Kingdom River Read online

  "So I hope, sir."

  "He'll still have numbers on you, even with only half his army with him."

  "Yes."

  Thinking, Bailey touched the stove-pipe again, left his fingers on it too long. "Ow! Damn thing. It seem cold in here to you?"

  "It is cold." Sam demonstrated by blowing a faint cloud of breath. "You need a bigger stove."

  "What I need," the old man said, "are twenty fewer years and two thousand pieces of silver. You'll meet him on the ridges?"

  "Cavalry waits along the ridges, in reserve. His dismounted men will have to attack up snowy hillsides; the Light Infantry will fight them as they climb the slopes. The Heavy Infantry will be waiting when — if — they reach the crests."

  "Umm. Of course, the Khan will soon know of your army, and approximately where it will stand. There'll be no surprises for him, then."

  "Yes, but it seems to me, no choices either. He'll have to come to us."

  "Alright." Bailey dusted ash off his hands. "I'll do what I can, milord. As you 'advise.' But everything depends on your people marching north from West Map-Louisiana. If that army doesn't move north, doesn't threaten the Kipchaks' line of supply, there'll be very little either you or I can do."

  "Understood. And Howell Voss should join them with the cavalry at any time; possibly already has."

  "Let's hope so. What I can do, now, is pigeon to suggest strictly defensive formations to West-bank army in the south. Pomeroy will listen; he's not an idiot. It seems to me that Cotton is already doing the best he can in the north, at St. Louis."

  "I think so. I'd be very grateful for that pigeon, sir. And East-bank army?"

  "Ah... my old command. Mark Aiken will do as he's ordered, and there's the rub. Know that phrase?"

  "I believe I've heard it, sir. Very apt."

  "Well, there is the rub. Aiken will require orders, since moving even toward West bank is contrary to founding regulations. 'Advice' won't do — not even from me. He will move only at the Queen's command, or by the Queen's warrant. Won't do more, won't do less.... I'd say that up till now, no one has ordered him to do anything, other than local defense situations. Still, once he's told what to do, Aiken will move, and quickly, and be glad to." The old man began to pace back and forth in front of the stove. It was slow pacing, with a limp. "We're… you must understand, Monroe, that we're an aggressive military. Defense is a poor doctrine for us. You know the Warm-time 'doctrine'?"

  "I do, yes. Sir, the Kipchaks want to be attacked. They hope for it, as a knife fighter wishes for a clumsy thrust to counter for his kill. What they don't want, is delay, and a mobile and determined defense."

  "Oh, I understand very well." Pacing away, the old man spoke that to a wall and glassed arrow-slit. "But what you must understand, young man," — limping back, now — "is that by being aggressive, the Kingdom's forces have been very effective at controlling the river and six Map-states. Dealing for the most part, of course, with savages, tribesmen and so forth. Now, they're being asked to meet a military at least as formidable as ours — and commanded, I regret to say, by a genius of war."

  "And the division of the army into East and West-bank commands?"

  The old man stopped pacing. "Oh, that began as a sensible precaution on the part of our kings. Did you know it used to be a death-penalty offense for an officer of one bank army ever to cross the river... ever to have a close relationship with an officer from the opposite bank?"

  "I'd heard that."

  "And heard correctly. It was all a matter of careful balances — and now, of course, has become a weakness. It had occurred to no one, myself included, that it might be wise for both bank armies to cooperate against the Kipchaks, moving back and forth across the river to threaten his forces' flanks."

  "Must be done now, sir." Sam stood, buckled his sword harness... reached over his shoulder to touch the weapon's hilt.

  "Yes. Now it must be done, milord. And the Fleet won't like it. They've always been pleased to deal with a divided army. But East-bank was my old command, and I believe Mark Aiken will at least prepare to move, if I convince him that a direct order will be coming. Then he'll be able to get his regiments out onto the ice with no delay."

  "That is... better than I'd hoped for, sir. I owe you a great debt."

  "You keep that in mind, young man. I believe you mentioned… pay?" Bailey stooped for a small piece of firewood at the stove's rack, tossed it into the flames.

  "I'll see to it, General…. And I think I've taken enough of your time."

  "Oh, nothing but time, now. Time, and a little widow — quite old, of course — but enough of a bitch to be interesting."

  "The suggester of shaving?"

  "The very one." He walked Sam to the door. "Remember, milord, your people have to be in place — and soon."

  "I know it."

  "And the other matter — "

  " — Is Kingdom's fleet."

  "That's right. If our fleet doesn't get north, and onto the ice to slice through those tumans' formations..."

  "Any influence with the admirals, sir?"

  The old man smiled. "Why, yes. The admirals are very much like sea-whales — they snort and wallow, roll and blow. And they hate my guts. That's always influence of a sort, if properly applied."

  Sam paused at the door. "My thanks again, sir, for your help."

  "You haven't got anything to thank me for, yet." The old man put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "When you can do a little better than 'advise,' you might take it upon yourself to see Lenihan. He's supposed to be coordinating command, here."

  "I will. And I wish you could be fighting with me."

  Bailey shook his head. "You are young. I can't tell you how grateful I am that I won't be fighting beside you. What's the copybook phrase? 'Scared to death'? I was scared to death, every battle I fought."

  "I doubt it," Sam said, and swung the door open. Sergeant Burke came to attention.

  "What's your name, Sergeant?" Bailey bent a yellow eye on him.

  A more rigid attention. "Burke, sir!"

  "Well, Sergeant Burke, watch this boy's back."

  "Sir!" Followed by a very snappy salute — now, it seemed to Sam, as much a part of his soldiers as their belly-buttons.

  ... There was no temptation as great as inaction. Sam stood weary in the corridor's cold, drafty gray stone, Sergeant Burke standing silent behind him, and wished for rest, solitude, an end to persuading strangers. An end to maneuvers of words, as wearing as a battle in this great smoky warren of wind and rock.

  The sergeant cleared his throat. And as if that had been a signal to march, Sam marched.

  It would be the chamberlain's office, next — undoubtedly a mile away through freezing granite halls and stairways — to attempt to persuade that clever fat man to, in turn, try to persuade the Queen to loosen her grip, only slightly, on power.

  It seemed unlikely — as everything on the river seemed unlikely, dreams flowing down in the current's ice with their Floating Jesus, so Sam felt he might wander Island forever.

  * * *

  Rodney Sewell had come down-river from Cooper Estate just two days before. Sent for to come quickly, he'd landed still wearing the family's livery, but changed in the dock shed to brown smock and sack trousers.

  A preparation under-cook had been willing enough, for a bare handful of copper, to provide a place for a tall, shabby, ginger-haired stranger to sleep, deep in the kitchen cellars. Willing enough, if chicken-birds were properly gutted, potatoes peeled, and onions sliced by the basketful.

  The people called him Ginger, since Sewell never offered his name, and were impressed by his gutting chicken-birds like a wonder. But though he always washed that mess off at the pump before the scullions' meals were served, and was quiet and decently mannered, the pot girls avoided him. Perhaps he washed too well, as if his hands — large, and long-fingered — had more important things to do.

  Also, his first day working, he'd responded in an unpleasant way to the teasi
ng any new kitchener was bound to expect. He'd stared at them, and was so oddly silent — while the gutting knife worked on, worked faster, its greasy blade flashing through flesh — that the teasing stopped.

  Lunchtime on his third day, Sewell had strolled past the serving trays for a suite of Tower rooms. Strolled so near that the meat cook, Mr. Harris — in conversation with a fat servant belonging to those rooms — had cursed him and waved him back to his work.

  Hours later, after filleting a deep basketfull of fishes to rest in ice as dinner preparation, Sewell ambled by the trays again. One held sliced carrots, turnip crisps, and pickled mussels. Sewell hesitated there, saw the idiot scrubber watching him, and walked away. He went through the second kitchen and down the cellar corridor to the turning for barrel preserves, and the jakes.

  The storage there, shadowy and damp, extended from the corridor on either side down long, narrow aisles, walled by high stacks of barrels with more barrels packed behind them. All smelling sour with tons of brined cabbage — Warm-times' 'sour kraut' — some of it five, six years old. Sewell had never had a taste for it.

  Down each dark aisle, hacked cabbages and huge open barrels — some half-filled, some crusted with salt shipped up from the Gulf Entire — stood beside long, knife-scored work tables.

  Sewell had come to the end of storage, had the door to the jakes in sight, when something very heavy draped itself across his back and shoulders. It staggered him, with surprise as much as anything, but Sewell was quick, had always been very quick and strong. He would have had his gutting knife out, except that two fat legs had wrapped themselves around him, so his arms were pinned to his sides.

  The knotted cord that whipped around his neck was inevitable, though Sewell did everything that could and should be done. He tried to scream — just too late — so made only a soft croaking sound. He bent, and bucked into a somersault to smash the strangler to the stone floor. Then he got to his feet — a difficult thing to do — and drove backward with great strength into a side aisle and a work table's heavy, seasoned edge.

  With luck, the oak might have broken the strangler's spine, but hadn't. Whoever, he was a sturdy man, and he'd shifted a little just in time. Even so, given only one good breath — only one — Sewell felt anything might be possible.

  But no breath was given, and Sewell thrashed and staggered this way and that down the narrow aisle, kicked and arched his back, writhed to work his arms, his hands, free of those fat legs locked around him. It was difficult to do with no breathing.... Soon it became impossible, and he knelt on the stone — that great weight still clinging, bearing on him. The cord buried deep in Sewell's neck seemed now made of diamonds, it sparkled so in his mind. He felt little things breaking in the back of his eyes from brightness.

  He was lying down, face pressed to cool stone, and had no idea how that had happened, where the time had gone. He could feel a thing in his chest trembling. He was warm in the seat of his pants....

  Ansel Carey, whistling a song his father had taught him, went up the aisle to the corridor, looked left and right, then came back to haul the corpse onto the work table, and go through its pockets. He found a gutting knife, another little blade hiding strapped to the right ankle, twenty-seven coins — copper, silver, and gold — and a tiny blown-glass bottle with a string-wound stopper. There was a thimbleful of ashy powder in it, that smelled like toasted almonds.

  He tossed everything but the money into a brine barrel at the end of the work table, then slid the corpse that way. With grunts of effort, he doubled it over, lifted it... and stuffed it down into the big barrel butt first, so the feet and black, swollen face came together at the top, awash in pickling.

  "Unappetizing," Master Carey said, fitted the oak lid down tight, then used a mallet to set the top hoop.... While he labored — rolling the barrel to the back of the narrow aisle, then, with the aid of a plank as lever, hoisting it level by level, deep into the storage stacks — he decided the matter had been, after all, too slight to have mentioned beforehand, orders or not. And too squalid to report now, to a young Captain-General with more important matters on his mind.

  CHAPTER 20

  "Sir, what is the matter with these fools? As you suggested, whenever I'm out of these damned rooms, I've been having 'casual' conversations with a number of civilians and middle-rank officials — and those older officers who'll speak to a woman soldier without smirking — and none seem very interested in the Kipchaks."

  Sam saw a tired Margaret Mosten sitting across from him at their suite's great table — as she undoubtedly saw a weary Sam Monroe. "The matter, Margaret, is they simply don't believe the threat is great. This afternoon, Chamberlain Brady dismissed the Khan with a wave of his hand. These people are not convinced this war requires that they let some war-lord from nowhere — "

  "A no-dot war-lord, sir." Lieutenant Darry, still eating at supper's end, paused in forking up a baked apple.

  "That's right, Pedro. A no-dot war-lord."

  The long table supported the remains of food brought up under covered silver salvers by four servants in the Queen's blood-red livery. Servants accompanied from the kitchens by an untrusting Master Carey… who'd then uncovered platters of salt ham, broccoli and fresh onions, a roasted duck, potatoes creamed to pudding in spotted-cattle milk, and spiced baked apples — tasting them at random while the food cooled, the meats congealed.

  Now, supper over, Carey — who remained mysteriously fat, since he never sat to eat — was collecting Island's silverware. The Chief of Kitchens, a tyrant laired deep in Island's cellar warren, counted all returned silverware, even from the Queen's table.

  "... But, do they think Toghrul Khan is just going to go away?"

  "Margaret, except for some of the officers the Queen has just brought to Island, the Boxcars think he's basically only a more formidable tribesman. And they've dealt with tribesmen and tooth-filers many times."

  "But they lost Map-Jefferson City!"

  " 'A fluke,' is how the chamberlain described that. I got the impression he thought the Queen was making too much of it."

  "The court tends to agree, sir." Darry poured himself more berry brandy. The lieutenant, though slender, seemed to have an extraordinary capacity — was always hungry, and never seemed drunk. "People I speak to, some of them officers of the better regiments, regard this war as... well, a career opportunity. Except for those like Stilwell or Brainard, who have estates to inherit."

  "Fucking overdecorated roosters." Margaret made a face. It seemed to Sam she hadn't yet forgiven him for her boots, leathers, and mail, in a court where the women — and men — dressed like furred and velveted song-birds.

  "Well, Captain, they're frivolous… and they aren't." Pedro twirled his silver goblet; those were counted in the kitchens, too. "Most of them have fought tribesmen. And if not, fought each other in duels. I feel... really, I feel quite at home. Though, of course, they are a little rough."

  "A little rough?" Sam considered some brandy, then decided not.

  "Well, sir, Jerry Brainard has killed a man who questioned his family recipe. A question of palms."

  "Palms?" Margaret said.

  "Yes, Captain. Palms. Girl's palms — of course hardly done at all, now. But the question was whether to cattle-butter them before broiling, or after."

  "Lady Weather..."

  "And which," Sam said, "did the Brainards favor?"

  "Oh, Jerry said, 'Before.' Before, absolutely. Keeps 'em plump; keeps 'em from drying out on the grill."

  "These people," Margaret said, "deserve the Kipchaks."

  "But our people don't," Sam said, "and Toghrul will see to it that as the Kingdom goes, so will they."

  "True."

  "And speaking of deserving, I've seen no Jesus priests, no ladies of Lady Weather at Island."

  "No, sir," Darry said. "I understand the Queen doesn't allow it, doesn't allow them to stay. She sends them back where they came from with silver pieces. Says to do good — and stay gone."r />
  "Making enemies, Pedro?" Margaret said.

  "Don't think so, Captain. I'm told she gives a lot of silver. And the winter festivals, very elaborate, supposed to be wonderful to see. Canceled this year, of course."

  "Master Carey," Sam said, "do we have a healthy pigeon?"

  "Two, sir. Only two since Hector died on the Naughty. Couldn' stand the motion." Ansel Carey kept the birds in his room, and expressed to them the only tenderness Sam had seen from him.

  "Leave the silverware; let the Queen's people count it when they come for the platters."

  "What message, Sam?"

  "To Howell and Ned, Margaret, through Better-Weather. Howell's probably joined by now, and Eric can relay dispatch-riders up to them. I want them moving north fast as possible. Forward elements should already be out of West Louisiana."

  "Sam, they know that." Margaret had carved the supper meat, and was cleaning ham juice from her long dagger's blade with a red woven-cloth napkin. "They don't need to be reminded... if a galloper could even catch up to them."

  "Well, they may not need a reminder if they get it — but they might have needed it, if they don't."

  "Sam, that doesn't make any sense at all."

  "Does to me," Darry said, and pushed his dessert plate away. The lieutenant tilted his heavy chair back and sat at ease, gleaming boots crossed at the ankles. "Precious Miss Murphy's Law. What may be fucked up — your pardon, Captain Mosten — will be fucked up. So, better a pigeon, to be sure."

  "My thinking," Sam said. "And it's possible that Howell... even that both of them have been killed."

  "Nothing," Margaret said, and got up from the table. "Nothing could kill both of those men. I don't think Ned is killable."

  "Did lose his hand," Darry said.

  Master Carey's room was down the corridor. Sam could hear him murmuring to the pigeons, apparently making his selection.

  "Speaking of hands, Pedro; you've had more than a week dealing them out at the card-tables at court. And, I understand, have been successful. What news?"

  "Master Carey exaggerates, sir. Just fun cards, small stakes; never enough to make anyone angry. Also, no involvement with any lady having serious connections."