and write in your book tower. Do more than tame song-birds. More than conversations and philosophies and letters and studies of this and that. You have not earned being here."

  "Then I will not be missed." Princess Rachel left her mother's side and walked out through the double doors. The doors remained open, so her footsteps could be heard down the hall as she went.

  "I'm sorry," Sam said, "that the Princess was upset."

  "Too fucking easily upset. My Newton wanted a boy. I gave him a girl — and am punished for it."

  "A princess may become a queen."

  "Some may…. Listen, Small-Sam Monroe, you care for your North Mexico, and hope to save it by joining us against the savages. All this perfectly understood, and sensible. Be assured, if I hadn't thought you might be useful to us in just that way, I would never have asked your visit, never offered the possibility of engagement to my daughter."

  "Always more improbable than probable."

  "Yet here you are, Small-Sam. And apparently intend to make the 'improbable' a fact!"

  "Yes, I do."

  "We're not in that much trouble. We're a civilized kingdom — well, coming to be civilized — while you lead only border tag-ends, roosting on land stolen from the Emperor. Land that any more formidable emperor will soon take back."

  "Queen, if you didn't need me, if you didn't need my army... if you had any man to keep your daughter safe, we wouldn't be talking. I'd be dead, or gone."

  "Still a possibility."

  "Not since Map-Jefferson City."

  Queen Joan sat watching Sam for almost a full glass-minute, then said, "You're fortunate that so many of my ghosts stand beside you."

  "I know it."

  Queen Joan rose, her armswoman looming behind her. The Queen was tall; she looked slightly down at Sam, her eyes the flat blue of sky reflected in polished metal. "You have my permission to try to persuade Rachel. And also my permission to... advise our commanders in all campaigns where your people will also be engaged." She considered him for a moment. "And I do hope that some foolish treachery of yours, some starving ambition, won't make it necessary to kill you."

  "Poison," Sam said, "would be the only way with a chance to keep my army from your river, then your island. An absolutely convincing illness. And even then..."

  "Oh," — the Queen smiled — "you know the old copybook phrase 'Where there's a will, there's a way'?"

  "I know it. And I depend on it."

  The Queen walked away, laughing, her armswoman striding to cover her back.

  Sam heard bootsteps behind him, the faint music of oiled mail. "Well, Sergeant?"

  "Seems thin ice, sir."

  "Yes. Thin ice... over deep water."

  * * *

  The Queen — with Martha nearly beside her, only a half-step back — strolled down the Corridor of Battles. Banners along the walls, some only woven memories, moth-eaten and frail as insect-gauze, billowed slightly in the faint breeze of their passing. The Queen, as always in this corridor, paused beneath the flag of battle Bowling Green — this great cloth, its years recent, still gleamed in white silk and gold thread, its only crimson a tear of loss, sewn at its center.

  The Queen whispered to herself, as she always did under that banner. Whispered to herself, or perhaps the killed King… then walked on.

  "So, Martha, now what do you think of our sturdy young Captain-General ?"

  "I think you should be careful, ma'am."

&n
bsp; "Mmm. You think he might — if, for example, he and Rachel become engaged to marry — perhaps take advantage afterward, set me aside? Kill me?"

  "He might, if he thought it best. Set you aside, I mean. But — "

  " 'But?' "

  "He wouldn't kill you, ma'am."

  "And why not, girl?"

  "Same reason you won't kill him."

  "Clever Martha.... The past weighs on both of us like a fallen tree. And I see Catania, smiling at me."

  CHAPTER 18

  There were two guards at the door to the West Tower solar. A chamber, as Sam had found — Sergeant Burke clanking up behind him — reached after a steep seventy-two-step climb from the tower gate. As usual at Island, one of the guards was armored in blue-enameled steel-hoop, the other, in green. Also as usual, both were armed with shield and short-sword for handiness in close quarters.... They were keeping an eye on Sergeant Burke.

  "No entrance here, milord." Green-armor.

  "Announce me," Sam said.

  "Cannot do it, sir." Green again.

  "Announce me," Sam said, "or stand aside."

  There were few moments more interesting to a commander, than those spent waiting to see if a questionable order would be obeyed.

  After those interesting few moments, Blue-armor turned and knocked gently on the iron-bound oak door. Sam had found no flimsy entranceway on Island, except on the glass greenhouses. Any enemy army reaching Kingdom's capital would find difficult barricades at every turn, on every landing, and before every room.

  The door latch turned, thick oak and iron swung open, and Princess Rachel stood impatient in her slate-gray gown. She held a small copybook in one hand, a steel-nib pen in the other.

  "I'm occupied, milord." Looking down at him a little, since she was slightly taller. "And I believe our conversation was just completed at my mother's audience."

  "I've come to apologize again for that... clumsiness, Princess."