"This vessal to the Iron Gate," the big officer had said, speaking to the Brown-cloak Captain in a different voice than he'd used in conversation with the Bad-lip Lord. " – To the Iron Gate, directly and in order, otherwise at your peril."
"Understood," the Captain had said, "and will be conformed to."
And, after the officers marched the marines back up their ramp, the great two-decked ship had lunged away, its ranks of oars striking all together, its drums sounding slower beats, its trumpet a different call.
Soon, Martha saw much closer the cliffs of gray stone, the river's milky rapids foaming against them. Along those stone walls, another boat came in order behind them… then a second one, and a third, so there were four in line. Martha stood to see them better, and was told to sit down.
Then there was slow steady rowing into the river's wind, Island's gray wall, on their right, seeming endless as they passed – and high, so the gulls looked like snowflakes along the spaced stone teeth at its top.
"Big," she said.
"Very big." The second thing the boat's captain had said to her. "More'n a Warm-time mile long; near a mile wide. An' got more people on it than live on Isle Baton Rouge – well, damn near." He turned, talked with the sailor at the wheel, then turned back. "Milord, looks like a stuff-boat ahead of us for the gate."
"Pass them out of line," the Bad-lip Lord said. "Queen's business."
The Captain cupped his hands to his mouth and called, "Row up! Row up!" Martha heard their drum go rum-a-dum, rum-a-dum, rum-a-dum. The boat surged, surged… then swung left and slowly overtook a big barge that smelled of sheep and sheep shit.
A fat man in boots and a hooded raw-wool smock stood by the barge's steering oar, two rivermen behind him gripping its long loom. The boat's great cockpit was crowded with sheep's backs, sheep's puzzled black faces. – As they drew alongside, the fat man made a nasty fuck-finger at them and yelled, "Get back, you bottom-holes!"
"That's Peter Jaffrey," the Captain said. "I know him. Probably drunk."
The Bad-lip Lord frowned. "Drunk or not, he should know a Queen's red ship when he sees one." He went to stand at the rail, and gave the barge captain a hard look across the distance of river. Martha saw the fat man's mouth, which had been open, suddenly shut, and he made a bow, then cupped his right ear for any command.
"Not a bad guy," the Captain said, using a Warm-time word. "Lost his little boy to throat-pox years ago. Only son."
When the Bad-lip Lord smiled, it made his lip look worse. "Alright, Crawford. But you might suggest the wisdom of courtesy to him when you meet again."
"I will, milord."
They swept on past the barge, then steered in again, closer to the wall. Martha, looking ahead through the boat's rigging, saw Ralph-sergeant near the bow, talking, laughing with another soldier – and beyond them, a great tower of gray stone standing out into the river.
The boat swung out to pass the tower's base where the river's flow curled against it like goat's cream. Chunk ice bobbed there, striking the granite.
Beyond, there was a great stone gateway, wide as a meadow and arched over high in the air with what seemed a spiderweb of iron… the span of a bridge where Martha saw tiny soldiers looking over. Harsh wind blew through the gateway, and a river current seethed into it. They turned with that tide – the red boat leaning, pitching – and ran on into the harbor, oars lifting, then falling to splash in foam… which became quieter water.
They were in a made pond-lake, oars now barely stroking, with walls rising high around them like the eastern mountains Martha had heard of, where Boston's creatures hunted. She saw a row of long gray wharves with boats and great ships tied to them, and sweat-slaves working, loading and unloading… Even in this deep harbor, the current swirled, complaining. There were slow whirlpools, and the river's icy wind gusted here and there, trapped by stone.
A file of marines stood in order on a far dock as the red boat rowed slowly in. The Captain said something to his wheelman, and Martha felt the boat slowly turning toward those men. She had gotten used to that lifting, sliding motion, and thought she might become a barge-woman, being so at ease riding a wet-water ship.
They drifted in, the oars folding up and back like a bird's wings… and the red boat struck fat canvas cushions at the stone dockside with a squeak and three thumps. The sailors heaved out heavy lines; three wharfers caught them and cleated them in.
"Up." The Bad-lip Lord gestured Martha after him, as the gangplank was sliding out and down.
She had no time to smile good-bye to Ralph-sergeant – needed to nearly run down to the dock, her possibles-sack flapping at her hip, to keep up with the Bad-lip Lord. The file of marines, who had struck their two-color breastplates with armored fists to greet him, now followed, marching very fast. The harbor and docks were quickly left behind. Their bootsteps echoed off stone walls, stone steps, echoed down passages under overhangs masoned from great blocks of granite. Down those passages… then others, and turnings left and right and left again. In shadowed places, Martha sometimes saw, through narrow slits, a flash of steel in lantern light.
Other marines – more than a hundred in blue and green – came marching toward them down a way just wide enough, and passed so close as their officer called out, "Milord," and touched his breastplate, that Martha heard their armor's little clicks and slidings, smelled sweat and oil and sour birch-gum chew. Then they were gone, leaving only the fading sounds of their boots striking stone all together.
The Bad-lip Lord led on, striding so Martha had to trot to keep up, the file of marines trotting to keep up with her. They came to broad stone stairs, and went right up them past many people coming down, who smiled and nodded to the Bad-lip Lord. One of the men said, "Later," to him as they went by. All these men and women were rich beyond doubt – wore linen, velvet, and thick fur robes that blew against their fine boots in the wind. The men belted heavy short-swords; the women wore long, sheathed daggers in wide, jeweled sashes, and every one looked a lord or lady, except for several Ordinary women in brown wool, following their mistresses as tote-maids.
Martha- stopped to do a stoop-curtsy to a group of no-question Extraordinaries, so as not to get into trouble, but the Bad-lip Lord took her arm and pulled her on up the steps. "Move!" he said.
Two of those women smiled at him and called, "Sayre…!" But he didn't answer. When one lady's fur robe blew a little open, Martha saw she wore a wide skirt embroidered with yellow thread and paneled in blue, perhaps silk from the south… They hurried on through four high-ceilinged rooms, one after the other. There were people in all of them, the same kind of people as on the stairs outside, any one of them looking richer than a mayor… Then the Bad-lip Lord led down steep steps and into a long runnel of curved stone courses – the first tunnel Martha had ever been in, though she'd heard of them. The marines' boots, as they followed, sounded like the red ship's rowing-drum. The wind blew bitter after them along the stone, whining like a puppy.
They came out of that darkness into daylight, then through a wide iron-barred gate into a great sunny garden in a gray stone square. But the garden, the whole space of plantings, was an inside-outside! The ceiling, wider than any other ceiling Martha had seen, was made of pieces of clear glass set in frames of metal. It was all held up by iron posts three times the height of a man, and as many as trees in a crab-apple orchard. There seemed to be at least a Warm-time acre under it, with rows of broccoli and cabbage, and what looked like onions planted at the distant edge. "Vegetables…"
The Bad-lip Lord made a face, said, "Flooding Jesus…" and walked even faster, but she kept up.
They walked through that wonderful garden along a graveled path – the file of marines still coming behind them – went out another door, then turned and turned down a twisted staircase to a stone walkway, and into another glass-roofed garden. They were going so fast now, they were almost running. It seemed to Martha there was no end to Island, no end to gray stone and the cold smell of stone. No end to icy river wind, to soldiers – marines – and Extraordinaries in jewels and fine furs. No end to women who smiled at the Bad-lip Lord as if he was alone, with no up-river girl, big as a plow horse, trotting behind him in a wrinkled homespun dress, a greasy sheepskin, and muddy shoes.
Martha had begun excited by so much size and strangeness, so many new people – likely more than in Cairo, and she hadn't yet seen them all. She'd been excited, but now began to feel a little sick to her stomach with too much newness and hurrying. She missed her mother as if she was still a little girl, and her mother was alive and feeding the chicken-birds in the yard.
The Bad-lip Lord stopped at last, at the top of broad stairs where two guards – who must be soldiers, Martha supposed, and not marines, since one wore East-bank's all-green armor, the other West-bank's blue – stood to each side of iron double doors painted red as blood. Behind her, the marines stopped all together with a stamp stamp.
"Her Majesty in audience?"
"Yes, milord," the guard in green steel. "At the Little Chamber."
"Shit…" The Bad-lip Lord spun on his heel and went back down the steps two at a time, with Martha and the marines hurrying after. He opened a door made of squares of glass, and hurried down a black-stone walk through a roofed garden of flowers. The garden light wavered like water across rows of marigold blossoms, roses, and another sort of flower with a cup of red and yellow on a slender stalk.
The Bad-lip Lord led them running up a narrow staircase to other iron doors painted blood-red and guarded by two soldiers as the first had been, one in blue armor, the other in green. "Still in audience?"
"Yes, milord," the blue-steel soldier said. He reached to turn down a heavy latch, which looked to Martha to be made of gold, and swung the left-side door open to perfumed air, bright oil-lamps shining… and many people.
The Bad-lip Lord went in – then stepped out again, took Martha's arm, and pulled her inside with him.
It was a narrow room, its walls painted scarlet, with many old flags, banners, and lit chain-lamps hanging down from a ceiling shining with gold. At least it looked to Martha like gold – though there seemed too much of it for even a Queen's Island. The gold, or whatever bright metal it was, was hammered into shapes, possibly stories. Things flew among golden clouds up there – things like birds, but with stiff straight wings – and there were buildings appearing taller than buildings were made, taller even than fortress towers…
A woman was laughing, down at the end of the room.
Behind all these people, who looked warmed by red paint and lamplight, Martha stood with the Bad-Lip Lord beside her. He was tall as she was, no more or less. A steel edge of his breastplate's hinged shoulder-guard touched her arm… There were so many men and women crowding, they made the narrow room seem smaller. The most surprising thing was there was no stink of old sweat or foot-wraps – none at all – as if everyone had come fresh from a summer washtub bath, their clothes just off a summer line.
A few of these people were talking with each other, but softly. Martha saw not one man who wasn't dressed richly, not a single lady who wouldn't have put any rich wife of Cairo to shame for her finery. Several had blue panels sewn into their long skirts. A few had green.
The woman at the end of the room laughed again – she was a loud laugher. Being taller than most, Martha could see it was a lady dressed in red velvet, sitting one step up on a big black-enameled chair, her head back, laughing careless as a man. She was holding a short spear in her left hand; its narrow steel head shone in lamplight… Martha thought this must be the Queen, to be so loud amid grand people.
The woman stopped laughing, and said, "Fuck them and forget them is the rule for you, Gregory. You're not deep enough for love!" She had a strong alto voice, like a temple singer's; it rang down the room.
The person she was talking to was tall, mustached, and seemed to Martha beautiful as a story prince. His long, soft copper hair lay loose, and he was dressed all in velvets, coat and tight trousers made in autumn greens and golds. " – And that very shallowness, ma'am, I've confessed to Lady Constance, and asked her pardon. It's her brothers who concern me. They, apparently, believe in true love and marriage. In fact, they're insisting on it. Marriage, or my head."
People standing near Martha laughed – but not the Bad-lip Lord beside her.
"Well, you naughty man." The Queen was smiling. "You can tell the fierce Lords Cullin that I would be displeased to be deprived of your company."
"Thank you, Kindness," the tall lord said, and bowed graceful as a harvest dancer.
"Um-hmm. Now, go and get into more mischief." The Queen shooed him away, then looked down the length of the room and called out loud as a band horn, "You! Tall one! You must be the strong-girl. Ordinary… Martha, isn't it?"
Martha looked around as if another Martha must be there.
"Answer her!" a woman said.
Martha nodded and said, "Yes," but too softly to be heard.
"You come closer. Come closer to me!" Queen Joan's voice seemed younger than she was.
The Bad-lip Lord took Martha's possibles-sack and rolled cloak from her. A hand – she didn't know whose – shoved at her back, "and she stumbled, then walked down the room as people stepped aside. She felt everyone looking; their looks seemed to touch her. A woman said something softly, and laughed. They'd be looking at her shoes, the poor leather, and the mud. Looking at her hair… her ugly, ugly dress. A big stupid up-river girl, in an ugly dress.
She stopped almost at the step and made a bow, then began to get down on her hands and knees, in case bowing wasn't enough.
"Stay standing, girl. We're not Grass Barbarians here; a bow or curtsy will always do." The Queen, though sitting, looked to be tall as a man if she stood, and had a man's hard blue eyes set in a long heavy-jawed face. Six dots were tattooed on her left cheek, six on her right. There was a scar on her pale forehead, one on her chin, and another at the left corner of her mouth.
Martha bowed again, very deeply, then straightened up. She saw the Queen was smiling, and supposed she'd bowed wrong after all… Queen Joan's hair, its dark red threaded and streaked with iron gray, had been braided, then the long braids coiled like slender snakes crowning her head. There were many, many jewels – little red stones, blue and green stones, and strange bright stones clear as water – pinned to her braids here and there, and fastened to her deep-red robe in intricate patterns, so she seemed to shine and glitter in the lamp-light as she sat.
"No, no," the Queen said, still smiling, "you bowed very well… And the shining stones you see, ice-looking, are diamonds. They are old as the world, and change never."
Martha understood the Queen had read her mind by reading her face, and supposed that was a skill all kings and queens must have.
"Now." Queen Joan leaned down from her throne, and held out her right hand. "Now, since you are so large, and supposed to be strong and a bone-breaker, come take my hand in yours, Martha-girl… and try your best to break my bones."
But Martha just stood and shook her head no. Her heart was beating hard as the boat's drum had sounded. "No – I'd hurt you."
But the Queen didn't seem to understand 'No.' She didn't appear to have even heard it. She held out her hand.
Martha reached up and took it – hoping that gripping firmly might be enough. The Queen's hand was white and long-fingered, warm as if fresh from hot-water washing.
They held hands like friends, for a moment. Then, slowly… slowly the Queen's grip tightened. The long fingers seemed to slide around Martha's hand as if they were growing, and the Queen's grip, terribly strong, tightened and tightened as though Martha's hand wasn't there at all.
It was uncomfortable. It hurt… then hurt worse – and Martha, frightened, began to squeeze back. Her hand was losing feeling; it seemed separate from her, and she had the dreadful imagining that the Queen was going to crush it, break its bones. Martha tried to keep that from happening – gripped against that happening with all her strength.
Suddenly, there was no pain, no terrible pressure – only the Queen's long white hand lying relaxed in hers.
"Strong enough, Large-Martha." The Queen took her hand away, and sat back on her enameled throne. "And no tears. You do please me."
Some people in the room said, softly and together, "And should be always pleased…"
"You're seventeen years old?"
"Yes… Queen," Martha said, though 'Queen' didn't seem enough to call her.
"I'm told – by those I almost trust – that you beat three strong men down with a smith's hammer. Is that so?"
"…I did. I did, Queen – but none of them died. I'm sure none of them has died!"
"Don't be frightened. I don't care if all of them have died."
People laughed at that.
"But you did it, Martha? And you did it alone?"
"Yes. They were hurting Pa."
"Mmm… And did you enjoy what you did with the hammer?"
Martha looked around her for a friend – but she had no friends here, as she'd had none at home. Her hands were shaking, and she put them behind her so the Queen wouldn't see.
"-I don't ask questions twice."
"I didn't want to… but I was angry."
"Alright. Good. And I understand your mother died of insect fever years ago?"
"Yes… Majestic Person."
Queen Joan laughed. It seemed to Martha she had good teeth for a woman her age, teeth strong as her grip. "Please, please don't ever repeat that 'Majestic Person.' I'm manured with enough titles."
A man in the room laughed.
"Michael, don't you dare!"
The man laughed again, and said, "The court won't use it, ma'am. We promise."
There was a murmur of promises.
"So, Large-Martha," the Queen said, then said nothing more for a while, but only sat looking into Martha's eyes as if there was a secret there she must find out… Then, she nodded. "So, you have no mother. And, I'm told, not much of a daddy. But what if I promise to be nearly a mother to you, if you will come and live with me? If you will serve me, stay by me always, and guard me with your life until the evening I lie, a very old lady, dying in my bed?"
It was such a strange thing to hear, that Martha waited for someone to explain it to her. It seemed the Queen could not have meant 'guard,' since there were soldiers standing against the room's walls, and a soldier in blue-enameled armor standing on one side of the throne, a green-armored soldier on the other.
"Yes, I have guards, Large-Martha, but they are men. And there are occasions when even a queen must be with women only. I'm tired of having to guard myself at such times… lying in my bath, sitting on my toilet-pot with an assag across my lap." She tapped her short-spear's butt against the stone floor, and raised her head and her voice. " – And if it were not in the River Book that soldiers must be men, I'd have women soldiers, as The Monroe has in North Map-Mexico… Proper in that, at least, though our currents might, were matters different, have flowed to drown that boy – as they will the fucking Kipchak Khan! I knew Small-Sam when he was a baby, carried him tucked in his blanket… wiped his ass." Silence in the Red Room.
The Queen looked down at Martha. "Now, girl, you give me an answer – and make that answer yes." Martha said, "Yes, ma'am."
The Queen smiled and sat back on her throne. "Oh, there's a sweetheart. My Newton would have said you'd make a Trapper-girl. A great compliment… Lord Sayre!"
"Ma'am?"
"See that the Master teaches my constant companion, Martha, neater fighting than with a smith's hammer."
"You have in mind… the sword, ma'am?"
Martha knew the man's voice without turning to see him. It was the Bad-lip Lord.
"Mmm… no. I have in mind… a light, long-handled double-headed ax. Blade and spike-point, I think."
"Yes, ma'am."
"But not too light – something suitable to her size and strength. Rollins is to forge the ax-head from a cake of the Emperor's gift, hammer that steel to tears, as if for me."
"Yes, ma'am."
"No plate armor. Only best fine-mesh mail to rise from thigh to shoulder, then fasten turtle at her gown's neck – oh, I'll see you have such pretty dresses, child!… And a long knife, same steel and straight-bladed for strike or throw. A knife, no lady's frail whittler."
"I'll see to it."
The Queen raised her head and called out, "Now, she is mine… and no longer an Ordinary!" Then she spun the javelin she gripped in her left hand, and held the shaft down to Martha. "Take this, Strong-girl – then come up and stand behind my throne, to give your life for mine."
Martha reached up to take the spear, and felt as she'd felt the motion of the river, when the red boat had heaved and pitched with its rowers' labor. Now, everything seemed to shift beneath her in just that way – and she would have been sure she was dreaming but for the rich colors of everything, the strange voices… and the Queen's eyes.
"- I said, 'Come up.'"
Martha climbed the step, her knees shaking, and the soldier in green armor turned aside to let her pass. She stood behind the throne, her breath coming so short she was afraid she might faint, and had to lean on the spear's smooth shaft… Over the Queen's jeweled braids, Martha looked out on people in velvet, fine leathers, feathers and fur, wearing daggers, short-swords, and gold. Most of the men's and women's faces were tattooed in dots across their cheeks – some faces soft, some fierce, but none with pleasant eyes.
"Are you where you should be?" The Queen did not turn her head to look. She was wearing the perfume of a flower Martha didn't know.
"…Yes," Martha said. "I am."