Kingdom River Read online

  "I do, and I care for you."

  "And showed it never!"

  "Mother, that's not so.... You are not easy to deal with."

  "Then stop dealing with me. — Martha, what the fuck are you doing over there? Get us packed."

  "Taking your old knife, Majesty?"

  "I'm carrying my old knife, yes. That's Trapper steel — best steel. I only wish I could take my bow, but this draw-shoulder won't bear it anymore." The Queen struck her shoulder with her fist, as punishment.

  "Mother — "

  "Rachel, if you don't stop bothering me over this, I'll lose my temper."

  "Then lose your fucking temper, you selfish old bitch!" Princess Rachel's face was flushed red. "You don't know who loves you, who cares for you!"

  Martha stopped packing and stood still. She sensed, throughout the tower chambers, others standing still. There was silence enough for the wind to be heard very clearly, hissing round the tower's stone.

  "Now..." the Queen said. "Now, Daughter, you begin to please me — and don't spoil it with crying. I'd better not see a single tear."

  "You won't," the Princess said, though it sounded to Martha as if tears were waiting.

  "Comb-honey," the Queen said, and set her spears aside, "you should know I loved your father, and mourn him every day. And love you the same.... But this is no season for a queen to hide in her tower. Our people need to see me on the ice."

  "But not fighting."

  "Certainly won't, if I can help it. I don't care to make a spectacle of myself. A silly old woman, stiff in the joints."

  "You are not." Princess Rachel went to her mother like a child. The Queen seemed startled, then opened her arms. A hand, strong and long-fingered, scarred from battles long ago, stroked her daughter's hair.

  Martha left the packing and left the room. She was certainly allowed tears, if the Queen didn't see them.

  CHAPTER 22

  "May I congratulate you, Great Lord?" General Shapilov — tall, a lean rack of bones — knelt on thick carpet in a camp yurt fairly large, and well-warmed by a folding stove. "After my fumbling, you plucked this St. Louis like a ripe blueberry."

  Shapilov had a habit of admitting blame at once — apparently thought that protection. Toghrul found the habit was becoming tiresome.

  "I plucked it by using my head, General, instead of wasting men and horses fighting through these unpleasantly crowded streets and structures. Surely... surely, Shapilov, it occurred to you that a river port would find survival difficult if its waterfront were taken and blockaded. All that was required was a thrust from the north down along the riverbank, then a single tuman dismounted to hold it."

  "Now, I see it, lord."

  "Hide your face from me." Toghrul said it pleasantly, with no bluster, no bullying. "I am not pleased with you."

  General Shapilov fell forward and pressed his face to the blue carpet — a really fine many-knot imperial. He said something, a muffled something. A mumbled offer of suicide?

  Toghrul sighed. "It's a notion. Perhaps another time."

  Were those sobs? Certainly sounded like sobs. And perfectly, perfectly illustrative of the difficulties in absolute rule. Here was a fairly competent senior officer — but he could only be fairly competent, or he might become dangerous... well, troublesome. Yuri Chimuc's grandson, the so-brilliant young Manu Ek-Tam, would have had this dirty and unpleasant city in three days. He would have gone to their river-front at once, like a wolf leaping. More than competent. Too much so. Soon he would have to suffer a hero's death down in South Map-Texas, and be wasted.

  General Shapilov now lay silent, slack as if fucked — which in a way, of course, he had been.

  "Get up. And get out."

  A sort of bony scurrying then, as he backed out on all fours. Surprising he hadn't backed into the stove. Amusing, of course, but also deadly serious. To be a khan meant that no else must be found also fit to be a khan — which left only limited servants, limited generals, so the ruler must do every truly important thing himself.

  An odd and potentially disastrous structure, really. And, considering oddness — though not yet disaster — what in the Blue Sky's world was happening with the idiots of Supply? Surely it was simple enough to haul a very-important hundred sledded wagons east through the wilds of North Map-Arkansas and up into Map-Missouri to the army. Then what explanation for them not yet arriving? Unlikely they'd been attacked by crows or coyotes....

  Pigeons from Chang-doctor say Ladu keeps the child safe in her belly, and is well, no damned complications. — What did it mean when a Kipchak khan, campaigning, found his wife's unremarkable face, her remarkable bright black eyes, in every inked map, every diagrammed plan of attack... ?

  * * *

  Margaret had left General Lenihan's office — they dealt surprisingly well with each other, at least on the subject of possible supply runs to the west bank, if needed by North Map-Mexico's army. They'd dealt with each other on that subject by Lenihan saying, "Never." and "No chance." and Margaret saying, "Horseshit, sir." Then gone on from there.

  The general, a widower, had seemed slightly bemused by a fighting officer with breasts. It was an advantage Margaret had been happy to take advantage of.

  Sergeant Mays, massive and still, stood waiting for her in the corridor. "Princess," he said to her.

  Fresh from Lenihan's ambivalence — wonderful Warm-time word — Margaret thought for an antic instant that the sergeant was declaring affection, then followed his glance down the hall to see Princess Rachel, an older Boxcar lady, and a large sergeant in green armor.

  Margaret went to them, managed an awkward bow — looking, she thought, a little ridiculous with a long, sheathed rapier poking out behind her — and said, "May I be of help?"

  Princess Rachel — ordinarily pale, very composed — was flushed and restless, her hands finding no place to be still. "I'm looking — Captain, I would like to speak with Lord Monroe."

  "I believe he's on the wall, Princess. On the west wall, perhaps below the tower there."

  "Very well. Very well." The Princess turned, hesitated — and Margaret lied and said, "I'm going to him now. May I escort you?"

  "Yes, please. Lady Claire, I won't need you."

  "But Rachel, you can't — you have no cloak, for one thing."

  "She has mine," Margaret said, swung off her cloak, and draped it over the Princess's shoulders. A tall young woman — taller than Margaret by two or three inches.

  "Still," the lady said, "you shouldn't — "

  "I have — what's your name, Sergeant?"

  "Ralph, ma'am."

  "I have Ralph-sergeant here — and after all, Claire, I am engaged to the Captain-General; I think I'll be safe enough with him."

  The older lady made a little clucking sound.

  "Claire..."

  It seemed to Margaret that that 'Claire' had sounded almost in the Queen's voice. Lady Claire, apparently feeling so as well, ducked into a curtsy and left them.

  ... The cold struck with ice-knives as they stepped from a stone embrasure onto the broad, paved crest of west wall. Its massive tower rose high above them as they went leaning into the river wind. Margaret's face and hands went quickly numb, so she unbuttoned her jerkin and tucked her sword-hand in against her belly to stay useful.

  "You must go back." The Princess's voice was snatched from her by a whining gust. "No cloak...."

  "Refreshing!" Margaret had to almost shout, and the Princess smiled, so they might have been friends on an adventure.

  They bent to the wind, the big sergeant trudging behind them, and passed great springals and catapults, all covered in waxed cotton canvas and squatting in their redoubts like patient beasts. It seemed to Margaret a hard wall to take, so massive and high above the river. Only Light Infantry, up from small boats on a dark night, would have any chance at all. And with the garrison alerted, might expect half those people lost, even winning, and with the rest of west-fortifications still to seize.... Not that it cou
ldn't be done. Not that the Kipchaks couldn't do it, once the river froze down to Island. But the doing would kill thousands of them.

  Margaret began to think they'd come up for nothing but frozen fingers and toes, then saw Sam standing with another man by the wall's granite crenellations a bow-shot away, their cloaks billowing in the wind. Seeing Margaret's party, the men came to meet them, Sam in leather and mail, the other in blued-steel breast-and-back. Margaret saw the Boxcar was the West-bank general, Parker, tall, handsome, coldly adamant as the wall he walked on.

  "Princess...." Both men bowed.

  It seemed to Margaret that Sam was doing the bowing thing better, less stiff at it. But he was looking older. Grown older in just these last weeks.

  Sam raised his voice; the freezing wind was buffeting them like the greeting of a large, friendly dog. "The general and I were judging drift ice."

  "I see." The wind had struck Princess Rachel's face white and mottled red, drawn tears to her eyes. "The Queen... my mother has left Island!"

  "This morning. Yes, I know." Sam glanced at Margaret. "Get under cover."

  "I'm fine. Not frozen yet." They were all almost shouting over the wind's moan and whuffle.

  "She's sailing north." Perhaps wind-tears in the Princess's eyes, perhaps not. "And for no good reason! No good reason at all."

  "Well, perhaps to be with her people," Sam said, "when they fight."

  "It's ridiculous! It's ridiculous… she's needed here."

  "Rachel." Sam put his arm around her — the first time Margaret had seen him do that. "Rachel, I know you're afraid for her. And so am I. But she's doing what she must." He smiled. "I won't say she isn't also enjoying herself."

  "That is what's so... stupid."

  "No doubt." Sam held her a moment longer, then took his arm away.

  Done perfectly, it seemed to Margaret.... The cold was making the bones in her face ache.

  " — And while we're here turning to iced cream, Rachel, I must tell you I'll be leaving soon also. For the west bank, and inland to my army. The Khan will know by now that something's wrong in North Map-Arkansas. He'll be bringing part of his army down to deal with it."

  "You're going...."

  "Yes." A harder gust shoved at them. "You'll rule at Island for your mother, Rachel. You'll rule as she would," — he smiled — "but perhaps with an easier temper."

  "I'm... I can't."

  "Tell me, General," Sam almost shouting over the wind, "can she rule — and the armies behind her?"

  "On my honor," Parker said, handsome even with iced eyebrows.

  "Sergeant?"

  The big sergeant seemed surprised to be asked. ".., Yes, sir!"

  "There, Rachel," Sam said. "What more could you ask? And in any case, both the Queen and I will be back very soon to embarrass you."

  "You don't... embarrass me."

  "Very kind.... Captain Mosten, you'll be staying with the Princess. You'll be her right arm — do you understand?"

  "But I should be with you."

  "Every time, Margaret — except this time. I'll miss you, but your most important work is here, with Rachel. If more muscle should be needed in Island, you'll have Pedro, Noel Purse and the tower guards, and Mays, Carey, and Burke. I'll be taking Wilkey with me.... And listen to Ansel Carey, Margaret; he has a nose for trouble."

  Margaret was going to argue, but Sam seemed too tired to argue with.

  "Yes, sir."

  "But what... my lord, what do I need to do?"

  "Rachel, do what seems sensible to help in this war — and to maintain your power so that you can help in this war. Do what seems sensible, do it quickly, and let no one stand in your way."

  The wind had slackened so that 'no one... stand in your way' echoed a little from the stone.

  ... Warmer at last — at least not freezing — Margaret breathed on her fingers as the sergeant led them back down the battlement's covered steps... the narrow stairway winding down with a wall to its left, to leave invaders unshielded as they came.

  "Your cloak," the Princess said.

  " — Is where it belongs," Margaret said. "We don't need you chilled and sick."

  The Princess said nothing down another flight of steps, until they reached a landing. "You would rather have gone with him."

  "It's shocking, how little all armies care for 'rathers.' "

  "A lesson for me?"

  "I didn't intend that, Princess."

  "No, but a lesson all the same. And since we will be together, please call me Rachel."

  "Margaret," said Margaret.

  CHAPTER 23

  Dearborn was regarded in the service as a soft captain. Was nicknamed 'Daisy' because of it. Daisy Dearborn.

  But — rowers sent south — a day and night of sleepless effort by captain, officers, and crew to haul the skate-rigged Queen's ship Mischief up onto the river ice, had worn away Dearborn's softness. A man he'd noticed slacking at the forward winch, now lay manacled in the bilge, whipped, and discussing the matter with the rats.

  A day and a night of brutal labor — all in a near-blizzard of wind and hard-driven snow. But at last this morning, with winches working block and tackle fore and aft, and men up on the ice with grapnels (thank Jesus-Floating for Bosun Hiram Cate), she was up and skating, sails slatting in quartering winds as the deck-crew stowed pulleys, winch bars, and two miles of ice-crusted cable, rope, and cord.

  The cost had been the whipping, a broken arm, four various broken fingers, and a thumb pinched off. Sprains, aches, bruises, and fingernails torn away — uncounted.

  Not for the first time — though more and more, lately — Captain Dearborn was considering himself old for active service. And while considering it, stepping down the narrow starboard ladder from a poop deck crowded by two big scorpions and their stacks of massive steel-tipped javelins, he found some confirmation in the lookout's yodel from a raven's-nest barely visible itself, high in swirling snow.

  "Deck there! Somethin off to the southwest."

  "Horse-riders?"

  "... Sir?"

  "Horse-riders?"

  "A sled... sir."

  A sled? Dearborn and Jim Neal, his first officer — who should have been trimming sail — both went to the starboard rail. Peering through ice-rimed boarder netting, they saw, sliding out of clouds of blowing snow, a sight that confirmed the Fleet's oldest tradition. Comes always something worse.

  "Mother of God," said Neal, appealing to the most ancient Great.

  It was a huge sled — gilded, painted blood-red, and drawn by a blanketed six-horse team shod with spiked iron. Furred and fur-hooded, a bulky groom rode postilion on the left lead. And a red banner, ranked with twelve gold dots, curled and spanked in the wind.

  Captain Dearborn said, "Oh, no. Oh, no."

  A trumpet spoke up from the sled as if the 'no' had been noted. Then a woman's voice, just as loud. "Is this the fucking Ill News!"

  "No! No, ma'am!" Dearborn shouted in relief. "We're Mischief... Your Majesty?"

  There was conversation down on the sled, hard to hear over the wind. Then, something easy to hear.

  "We'll board this one! You — you up there! Lower some fucking ladder or whatever. I'm coming up!"

  "Oh, my God...." Lieutenant Neal's second prayer. Apparently too little, and too late.

  * * *

  At four glass-hours after the center of the night, the river below the Bronze Gate was black as running ground-oil, and brought a black wind with it.

  Sam, with Sergeant Wilkey nimbler after him, managed from the dock-finger into a narrow sailing boat, then past a low cabin to the bow. He found it an advantage, in that sort of scramble, having his sword strapped down his back, rather than tangling and tripping him…. The boat shifted, as even within a stone harbor, ice came nudging, scraping against its hull.

  The two crewmen — both River-men — loosed the lines, came aboard neatly, and sheeted in the single sail.

  General DeVane, standing beside Lenihan and two other
officers high on the wharf — and seeming even plumper, cloak-wrapped in torchlight — called out softly, "Good hunting, milord."

  Already seized by the current, the boat was swinging out into the harbor pool, rocking a little as a crewman took the tiller. It drifted… then, caught by the wind, its sail bellied taut, bucked into low waves and tapping ice-shards as it carved away west, out onto the river.

  Island — a dark mountain except where specks of lamplight shone through granite casemates and arrow-slits — loomed behind them for nearly a glass-hour, till swallowed by the night.

  For glass-hours after, Sam sat at the boat's bow, enjoying freezing spray and wind gusts. He would have been pleased by anything taking him from the Boxcars' palace. Taking him from inescapable scheming, persuading, and threatening. Taking him from admirals, generals, and river lords.... He rode the river's sinuous courses, taking deep breaths of night air, no matter that it bit his lungs and made them ache. He yearned for his army like a lover — an army, and a home to him — and knew he would lose that simplicity, whether the coming battle was lost or won.

  A secret, of course, that Queen Joan already knew. That the Khan already knew. "Victories," Sam said aloud, "but triumph never."

  "Sir?" The sergeant barely visible by the small cabin behind him,

  "I was talking to the river, Wilkey."

  "Sir."

  Behind them... dawn's first light.

  * * *

  Martha had always thought battles, however frightening, must at least be interesting. It was disappointing to discover that wasn't so, at least wasn't so yet.

  Certainly not as interesting as Ralph-sergeant — after saying no special word to her since he'd come — suddenly stepping from his post on the tower stairs as Martha and the Queen were leaving, taking Martha by the arm, then hugging her as if she'd given him leave. His armor and her mail had been pressed hard between them when, though startled, she'd hugged him back.

  Then he'd taken his helmet off, and kissed her.

  The Queen, a few steps lower, had looked back and said, "Martha, for Christ's sake," — referring to the first Jesus — "this is not the time for it!"