Kingdom River Read online

  CHAPTER 19

  "I believe you're to be congratulated, Monroe." Lord Sayre stepped across West Keep's ground corridor, smiling at Sam like an old friend. "I say it, since you've come from the lady's solar without cat scratches." The wound at Sayre's mouth left lower teeth showing unpleasantly when he smiled, an effect apparently useful to the man.

  Sam took the offered hand — a strong hand. "Since you're so... well informed and first with congratulations, except for my sergeant — I suppose I'd better be wary of you."

  Lord Sayre laughed. "Always a good idea." He glanced over Sam's shoulder, where Sergeant Burke stood watching. " — And your sergeant, there, also a good idea."

  Sam turned to Burke. "Henry, this is Lord William Sayre. Pass the word to the others. Lord Sayre can come to me at any time, his reasons his own."

  "Sir."

  "This... hasty engagement, with marriage possibly to follow, is going to be so interesting." Sayre walked beside Sam down the corridor, their boots silent on deep carpets, ringing on stretches of stone. "Too bad the war's confusing issues. You know, I'd thought I might have the throne myself, in time."

  "You wouldn't have been suited to it, milord. Slightly too honorable, from what I've heard."

  "'Slightly.' Mmm, that's possible.... Do you play chess, Monroe?"

  "No. My friend, Ned Flores, plays a strong game, but I've never really advanced past checkers."

  "And I understand Colonel Flores will be playing one-handed, now?"

  "Island seems always well-informed." They were walking through a huge room paneled with wood streaked rust and red. Its ceiling, worked in hammered copper and gold, was two stories high — so high that Sam could make out few details in an elaborately carved narrative, apparently of love and loss.... By a polished granite fireplace, one of the few he'd seen without an iron Franklin fronting it, a group of men and women dressed in furs, and velvets in every color, were laughing at some notion or remark. The jewels down their weapon scabbards sparkled in the fire's light.

  "Island well-informed? Informed about such as your Colonel Flores, you bet, since our strength is not in cavalry."

  "Wonderful Warm-time phrase, 'You bet.' "

  "Yes... and your checkers game, Monroe." Sayre opened the left of double doors, and ushered Sam through into a long hall he'd seen before. It was decorated with musical instruments of every different kind, hanging on the walls, or, if very large, resting on polished stands. " — A game fairly successful, it seems. You jump a few pieces, and are crowned." Sayre struck a light chord on an ivory banjar as they passed.

  "A move isn't the game," Sam said.

  Near the hallway's end, rested what seemed a fair copy of the ancient Warm-time piano, massive as a spotted bull, but gleaming black. "Meanwhile..." Sayre, who seemed musical, stepped over to strike a chord on the instrument's narrow keys with both his hands together — a loud crashing sound, but beautiful. "Meanwhile, the Queen still rules."

  "A very long meanwhile, I hope. I've had enough of ruling to know the stink of its necessities. And, speaking of necessities, Sayre, I've noticed Island doesn't seem much alarmed at having lost Map-Jefferson City. Not much alarmed at the Khan's certain taking of all Map-Missouri soon — and the river, I'm told, already freezing north of Cairo."

  "Ah, well... war." Sayre left the perhaps-piano, which, as they walked away, still sounded softly down the corridor as if reminding of times lost. "Monroe, we're always fighting wars. We have over thirty thousand veteran regulars, taking both bank armies together. Pikemen, crossbowmen. They've never been terribly impressed by horsemen. You know the Warm-time phrase, 'Whoever saw a dead cavalryman?' "

  Behind them, Sergeant Burke cleared his throat, his boot-steps, spurs jingling, even more definite.

  "I've seen them," Sam said. "And horseback raiders are one thing, the Khan's tumans are another. Thousands of light and heavy horse, under perfect discipline, with fast supply trains and bridging-and-siege engineers behind them."

  "Mmm... Jefferson City making your point, I suppose."

  "I hope so, for the Kingdom's sake. Once the Map-Texans were beaten at Cut'n Shoot? The old Khan had their bones collected and ground-up to enrich horse feed."

  "Yes.... A word of advice?"

  "Of course." Ahead, polished dark wood, gleaming uncarpeted, ran to the West Keep steps.

  "It occurs to me, Monroe, it might be useful for you to speak with Peter Bailey."

  "Retired from East-bank army, isn't he?"

  "Ah — done your informational! Yes, retired, but still our grand old man. Still the best general in either army, in my opinion. If the King had had him up in Map-Kentucky, the King would still be alive.... Bailey's here at Island now, over in East Tower, come for a law-case on some leased estate land."

  A small marble statue of a crouching cat was set on a greenstone stand along the corridor wall. Sayre paused and ran a forefinger along the carving before walking on. "Jemima Patch's work.... As to General Bailey, the old man doesn't care for me, which you may consider a recommendation; he's not a man for the court. But if I were you — a provincial commander of note, and possibly soon to be a prince — I'd speak with him." Sayre hesitated, seemed to have more to say.

  "Yes…?"

  "Well, with no intent to offend... most of Middle Kingdom, Monroe, will not find you an impressive heir to the throne. You're pretty much a savage as far as the River's concerned, a no-dot nobody. But Bailey was a great fighting man — both armies loved him, though the Fleet did not. His support would be worth more than regiments to you."

  "Sounds like good advice," Sam said. They'd come to the Keep's stairs. "And if the old man bites me, I'll let him know it was your idea of amusement, and I only an innocent and honorable young soldier."

  "Ah… checkers." Sayre smiled, bowed, then strolled away.

  "Your impressions, Sergeant."

  "Good man at your side, sir. Risky, at your back."

  "Fair enough," Sam said.... And why not to East Tower, now, to see the old man? A long walk, then likely steep stairs. There was no place at Island reached without climbing many steps.

  * * *

  With Henry Burke slouching behind him like some great carnivorous stork in armor — and after two inquiries of the way-Sam climbed a last flight of stone stairs, went down an icy corridor, and found the door to Bailey's rooms.

  He knocked... knocked harder, and wasn't answered.

  Sergeant Burke eased past, and hit the door hard enough to shake it in the jamb.

  Muffled curses from inside. A bolt slid back, and an old man with shaving soap on his face, looked out at them. He was barefoot, and wearing a deep-green belted robe, spotted here and there with grease.

  "Oh… it's you." He stood back from the door.

  "You expected me, sir?" Sam walked into the room, gestured for Burke to wait outside.

  The general, bulky, but bent with age, went back to shaving at a enameled basin of hot water on a stand also holding a small, polished-metal mirror. There were suds and splashes on the stone floor by his meaty, white, bare feet.

  The old man gripped a long razor in a knob-knuckled hand, peered into the small reflecter, and began to scrape his cheek. "Expected to be annoyed by some fool," he said, "since the Khan took Jeff City." He paused for delicate work along his upper lip. The razor's blade flashed in firelight. "Damn woman remarked my stubble this morning. Carping old bitch...."

  A small iron stove didn't seem to warm the room. Perhaps couldn't; the stone ceiling looked to be three men high.

  "This fool, sir, is Sam Monroe."

  The old man held his razor away, and smiled. "I know which fool you are, milord." Bailey's eyes, sunk in wrinkles as some far-south lizard's, were an almost topaz yellow. He recommenced shaving. "I used to have a servant for this chore — you know Warm-time 'chore'?"

  "Yes. Very apt, sir."

  "Mmm.... I used to have a servant, before spending every fucking piece of silver I have to settle with a land thief named Ed
gar Crosby!"

  "I've heard of some court case." Sam noticed a faint odor of urine from the old man's chamber-pot.

  "Not a 'case.' A crime. I'd intended Highbank for my granddaughter. Now, little Agnes will be a fucking pauper!"

  "And if I promise to see to it, sir, that in the future, little Agnes doesn't become a pauper, can we talk about this war?" Sam swung his scabbarded sword off his back, and sat, without invitation, in the nearest of two fat, velveted armchairs facing the futile stove.

  Bailey rinsed his razor. "And Crosby's head?"

  "Your Master Crosby's head — and all our heads — may be used as buzkash balls by the Khan's horsemen, if this kingdom doesn't come fully awake."

  General Bailey grunted, then concentrated on finishing shaving, flicking suds from his razor onto the floor's stone. He had four tattooed dots on one cheek, five on the other. "And from me — retired, aged, forgetful — you wish?"

  "Some sensible advice."

  "Oh, that. Do you intend to try to command this war for us?"

  "The Queen, so far, allows only that I 'advise' Kingdom's forces."

  "Ah…. And you intend to press that small authority as far as it will go?"

  "Yes, I do, sir, since my people also stand under threat. The Queen is a great lady, and a fighter, but not a war planner."

  Bailey rinsed his razor, folded it, and set it on the basin's edge. He mopped his face with a white woven-cloth towel. "I found your campaigns very interesting. The Boston people at Map-McAllen, for reasons of their own, reported them to us in detail. I suspect that demonstrated competence is why you are not at the bottom of the river. Apparently it's thought you might prove useful." The old man sat in the other armchair, lifted his bare feet onto a worn ottoman, and settled with a grunt, staring into the Franklin's small fire. "Who suggested you come see me?"

  "Sayre."

  "Ah... that oh, so clever man. Too fucking clever."

  "A soldier, though."

  "Yes, a soldier, if you keep an eye on him." The old man shifted slightly in his chair. "Your campaigns. The night thing at — God-Help-Us'

  "Yes."

  "Really not bad. Better than not bad."

  "I was lucky."

  "Of course. And lucky in the men — and women, by Lady Weather! — that fought for you. Did seem to me… and of course I wasn't there. But hearing of it, it did seem to me you spent your people a little too freely. Might have substituted maneuver for slaughter — certainly in the initial assault. It can be more useful to confuse an enemy, than kill a few more of them."

  "... Yes, you're right, sir. I thought of strong left-flanking, get them half-turned from me, but I was afraid the cavalry might just charge away into the night… turn up weeks later in Map-Guadalajara."

  The old man's laugh ended with a liquid cough. "And by Jesus they might have, at that. I've found cavalry... not quite trustworthy."

  "I've learned to trust them. And since I'm presently looking at a pair of flat, obviously-infantry feet, I'll dismiss an ignorant observation."

  Bailey smiled and wiggled his toes. "Oh, no insult intended. All your people seem to know their business."

  "Yes, they do."

  The old man stroked his cheeks, evaluating his shave. "Stupid woman..." He turned from watching the fire to look at Sam, an examination as coolly interested as an elderly cat's. "And just what do you, as a young commander of rather limited experience — no experience on the river at all — just what do you think needs to be done?"

  "Sir, I think what's left of the West-bank army should be behind fortifications — dug-ditch and palisade, if that's the best they can do — until the river freezes, and they join East-bank army. Your General Pomeroy needs to stop sticking his neck out for the Kipchaks to chop. No more half-assed marching and countermarching."

  "Hmm. Miles Pomeroy has had the fever-malaria for years. It makes him short-tempered, restless. I doubt he'll take that 'advice' to heart. Though I also doubt that fortification will win the war."

  "It will stop losing it, while East-bank army gets its thumb out of its ass and moves west across the ice. The Fleet should be sailing north right now, ready to rig its runners to join them. The river's already freezing at St. Louis — "

  "It's freezing below Lemay. — And this combination of forces will, of course, terrify Toghrul."

  "It will keep his generals and half his army busy in the north, sir."

  "While... ?"

  "While my army marches up through Map-Arkansas, threatening his lines of supply… then waits in good defensive country."

  Bailey pursed his lips and made soft kissing sounds. "Well, young man, my information is — and I still receive some information, some useful pigeons — my information is that the Khan has already reached his people in the north, taken command from Shapilov. Which means your army had better move fast, or they'll be too late."

  "They'll move fast. They should be well into Map-Louisiana now, with the cavalry coming east from Map-Fort Stockton to join them."

  "Better be. A great deal seems to depend on your General Voss."

  "He's a dependable man, sir."

  "So, with your army coming up West-bank from the south… which the Khan probably knows already — "

  "I think not. The cavalry, coming east, should screen the army's march for at least a week or so."

  "Very well, Monroe, let's say that's true — "

  "We'll have my army coming up the west bank, and your East-bank army crossing the ice in the north, supported by the Fleet. The Khan will find himself between two immediately threatening forces — and will have no choice but to divide his army to deal with them. He won't have time to attack one with all he has, then turn to face the other."

  "He may try to make the time."

  "Not with his supply-lines threatened north of the Map-Ozarks, sir. No fodder; no remounts; no replacements. Time will be against him."

  The old man sighed. "From your lips, to the ears of Floating Jesus."

  "And Mountain Jesus as well, General."

  "Well... it's a very young strategy, Monroe. With many ifs."

  "It's the only one, sir, I think has any chance at all."

  "Mmm.... So, the Khan, once he realizes he's blundered by campaigning with an enemy left behind to cut his lines of supply, must send troops south to at least dislodge that enemy. But he must also leave forces in the north, to hold the river ice against the Fleet, and East-bank army."

  "Yes."

  "So he will send, or go south himself, to meet... you? I assume you intend to command that battle."

  "Yes, sir."

  Bailey put his head back and closed his eyes as if beginning a nap. "And what chance do you give this strategy, young man?"

  "The only chance we've got, sir."

  "Well, that's fair enough. A soldier's answer, at any rate." Still with his eyes closed. " — Of course, if he beats you, destroys your army without taking heavy losses, he'll use your own plan in reverse."

  "Yes, if he won with light losses, he'd hook to the riverbank there, let his northern forces keep our northern forces busy until the river freezes down to him. Then he'd send his tumans out onto the ice to take Island."

  "And the Kingdom."

  "Yes. And the Kingdom. — But he won't have light losses, General. Win or lose, I promise we will ruin him in the fight. So Kingdom will still have a better than even chance against the rest of his army, in the north."

  Bailey opened his eyes. "A fair-enough promise. Well, you have a notion, milord. And I like it — there's a nice, nasty unfairness to it. But it will depend, of course, on our people and your people fighting as one, though so many Warm-time miles apart."

  "Yes."

  "To deal with which difficulty, I suppose, I'm being recruited, though so old, and now impoverished."

  "There would be pay."

  "Um-hmm. Same nasty odor of taking advantage — always a sign of solid strategy."

  "Horseshit," Sam said. "You'd have been very angry
if you hadn't been asked to help by someone."

  A sideways yellow glance. "And speaking of 'someone,' what does Her Majesty think of your 'advising' Kingdom's men?"

  "She dislikes it extremely, and wouldn't have allowed even that if she had a better choice — and didn't need my army."

  Bailey smiled. He had two teeth missing. "She is a remarkable woman. A better queen, in some ways, than Newton was a king. His heart was never really in it; he found us... a sad lot. And that Kentucky business, an absolute mess. General Ryan, and his so-faithful tribal allies!" The old man seemed to dream for a few moments, then roused. "So, you 'advise.' I doubt such grudging approval by Her Majesty will be enough."

  "The Queen has allowed my engagement to Princess Rachel."

  The general sat up. "Has she? Well... that might make a difference. And the girl will have you?"

  "I believe she will, though reluctantly."

  "Ah. 'Reluctantly.' 'Advise' and 'reluctantly.' Son, you're going to be very lucky to keep your head — even forgetting Toghrul and his Kipchaks."

  "I know it."

  Bailey hauled himself out of his chair, padded to the Franklin, and struck the hot stove-pipe with his fist. A small belch of ash and smoke came from the fire. "Fucking thing.... If the Kipchaks had not taken Map-Jefferson City — "

  "I know. In that way, Toghrul works for me."

  "He'll work against you, when he finds he has to take half his army down to Map-Arkansas." The general's robe was dusted with ash. "Think you can beat him?"

  "If he fights my fight — yes."

  "And your fight will be?"

  "Wait for him in broken, wooded country, hills with some height to them. On perhaps a seven-to-eight-hundred-acre front, cut by narrow hollows. And all under Lord Winter's snow."

  "Map-Ozarks."

  "Yes."

  Bailey tapped the stove-pipe again, absently. "So, you leave him no room for sweeping cavalry maneuvers.... He'll break his command into smaller units, try to work them along the ridges into your formations."

  "I would, in his place."

  "And, of course, he'll dismount most of his people — have them come against you on foot."