Kingdom River Read online

  "That's a comfort. Go on."

  "Well, sir..." Darry brought his chair forward, sat at attention. "Well, sir — this is no court, in the sense of the Emperor's court at Map-Mexico City. It's... really more like chieftains gathering at a tribal longhouse in the mountains, or north, along the ice-wall. Though the longhouse in this case is stone, and miles each way." Darry paused, considering. "It isn't that there aren't manners here, sir, and decent precedence — there are. But it's all damn shallow."

  "Meaning," Margaret Mosten said, "keep a sergeant with you, Sam."

  "Yes," Darry said. "Absolutely. Not that murdering you would be undertaken lightly, sir."

  "Glad to hear it."

  "But it wouldn't be, well, regarded as... memorable."

  "And no fucking consideration as to what might happen then?" Margaret leaned over the table like a storm. "With the Kingdom at war, and our army marching into Map-Arkansas?"

  "Ah, but you see, Captain, the people who are the considering sort, wouldn't be the ones who killed our Captain-General." He smiled at Sam in encouragement.

  "One or more of the sergeants," Margaret said, "and either Pedro or me in any public gathering."

  Darry nodded. "We have no dots on our faces, sir, is what it comes down to. We aren't Boxcars."

  "Neither was the Queen." Sam reconsidered the berry brandy, poured the barest taste into his glass and drank it... breathed its stinging sweetness in and out.

  "No, but she is now, sir. She was married to their king — and, I understand, murdered to hold her own once he was gone."

  "Watch your tongue, Pedro. Even stone walls can grow ears."

  "Oh — oh, nothing out of the way in that sort of killing, of course, sir!" Darry said. "Admirable, really. An admirable lady… who having been a tribeswoman herself, knew what needed to be done."

  "I'd leave the subject, Pedro.... Margaret, will you go and

  persuade Ansel to part with a fucking pigeon. I'd like to get that message sent. And Pedro, you might keep in mind that those people at Island who do 'consider' before they act, might consider it useful to put one of my people into the river, as an indication we're not wanted here, long-term."

  "I suppose that's true!" Darry seemed startled at the notion.

  "So, if you find even your charm suddenly overvalued by new friends, a new lady, you might be careful what dark corner you're invited to."

  "I keep an eye on him, milord." Master Carey carried in a bird basket, with Margaret marching behind him. "I've been Sancho to his Panzo, or whatever... keep close to any fun, or lady."

  "Tediously so," said Lieutenant Darry. "It was a question, sir, but I chose our Louella." Carey set the basket on the table. "She's small, but swift. And spirited — flies so hawks can kiss her ass."

  Louella set a bright black eye to the basket weaving, examined them.

  "Sir," Margaret said, "it would be a mistake. They'll think you have no confidence in them. They'll start looking over their shoulders for more messages."

  "Good point, sir," Darry said. "Still, there's Miss Murphy's Law...."

  "Pedro," Margaret said, "be quiet."

  Sam closed his eyes for a moment... saw Howell in camp, unrolling the bird's tiny message-paper and reading it. Then saying, "Well, for Weather's sake. What the fuck's the matter with Sam?"

  "Alright… Take the bird back, Ansel."

  There were two very hard knocks on the suite's heavy door. It opened partway, and Sergeant Mays leaned in. "Her Majesty an' the ax-girl to see you, sir."

  Master Carey snatched up Louella's basket, and waddled swiftly back to his room as the Queen, in a long wolf-fur cloak, came in past Sergeant Mays, her armswoman behind her.

  "Where's that fat man off to?"

  Sam stood with Margaret and Darry, and bowed. "Honored to welcome you, ma'am…. Carey's our schemer, spy, and supply person. Secrecy's a custom with him, so he snatched our pigeon away."

  "One of your Master Lauder's people, I suppose?"

  "I'm sure of it."

  "This habit," — the Queen stood in the middle of the room — "this habit you have of being so directly honest as to insult those you speak to, I find very unpleasant."

  "I apologize, Queen. I do it to unsettle those older and cleverer than I am."

  "And that's exactly what I mean — that sort of thing you just said."

  299

  "Perhaps I should try a little lying. Will you sit, ma'am? Have wine... berry brandy?"

  Queen Joan shook her head, then was silent, as if she'd forgotten why she'd come. Her ax-girl watched Sergeant Mays, since he stood closest to them.

  "What is it, ma'am?" Sam said. "What's happened?"

  "... Nothing. Nothing's 'happened,' Monroe. I visit where I choose, when I choose." Sam saw, by the hanging lanterns' warm light, that the Queen was pale as cotton sheeting.

  "They're on the river?"

  "Our difficulties," the Queen said, "our... difficulties are still our concern."

  "They've taken St. Louis."

  The Queen made a sound in her throat, and clawed her fingers as if she were about to fight. Then, spreading her arms wide, her long wolf cloak swinging open, she began a slow-stepping dance of fury. Her ropes of pearls swaying with her furs, she turned in drifts of flower scent, eyes rolled back, teeth bared to bite. She danced in paces her ax-girl mirrored to stay within reach. "I'll kill... that fucking Kipchak. Every person, everything he loves, I'll kill. I'll skin his wife, his child — I hear there's to be a child. I'll skin that baby slowly, for him to see — and his horses, skin his horses alive before I skin him, roll him screaming in salt, and serve him roasted!"

  It was a promise frightening to see danced and almost sung. Sam noticed Sergeant Mays stand back a step, and saw that Margaret had closed her eyes, as if the Queen were a fire burning too close.

  When Queen Joan stood still and silent, Sam went to her and took her hands while the armswoman watched. "Give me your warrant, dear."

  "... I am not your 'dear.' " But she let him hold her hands.

  "Give me your warrant to assist you in this war, to command, so our armies can fight together."

  "So you can prepare to take my throne — boy?" She pulled her hands away.

  "I swear to uphold you on your throne, Queen — uphold your rule against any and all. I swear it on the memory of my Second-mother.... And will hold to it," — he smiled — "no matter how inconvenient."

  "Never," the Queen said. " — Never." She turned and walked out. Her ax-girl, following, glanced back to be certain of no surprise, then closed the door behind them.

  "What do we do?" Margaret said into silence. "Sam, what do we do, now?"

  "What do we do... ?" Sam took a deep breath. "What I do is keep trying to persuade the generals and admirals here to cooperate with our army."

  "Won't do it, sir, without her." Carey, out of his room like a mountain marmot, appearing in the hall. "Boxcars think we're shit, sir."

  "Sad," Pedro Darry said, "but true." An ancient phrase.

  "Then fuck 'em," said Sergeant Mays.

  "No. We need these people." Sam reached for the brandy, noticed Margaret Mosten's glance, and set the crystal jug aside. "I'll go to the river lords, tomorrow — "

  The chamber's door swung open again, and Queen Joan's ax-girl stepped in. "Her Majesty," she said.

  The Queen stood in the doorway. "I've... changed my mind." She stared at them a few moments, then said, "Dear God." One of Warm-times' shortest sayings.

  * * *

  After an early breakfast delivered to their rooms — the roast pork, boiled eggs, oat pudding, and honey rolls all first nibbled for safety's sake by Master Carey — Sam, with Sergeant Wilkey pacing behind him, longbow down his back, coursed through Island's passages to East Tower's stairs, cubbies, and chambers, until a serving man nodded to "General Lenihan" and pointed them to offices at the end of a lamp-lit hall. No guard was posted there.

  Wilkey opened the oak door and stood aside as Sam walked
in. Three soldiers, clerks, stood writing at stands beneath hanging five-flame oil lamps. They were wearing West-bank army's blue wool, but no weapons, no armor. They set their pens down as Sam and Wilkey came in.

  "Brigadier Lenihan," Sam said. "I understand he's executive for plans and coordination — dealing with both bank armies?"

  "And you are?" The tallest clerk, a sergeant.

  "He's 'Milord Monroe' to you," Wilkey said pleasantly. "Now, see him in to your general."

  The clerk said, "Sorry, sir — milord," trotted to an inner office door, knocked, opened it, and said, "Lord Monroe to see you, sir."

  There was a grumble from inside. Sam walked past the clerk into a smaller space that reminded him of Charles' cramped office at Better-Weather, though more brightly lit. A stocky man with cold gray eyes and several days' growth of beard, wearing West-bank army's blue, stood from behind a desk piled with maps and message sheets. He had three tattooed dots on his left cheek, four on the other.

  "General Lenihan, I believe we have some business."

  "Sir — milord — I hardly think so." Lenihan's voice was hoarse with fatigue. "And, while I wouldn't wish to be rude, I must say I don't have the time for it." The brigadier looked down at his desk-top. "There are orders to be copied, orders to be sent. In short, sir, I have a war on my hands — at least portions of it."

  "I see you do. And how does your war go, General?"

  "That, sir, with all respect, is something I couldn't discuss with you. Perhaps the chamberlain's office..." Lenihan, impatient, glanced down and shifted some papers.

  Sam shoved a stack of documents aside, then sat on the edge of the desk, one booted foot on the floor. "The Queen has allowed me to be what help I can in this war, Lenihan. So it's by her warrant and authority, as well as mine, that I suggest you drop this pose of 'responsible officer weary of interfering idiots' — and prepare to take my orders."

  The general's face flushed. "I would need a written order, signed by the Queen, to do any such — "

  Sam lunged across the desk, took Lenihan's throat in his right hand, and drove the man back against the wall. The brigadier was strong, struggled, and reached for his belted dagger. Sam covered that hand with his left to keep the blade sheathed — and heard Wilkey, behind him, draw his sword.

  "Put up, Sergeant!" The sword whispered back into its scabbard.

  Lenihan, who couldn't breathe, fought hard. His chair went over with a clatter; a fat folder slid from the desk. He struck with a heavy fist at Sam's head and belly, tried for his balls. Then plucked and tore at the strangling hand, to wrench it free.

  The office door opened.

  "Mind your own business," Wilkey said behind Sam, and kicked the door shut.

  The general, though a tough man, was beginning to soften with lack of air. The punches and kicks slowly became random. Sam saw in the man's eyes the astounded realization this might be death — come so oddly, so suddenly, in an office of all things, and at the hand of a titled stranger young enough to be his son.

  Sam let him go, and the general slid down the wall to one knee, took long, gasping breaths — then staggered up with his dagger drawn.

  Sam, arms crossed, sat back on the desk edge, watching him... taking no notice of the knife.

  "You… young dog!" A furious brigadier, and even hoarser now. There were tentative knocks on the office door.

  "Get away from there!" Sergeant Wilkey said. There were no more knocks.

  Sam was careful not to smile. "I apologize, Lenihan. I was hasty — but I needed to get your attention. We simply don't have time to waste with nonsense." He picked a paper off the desk-top, then another, and glanced over them. "Floating Jesus!" Pleased to have remembered the River's Great. "You people are moving units of East-bank army to cover these fucking towns!"

  "That's right!" The general was still gripping his dagger. "The Kipchaks are raiding across the ice, up-river. They're burning East-bank towns. Killing everyone in them. Children... everyone!"

  "Of course they are, General." Sam set the papers down. "Haven't you wondered why? — The Kipchaks like children. They have children of their own. So they must have a reason to be crossing the river up there, attacking those towns, and killing your people — including the little children."

  "You... put your hands on me." Lenihan sheathed his dagger.

  "Yes, I did. And if you don't begin to think, instead of sitting passing papers like turds, I'll put my hands on you again. Is that plain enough for you, General?"

  Scowling silence.

  "The Kipchaks want you people to break up your East-bank army. Shapilov, and now the Khan, want that army dissolved into little garrisons guarding civilians who should be moving back off the river into the forests. What the Khan doesn't want, is that army united into a single force that might cross the river ice against him!" Sam shook his head. "Lenihan, you and your people at Island have been doing the Kipchaks' work for them."

  "We have not."

  "Yes, you have. And it must stop. We don't have time for mistakes this serious. So far, you've been dealing with the Khan's generals. But now, Toghrul has taken command. Another blunder like this, he'll tear your throats out." Sam stood up off the desk. "You people are not dealing with tribesmen and savages any longer, warriors who don't know discipline. You're facing a great mechanical of war — do you understand? A veteran horse-army that can move fifty Warm-time miles a day, and fight a battle that evening. All commanded by a man more intelligent than both of us together."

  Sam stood off the desk, and went to the door. "So, we do things right, General, and do them quickly and in cooperation — my people coming up into Map-Arkansas, and yours north, on the river ice. We do things right... or your head and my head and the Queen's head will end piled with thousands of others, here in your great courtyard."

  "I... don't know."

  "Yes, you do know, Lenihan.... Now, by right of the Queen's warrant to me, you will inform General DeVane of East-bank army, General Parker of West-bank army, the two senior admirals at Island — Pearce and Hopkins — and the River Lords Sayre and Cooper, that their presence is commanded this afternoon in the Queen's council chamber at... two glasses. Each may bring one aide. And General Bailey may choose to attend, or not."

  Lenihan looked even wearier than before. "I will... inform them, milord."

  "'Sir,' will do; we don't have time for 'milord's. But you will do more than inform them, Lenihan. You will see to it that those officers and lords are present — if necessary, escorted and under arrest."

  "... Yes, sir."

  "What's your first name?"

  "Patrick."

  "Two more matters, Patrick. You're to post a guard at your corridor door. Also, put your clerks up on charges, for not supporting their officer with more than timid tapping while he was being assaulted."

  A grudging first smile from the general. "Sir."

  "See you at two, Pat," Sam said, and left the office, Wilkey following.

  * * *

  Ned Flores, weary, stood by a hasty nighttime fire, his steel hook reflecting the flames' red. "Howell, we're not moving fast enough."

  "We're moving as fast as won't exhaust the men and break down the horses." Howell spit tobacco-juice hissing into the fire. "Won't do us any good, Ned, to ruin the army moving it."

  "Speaking of which, we should be nearing the Kipchaks' supply lines soon."

  "Yes."

  "What do you want done when we hit them?"

  "Take what we can use, give the rest to the local tribesmen."

  "And the escort?"

  "Kill them all." '

  "Okay…. My men have had no trouble with the savages — called Bluebirds, apparently. And they'll like any plunder we can give them. No trouble with the Bluebirds — but we got some cold looks from those West-bank scouts, couple of days ago."

  "We're just passing through, Ned. We won't give them any trouble, and there aren't enough of them down here to give us any trouble. If the drum calls com
ing down the river are true, the Kipchaks pretty much wrecked West-bank army up at St. Louis." Howell kicked a brand back into the flames. "Also, I intend to look to those river people for food and fodder as we go north to the Map-Missouri line, in case Charles can't get supplies up to us fast enough. So, let's not kill any of the soldiers they have left."

  "Right.... It's really upsetting."

  "What?"

  "That you're actually thinking, Howell. It's difficult to get used to."

  "You insubordinate asshole. You're lucky you're wearing that nasty thing."

  Flores raised his hook and kissed it. "Don't insult my Alice."

  "Alice?"

  "Why not? Remember Alice Rodriguez? Cold, curved, and dangerous?"

  "... Oh, Mountain Jesus. Hadn't thought of her for years. Well, take 'Alice' — and your regiment — and move off north. Smartly, Ned. We'll night-march six glass-hours."

  "General," — Flores saluted with the middle finger of his good hand — "consider it done."

  With Ned mounted and spurred off through falling snow, calling for his trumpeter, Howell stood warming his hands at the failing fire, watching down the hillside to the defile where Phil Butler's Heavy Infantry battalions were marching north in moonlight. Marching in good spirits, apparently, since they were singing "Gringo the Russians, Oh" as they swung along. Odd, how falling snow muffled sound.

  "General?" Roberto Collins reining in his horse — and looking too young to be a captain on the staff. "Last units, sir, except for Colonel Loomis's rear guard."

  "All right. Orders."

  "Sir."

  "Colonel Loomis to deploy three companies of Lights as tail-end charlies. Double-time the others up to flank us, deploying lightly to the east, heavily to the west. We'll be approaching the Kipchaks' lines of supply, coming from Map-Texas to north on the river. Tell her I want no surprises."

  "Sir."

  "And Roberto, make sure Charmian understands that her people are to stand no engagement. If there's a problem, they're to skirmish, then fall back on the main body."

  "Yes, sir." And Collins was off at a gallop through deepening snow. Young, it seemed to Howell, young for a staff officer. And where had "tail-end charlies" come from? Some copybook....