Kingdom River Page 8

... Toghrul had often considered relieving his chancellor of the necessity, but each time, a voice — his father's, perhaps — had murmured caution. He liked Michael Razumov, and almost trusted him. Reason enough to keep him on all fours.

  When Toghrul was alone — but for twenty troopers of the Guard's Regiment pacing here and there — he said his farewell to the dying flowers... which had wanted nothing from him but sheep shit and water. Then he walked the Turquoise Path to his great yurt of oiled yellow silk, spangled with silver... set its entrance cloth aside, and stepped into the smell and smoke of cooking sausage.

  His wife, and the slave named Eleanor, were preparing dinner at the yurt's center stove. — The caravanserai cooked and served for hundreds... thousands, if need be. But Toghrul had learned to avoid those kettles of boiled mutton with southern rice and peppers, though he would poke and fork at the food on occasions of state. The old Khan had loved that sort of cooking.

  His wife looked up from cluttered pots and pans, through smoke rising to the ceiling's small Sky's eye. "What today, sweet lord?"

  "Oh, Ladu, the tedious usual — causing fear and giving orders." He tossed his horse-whip onto a divan, then sat while Eleanor wrestled his boots off. Eleanor was a handsome woman with braided hair the color of autumn grass. Once, she had looked into Toghrul's eyes in the way a woman might gaze at a man while offering, while considering possibilities, advantages.

  Toghrul had then had Chang-doctor remove her left eye — it had been done under southern poppy syrup — with no explanation offered. But Eleanor had understood, and Toghrul's wife had understood. So now, the slave offered no more impudent glances of that sort, and seemed content.

  "We have pig sausage and onions and shortbread cake. Will those help?" His wife smiled.

  "They will certainly help."

  Where the old Khan had mounted any pretty female oddment the armies found — enjoying the novelty, apparently — Toghrul, after some experiment, had decided on a traditional wife. Ladu, a Chukchi, somewhat squat and a little plump, had been chosen from the daughters of several senior officers — officers safely dead in battle, so dynastic entanglements were avoided.

  Toghrul often considered that choice his best proof of good judgment, since Ladu had not found him frightening, then had come to care for him. One morning, waking beside her and watching that round, unremarkable face still soft in sleep, her short little ice-weather nose, the deep folds over slanted eyes closed in dreaming, he'd been startled to find that he loved her. This still surprised and amused him. It warmed him too, in a minor way, on winter rides, campaigning…. Only sons were missing — or had been. Ladu's little belly had been swelling for months, and properly, according to Chang-doctor.

  So now, of course, there were expectations of a son. The staff had expectations… the chiefs and generals, also. Toghrul could disappoint them, and they would bear it…. Ladu could not. She, and old Chimuk, were the only ones who never stood before him without anticipating a possible dreadful blow. That fear, its wary distancing, was certainly tedious, certainly made ruling more difficult, but Toghrul had found no way to remove it, since it was what the clans, the troops, expected and had always expected. In that sense only, he was the ruled and they the rulers. They were certain to be afraid of him; and what they required, he must perform.

  ... Ladu and Eleanor set hammered brass platters on the green carpet, a campaign spoil, and one of the last of its kind, with wonderful figures of racing blue-gray dogs woven into it. Toghrul slid off the divan and sat cross-legged to eat. The women stood by the stove, watching him, his appetite their reward.

  "Delicious!" The sausage was wonderful. Bless the pig herd, though many of his men — those still worshiping Old Maybe — wouldn't go near the animals, certainly wouldn't eat their flesh.

  Both women had nodded, smiling at his 'Delicious!' The Great Khan, He Who Is Feared and Lord of Grass, had paid for his supper.

  * * *

  "They're inside, came down yesterday." Margaret Mosten, by torchlight, motioned to Sam's tent.

  "Charles and Eric?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "No quarters of their own?"

  "They wanted to speak with you."

  "Nailed Jesus...." Sam swung down off his horse. Not his horse — Handsome was dead, left in the mountains, south. This was a nameless hard-mouthed brute, one of the imperials' big chargers.... They'd ridden back north by slow marches — more than a Warm-time week — the last returning days hungry, and all but the wounded taking turns on foot.

  "Sir" — Margaret's eyes shone in the pine-knot's flaring — "what a wonderful thing." She'd been left behind to mind the camp.

  "Killing their people, did not bring ours back to life." Sam walked sore and stiff-legged to the tent's entrance, put back the flap, and stepped into lamplight.

  Charles Ketch, tall, gray, seeming weary of the weight of administration, sat hunched on Sam's locker. Eric Lauder, livelier, alert, perched cross-legged on the cot. A checker-board was propped between them. In age, they might almost have been father and son, but in no other way.

  "Make yourselves at home."

  "Ah" — Eric jumped a piece and took it off the board — "the conquering hero comes."

  Sam swung his scabbarded sword's harness from his back, set the weapon by the head of the cot, and shrugged off his cloak. "Get off my bed, Eric. I'm tired."

  "Are you hurt?"

  "No. I avoided the fighting." Sam waited while Lauder stood and lifted the checker-board away. "Been injured in my pride, of course." He sat on the cot, then lay down and stretched out, boots and all. It felt wonderful to be out of the saddle.

  "You seem to have made the best of a bad blunder." Eric emptied the checkers into their narrow wooden box.

  "I was winning that game," Charles, annoyed. "You owe me five pesos."

  "Would have owed — had you won."

  "I suppose the best of a bad blunder." Sam thought of sitting up to take his boots off. It seemed too great a task.

  "Yes." Eric set the board against the tent wall. "But what sort of blunder was it?"

  "A serious one — sending Ned Flores and a half-regiment to do a larger force's work." The tent's lamp smelled of New England's expensive whale oil, and seemed too bright. Sam closed his eyes for a moment.

  "And what 'work' was that, Sam?"

  "The work of winning a fight here, Eric."

  "Winning a fight?" Eric sat on the locker beside Charles, nudged him to shift over. "You know, there is nothing more stupid than keeping a secret from your chief of intelligence."

  "Except," Charles said, and winked at Sam, "telling him all of them."

  "I made a mistake, Eric, doing something that was necessary. I was clumsy, and it cost us good people." Sam sat up to take off his boots. "What I could do to retrieve the situation has been done. Now change the subject."

  "Fine," Eric said. "What subject shall we change to?" Smiling, his voice pleasant, softer than before, his dark eyes darker than his trimmed beard, he was very angry.

  "Sleep."

  "Before sleep, Sam" — Charles leaned forward — "there are questions in the army. Not complaints; more surprise than anything."

  "Charles, the army is to be told this: We fought a battle, lost it — learned — then fought again and won. We will likely fight more battles, and may lose another, then fight again and win. Only children are allowed to win every time. That's what the army is to be told. Any officer with more questions, can come to me with them."

  Charles sat on the locker, looking at him. "...Alright."

  "A good answer," Eric said. "The fucking army thinks it's Mountain Jesus come down from his tree."

  "Anything else?"

  "Yes. Sam, there's serious fighting now, in the north. The Kipchak patrols are already in Map-Arkansas — and probably up into Map-Missouri as well; going to be trying for the river fairly soon. The major clans — Eagles, Foxes, Skies, and Spring Flowers — all gathered into tumans. It's to be winter war, no questi
on.... Merchants we talk to, say Middle Kingdom is spending gold in preparation, particularly on their fleet. Frontier companies of their West-bank army are already skirmishing."

  "No surprises there. Anything else?"

  "Yes."

  "Eric," Charles said, "it can wait."

  "No, it can't."

  "Rumors, Sam."

  "Not rumors, Charles," Eric said. "First informationals."

  "Alright." Sam felt sick to his stomach — from being so tired, he supposed. "Let's hear it."

  "Pigeon news from Texas, Twelve-mile," Eric said, almost whispering. "Our Secret-person there tells us a regiment, under Vladimir Crusan, rode out of Map-Fort Stockton yesterday. Riding south to Map-Alpine, then probably down to the Bravo. Also indications that another regiment is coming south to join him."

  Sam sat up straighter, rubbed the back of his neck to stay alert. "That's interesting. You'd think they'd be too busy to trouble us. He has Seventh Tuman?"

  "The Ninth," Eric said. "And I think the idea is to remind us to keep out of their business."

  "What do we know of Crusan?"

  "Only half-Kipchak," Charles said. "A good, steady commander, but not the independent type."

  "Crusan is a good cavalryman." Eric frowned, considering. "But we don't think — my people don't think — he's up to commanding more than the Ninth."

  "Coming down at full strength?"

  "Apparently, Sam. One regiment… so, Warm-time's give-or-take, a thousand horse archers. And if, as seems likely, he joins with another detached regiment on the border, that would make about two thousand men."

  '"Maneuvers? Blooding recruits for the campaign against Middle Kingdom?"

  "That's possible, Sam." Charles stood, stooping slightly under the tent's canvas. "But more likely just to keep us out of it, since we flank them to the south."

  "Which" — Eric smiled — "makes them a little nervous. Pigeons have been coming in from my people, Map-California on east. The Kipchaks are being careful to stay well north of our border while they move their supplies through Map-Texas, mule and wagon-freight from the coast.... They're having some difficulty getting goods out of South Map-California — we don't know why — but they're still gathering remounts at Map-Fort Stockton, Map-Big Spring, Map-Abilene."

  "Supplies for more than a year's campaigning, Eric?"

  "No, Sam. Not for more than a year."

  "So, the Khan expects to beat the Boxcars, take their whole river kingdom, in Lord Winter's season."

  "That's right," Eric said. "And I'd say he can do it."

  "Not easily." Charles shook his head. He looked tired as Sam felt. Looked his age, stooped, graying. "He'll have to whip their West-bank army, then campaign up and down the Map-Mississippi once it's frozen to easy going for cavalry. And even if he destroys their fleet, he still has to deal with the East-bank army."

  "Alright, not easily," Eric said. "It's a big mouthful, but the Khan has a big appetite. And in any case, these regiments coming south are a different matter. They're just for us — a little reminder."

  "If they're coming down, yes." Sam could smell himself in the tent's closeness. Horse sweat and his sweat. "But when — and if — the Kipchaks break the Kingdom, control the river, it will give the Khan all the West, give him the Gulf Entire.... Then we come next."

  "He might not be able to do it at all." Charles pursed his lips, considering the Khan's difficulties. "Kingdom's West-bank army is what, now, fifteen thousand regulars? All heavy infantry. And they're only the first Boxcars he'll meet."

  Sam saw Charles trying to talk things better, take some of the decision-weight from him. It didn't help. The conversation, repeating the heart of many conversations, seemed dream talk, difficult to stay awake for. "Charles, the Kipchaks can do it, if Lord Winter helps them and freezes the river fast. I think I could do it with the Khan's forces — and if I could do it, it's damn sure Toghrul can…. Now, Eric, this attack on our border.

  You believe those people are coming down — or you know?"

  "I know they rode south. And I'd say they'll cross the Bravo above Map-Chihuahua."

  "Coming down west of the Bend. Alright, I accept that — and on your head be it."

  Lauder smiled. "Sam… what an unpleasant phrase."

  "Two thousand wouldn't do to come against us seriously, and Crusan apparently not the commander to try it. Still, it makes sense, if only as an exercise, to act as if it were a serious threat." Sam thought a moment longer. "Charles, see to it all border towns and posts in the area are notified of possible trouble. They're to prepare their people to leave and march south up into the hills if the order comes, or considerable forces of Khanate cavalry are scouted. And by 'considerable,' I mean horsetails maneuvering in more than one area, in near-regimental strength. Then — and only then — they are to burn any standing crops, destroy any animals they can't take with them."

  "Good." Lauder struck a fist into his other palm.

  "Sam, it's premature," Charles said, "even as a preliminary order. The Khan's people are not even near the border."

  "Better too early than too late. And if Eric's wrong about this, we'll cut his pay."

  "If I'm wrong, you can keep my pay." Lauder stood up. "Well, keep a month of it, anyway."

  " — Also, Charles..." Sam lost the thought for a moment from weariness, then recalled it. "Also, all militia captains in Chihuahua are to be prepared to act against light-cavalry raiders. By harassing only, cutting off straggling small units, then retreating to broken or high ground. They are not to engage in any considerable battle — and if that order is disregarded, I will hang the captain responsible, win or lose."

  "Alright, Sam." Charles sighed, resigned. His sighs, it seemed to Sam, more and more frequent. "But even this — if it proves to be for nothing — is going to cost us tax money we can't afford to lose. Crops burned, sheep and cattle killed or taken."

  "If it proves to be for nothing, Charles, we've at least got Eric's pay. These orders are to be sent without delay. Riders tonight, birds in the morning."

  "Yes, sir." Definitely displeased.

  "And, Sam," Lauder said, "while you're still awake..."

  "I'm not awake."

  "Do we have an answer for the merchant Philip Golvin?"

  "Oh, shit." Sam lay back down, felt sore muscles settle in relief.

  "Unavoidable. I'm sorry."

  "Eric, is there any question he speaks for the Queen?"

  "None. Golvin factors goods for Island, for river traffic generally, and acts as an unofficial emissary. Queen Joan has used him before. Sent him all the way to Boston, once — apparently he didn't care for the journey. Went by ship across the Gulf, then up into the Map-Atlantic, sea-sick all the way."

  "Sam," Charles said, "she definitely wants a visit from you."

  "Wants more than that," Lauder said. "Queen Joan's getting old, has only a daughter — and ruling those barely-reformed cannibals can't be a pleasure. Two armies, for Weather's sake! West-bank and East-bank, and the men and officers of each kept absolutely separate!"

  "Good reason for that," Sam said. What sort of hint did it need to be, when a man lay stretched on his cot, to leave him alone to sleep?

  "But only a king's reason, Sam, to hold power balanced between them. And there's the Fleet."

  "Still, Eric," Charles said, "the lady manages, keeps the throne. And with the King dead, now, for seven years."

  "Charles, I don't say she isn't formidable — Middle Kingdom's formidable — I'm just saying she's looking for someone to hold the throne for her daughter, when she's gone…. Looking for someone, Sam, who isn't one of their river lords, isn't a general in either army. Queen Joan has a bookish daughter, and no sons. She needs a son-in-law who won't cut her throat — or force her to cut his."

  "What a prospect. 'Bookish daughter' and a cut throat." Sam closed his eyes against the lamplight. "I doubt very much that the Queen is serious about my marrying her daughter. She's presenting the possibility, so I'l
l send troops to the Kingdom, help them against the Khan."

  "More likely," Charles said.

  Eric smiled. "Still, a possibility may become... probable."

  "Worse," Sam said, eyes still closed. "Necessary. Now, I'm tired, and I would appreciate being left alone."

  "Alright." Eric stood. "Alright... but this girl the Boston people have sent — "

  "It'll wait. Now, if you two will put out that lamp and leave, you will make me very happy.''

  "In the morning" — Charles leaned to blow out the hanging lantern — "back to Better-Weather?"

  Sam spoke into darkness. "Yes, we'll go, if the wounded can bear traveling. There's nothing useful at this camp but the dirt my dead are buried in."

  ... He lay, feeling too weary to sleep. Heard Charles and Eric murmuring, walking away. Lauder already, apparently, with a good notion what had been intended down here, what had gone wrong with Ned Flores and his people.

  Eric was a razor with a slippery handle — bad temper and arrogance his weaknesses as chief of intelligence.... Charles, as administrator, hampered in a different way. His fault lay in fondness for Small-Sam Monroe, young enough to have been his son. And that, of course, the more serious weakness, leading to errors in judgment too subtle to be seen until suddenly damaging.

  Fierceness and fondness... vulnerabilities balanced fairly enough between the two men most important to North Map-Mexico. Most important beside the young Captain-General, of course.

  And now, it seemed the Khan was sending regiments south. A quick decision, probably, taken the last few days. It was interesting to study the Kipchak's Map-Nevada campaigns — see the pattern of them, far-ranging, swift, gather-and-strike, gather-and-strike. A herding pattern, a hunting pattern also, formed by generations lived in great empty spaces. A people, and an army, in motion. All cavalry.

  They wouldn't care for close, tangled places. Wouldn't care for high, broken country, either.

  Now, it seemed the Khan had decided, in the guise of two regiments, to greet and become acquainted with North Map-Mexico's Captain-General — as a wrestler might gently grip an opponent's arm, begin to try his strength and balance…. Toghrul perhaps grown weary of being locked into the western prairie, his way east blocked by Middle Kingdom and its great river. A river, according to the little librarian, Peter, much greater — with even short summers' meltings of a continent of ice and snow — than it had been as the Warm-time Mississippi.