"Get that damn rat off the meat!"
Elvin, quick for a dying old man, picked up a roll and threw it down the table. It missed Butler's dog – a yapping single-handful – and hit Sam as he was carving. The mutton seemed tenderer than usual, and had little bits of pepper stuck in it here and there. Oswald-cook grown enamored of southern spices, after cooking a thousand dull kettles of Brunswick slumgul.
"Don't hurt my Poppy!" Phillip Butler wore ground-glass imperial spectacles held to his eyes on thin, twisted wires that curled behind his ears. He looked over the spectacles more often than through them. Short, gray-bearded, he seemed more a children's tutor than a colonel of Heavy Infantry.
Poppy scurried down the table with a mutton scrap in tiny jaws, jumped a platter, and leaped down into Butler's lap. "There, Candy-lamb," the colonel said, looking still wearied by the five-day ride from Hermosillo Camp to Better-Weather.
"What's this about Howell going up into Texas," he'd said to Sam that afternoon, "and what nonsense are you up to, sir?"
"Serious nonsense, Phil."
Sam stooped, found the roll on the floor, then threw it back, sidearm. The brothers leaned apart so the roll flew between them, and Sam went back to carving mutton – cutting Ned's portion into small pieces, for one-handed eating. Oswald-cook had put many little peppers in the meat… Sam handed the loaded pewter plates to Margaret to pass down the long, narrow table. They were eating in a room of stone walls; ground floor in the fort, therefore no windows.
Around the table were all those close to him – except Portia-doctor, still with the wounded at Clinic, and Charmian, already gone west to annoy the Khan's people come over the border.
Margaret sat to his left, looking somewhat harried, preoccupied. Below her, Howell, looming eye-patched over his plate. Then Phil Butler, then Ned, eating one-handed and looking grim. The Rascob brothers at the end of the table, backs to the iron stove – called a Franklin, after some Warm-time person. And up the other side, Eric, who seemed annoyed, then Charles, then the little librarian, shy and silent, on Sam's right.
His friends, and only family… though there'd been others through the years. From the Sierra, and later. Paul Ortiz… Lucy… John Ott. All dead. Paul killed at Tonichi. Lucy caught by imperials, raped, then burned to death tied to the Jesus tree in the temple at Malpais. And John Ott lost for nothing, wasted for what had seemed a useful notion.
"I'm glad I'm dying," Elvin said through his bandanna, as if he'd mind-read Sam's thoughts. "Better death, than these fucking dinners with those dogs!"
Jaime elbowed him. "Be quiet."
"Don't tell me to be quiet." Elvin, his plate arrived, settled to mutton and potatoes, tucking forkfuls under a flap of bandanna to prove his good appetite.
The plates went round. Sam sliced and served, Margaret passed… and with thanks to Lady Weather or Mountain Jesus by those who cared to give it, they ate spiced mutton, broken potatoes with mutton gravy, and broccoli steamed with garlic. They ate this main course quickly and in silence, from campaign habit… then took second helpings for the same reason.
Margaret got up from the table-bench twice to go round, pour barley beer for them. She bent beside Elvin to whisper in his ear. "You don't have to eat what you don't want, Old Sweetheart."
"Mind your own business," Elvin said, then put down his knife and two-tine fork – like all their mess silver, a spoil from God-Help-Us. "I've had enough. Those little rats of Phil's have spoiled my appetite, running around the damn table."
"You can have some custard, El," Jaime said.
"You have some fucking custard."
… When – after the last of mutton, almost the last of potatoes and broccoli – the custard bowl was passed with a cruet of honey, conversation came round with it.
"Anything at the races, Howell?" Charles and Howell both placed long-running wagers on the races at El Sauz – though betting only with civilians.
"I won on Barbershears, Charles. I'm sorry, pigeon said Snowflake didn't show."
"Surprise me," Charles said. "Amaze me. A horse with three first finishes – and for me, no show."
Ned was eating a dish of chicken-egg custard with his left wrist's bandaged stump held carefully away from the table's edge. "Lesson, Charles – don't bet on white horses. Does anybody here know of any white horse winning consistently? There's something wrong with their bones… more white a horse has on his hide, the more easily broken down."
"Silver," the little librarian said, the first thing he'd said at dinner.
"What?"
"The Warm-time horse," Neckless Peter said. "Hi-yo Silver was extraordinary."
"Oh… Well, Warm-times." Ned poured honey on his dish. "Different breeding."
Sam listened to horse talk for a while, then set his beer-jack down, pushed his custard dish aside. "I'm sorry," he said, "to break the rule of no war conversation at mess."
There were several small sounds of metal on oak, as knives and forks were put down. The duller taps of horn spoons… Margaret stood and went to the dining-room door, by the weapons rack.
"Empty corridor," she said, "except for two of Charles' silent people on guard. One dog. Louis."
"Louis?"
"The dog, Sam. Name's Louis."
"Okay… What's said here, is not repeated." Sam waited for nods. "You all know that Howell's going north into Map-Texas."
"With all the cavalry we've got."
"That's right, Ned. Picking up the divisions on his way. Every mount, every man and woman."
"And if he loses those people? – Excuse me, Howell. But what if all those people are lost?"
"Then, Ned," Sam said, "we go for a swim in Sewer Creek. So Howell is ordered not to lose those people."
"Takes care of that," Howell said, and cut a small chew of tobacco.
" – Also Howell, when you reach Map-Fort Stockton, kill what fighting men you can, of course, and any women who fight beside them, but otherwise, harm no women or children."
"That's tender, Sam." Howell tucked the tobacco into his lower lip. "Tender… But why?"
"Because, in the future, I want the Khan's troopers fighting only for him, not for their families' lives."
"Good policy," the little librarian said, then closed his mouth when the others looked at him.
"But bad policy" – Eric drummed his fingers on the table – "bad policy to have one here who was the Khan's… and still may be."
"My Second-mother, Catania," Sam said, "found Neckless Peter to be a good friend, and honest. Is there anyone now in North Map-Mexico with better judgment in these matters?"
Sam waited through what Warm-time copybooks called 'a pregnant pause.' A small gray moth, alive past its season, fluttered at a hanging lamp.
"… None I know of," Eric said. "Librarian, I apologize."
"Unnecessary," Neckless Peter said. "A chief of intelligence should act the part."
"Okay. Charles, any problem with the staging of remounts – any problem with payments, with moving the herds up the line?"
"Lots of problems, Sam. Lots of angry ranchers. But your horses will be there, Howell."
"Eric?"
"Sam, fodder's already wagoned and waiting. Hay and grain at Ocampo and La Babia. Rations, horseshoes, spare tack, sheepskin blankets for the horses. Sheepskin mitts, cloaks, overboots, and sleep-sacks for the troopers. Ten of Portia's people mounted to accompany with medical kits and horse stretchers."
"All costing an absolute fortune," Charles said.
"And only the first expense, Charles."
"Meaning what, Sam?"
"Meaning that Howell and the cavalry are not coming back south… Meaning that during the next two to three Warm-time weeks – presuming the Kipchaks intend nothing serious west of the Bend – during the next two to three weeks, all the army, all reserves, and selected militia companies, will gather to march north over the border, up the Gulf coast into Map West-Louisiana, then north again into Map-Arkansas and the Hills-Ozark."
Sam finished speaking into a silence that seemed deep as dark water.
"… My God Almighty." An oath from Jaime Rascob that would have called for burning, a few decades before.
Another silence, then, until Phil Butler broke it. "About time." Butler had a rusty voice. "If the Khan takes the Kingdom, we're next. There's no doubt about that." One of his tiny dogs – not Poppy – climbed up onto his left shoulder like a cat. "Yes," Eric said. "I suppose… about time. But surely after the winter would be better."
"After the winter," Elvin Rascob said, "with the Kipchaks already campaigned down that frozen river, Middle Kingdom would be dead as me."
"Right," Howell said. "He'll go up into Map-Missouri now, take a river port – and as the Mississippi freezes, send his tumans down the ice. Split the Kingdom, East-bank from West… and the whole thing will be in his hands."
"And then," Jaime said, "he'd come for us."
Lamplight seemed to waver slightly in Sam's sight, move to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Relief… relief and a deep breath no one must see him draw. These men, and Margaret, might have said, "No. No war. We won't have it unless we're invaded. The army won't have it. The people won't have it!"… They might have said so, knowing he would never stand, take his sword from the rack, and walk out to gather loyal soldiers, order the hangman to stretch and grease his ropes.
"Once in the Hills-Ozark," Sam said, "we'll threaten the Khan's lines of supply and communication with Caravanserai, and with his ports on the Ocean Pacific. Very long lines of supply. Everything for his army will have to come through broken country just north of us." Sam picked up the carving knife, stroked its edge across mutton bones on the serving platter. "He will not be able to let that stand. He'll have to turn from the Kingdom's river to strike us."
Howell nodded. "And when he turns…"
"We fight him, and hope Middle Kingdom strikes the rest of his army, in the north, at the same time."
"Their armies are supposed to be good enough," Ned said, "and if, as we hear from Eric, those warships are truly capable, skating around on the ice…"
"My people have reported on those ships, Ned. And what they report is so."
"No offense meant, Eric. But we would be depending on those people. What's the guarantee of their fighting hard enough in the north to tie down half the Khan's army?"
"As yet – none." Sam tapped the carving knife's point on his plate. A soft ringing sound. "But it makes good sense for them to do it. Together, we'd have the Kipchaks in a toothed spring-trap, with jaws even Toghrul might not be able to break."
"If you can persuade the Boxcars – and then, as Ned says, depend on them." Eric smiled. "And they've always been slow at war. Strong, but slow. Two armies, Left- and Right-bank – always kept separate – and the Fleet, and the river lords, don't make for quick response."
"Ah…" Butler stroked a dog. "But if Middle Kingdom will move, we can play kickball with him. Toghrul campaigns north to the river, is heavily engaged – then has to turn south to us, while hoping the rest of his army still holds in the north. We've given him two chances to lose."
"Yes," Sam said. "The Kingdom to his front, and us coming up his ass right across his lines of supply. We'll see how Kipchak tumans enjoy campaigning with enemies north and south of them. We'll see how they enjoy fighting us in hills and forest, our kind of country. And they'll have to fight us, or winter-starve." Sam examined lamplight gleaming down the carving knife's blade. "Which reminds me; our dear Catania said there were likely still the old Trappers, though only a few, in North Map-Texas. Perhaps, Eric, if you sent a person riding far north now, to ask in her name and mine, they might sled down to interfere with those supply lines here and there. Teach the Kipchaks lessons in deep-snow fighting."
"That can be done."
"All very nice," Ned said, "if Lord Winter and Lady Weather cooperate. Nice, if everything goes perfectly."
"Almost perfectly will do, Ned." Sam put the carving knife down. "I know no other way to beat him."
"He could withdraw early," Howell said. "Take his losses… plan to deal with us next year. And after that, go back to the Kingdom."
"He could," Sam said, "if his pride can bear a thousand-mile retreat, his tribesmen swallow it. And after that, he'd find us and Middle Kingdom firmly allied, and the more ready to deal with him… Truth is, the Khan has made a mistake. He's sent a small force against us, thinking we'll be concerned about our border, and will only deal with that – for instance, by return-raiding up to Map-Fort Stockton – while he passes us by in his campaign against the Kingdom. I don't think it will occur to Toghrul that Map-Fort Stockton might be only cover for positioning Howell's cavalry to screen our army as it moves north past the Gulf and up through Map-Louisiana and Map-Arkansas."
"That is nice." Ned blew gently on his bandaged stump, as if to cool it."
"So I hope," Sam said. "The Khan's made a serious mistake, but I doubt he'll make another. Our time against him is now… or never."
Consideration to that was given in silence around the table. It seemed to Sam to have become an evening of silences.
"I agree," Jaime said, and Elvin grunted behind his bandanna.
"Yes," Ned said. "We go for the son of a bitch."
"Keeping in mind," Howell said, "that if the Boxcars aren't with us, don't fight in the north – then we are fucked, and the Kipchaks will chase us all the way to Map-Mexico City."
"Phil?"
Butler sighed, and bent to set a dog on the floor. "Seems an opportunity to me, Sam. Man spreads his legs – your pardon, Margaret – why not kick him in the nuts?"
"Still" – Charles shook his head – "still… organizing this in a matter of days. And paying for winter campaigning, Sam. The whole army, for Nailed Jesus' sake!"
"I know, Charles. I know. But we couldn't prepare properly for war without the Khan knowing it. It's important he feels free to move east to invade the Kingdom, commit most of his forces to it."
"And will our soldiers appreciate this short notice, Sam, when they're freezing, starving in winter hills?"
"What they will appreciate, Charles, will be those supplies that you and Eric see come up to them, at whatever cost."
"And if – even supplied, even aided by the Boxcars – the army loses this war?"
"… Then, Charles, I suppose some young officer will gather new cavalry – draft-horse cavalry, wind-broken cavalry – and skirmish over the foothills while new infantry gathers in the Sierra." Sam smiled. "Old-man infantry, young-boy infantry, girl infantry, thief-and-bandit infantry. And our people will raid out of those mountains, and suffer the Kipchaks' raids, while the Khan Toghrul grows old and dies. And while his son lives, and his son's son, until finally a weakling rules at Caravanserai, and the Khanate breaks apart. Then, our people will come down from the mountains, and make North Map-Mexico again."
The evening's fourth silence.
"Well…" Charles stared down at his plate, as if the future might be read in mutton bones and remnant potato. "It will mean no relief of taxes. Not for years."
"And, speaking of taxes," Sam said, "any pigeon from Sonora?"
"The tax thing?" Lauder made a note with charcoal pencil on a fold of paper.
"What tax thing?" Howell said.
"None of the army's business," Charles said.
"Well, that's rude." Howell shifted his tobacco chew, leaned to spit into his saucer.
"He's right," Sam said. "A civil matter. The governer had been encouraged, by his friends, to withhold payment of taxes to Better-Weather."
"An uncivil matter, as it happens," Charles said. "There was… some opposition."
"How bad?"
"Four of Klaus Munk's reeve men were killed at Neal's home, day before yesterday. His vaqueros fought for him."
"And?"
"Munk arrested Neal, is bringing him to court with three of his men."
"And?"
"He'll be found guilty by Magistrate Caminillo, and sentenced to death."
"The vaqueros?" Ned said.
"Will also be sentenced to death, Ned." Charles glanced at Sam. "We can't have cow-herds killing law officers."
"Just," Sam said, "as we can't have people not paying their taxes. You did well, Charles. Sorry I had to give you the job."
Eric reached over, patted Charles's arm – an unusual gesture for a man who didn't care to touch or be touched. "My sort of work."
"No, Eric," Sam said. "It had to be a civil matter, and straightforward. – Make certain the matter's finished, Charles. See that Magistrate Caminillo understands, no mercy."
"Who the hell is Caminillo?" Howell said. "I don't even know the name."
"He was a hide dealer," Charles said. "Elected judgment-man in Nogales, then Ciudad Juarez. The old governer, Cohen, suggested him for magistrate. Called him honest, and no coward."
"Duels before he robed?" Howell smiled. "Probably fewer than Cohen's."
"None, actually," Charles said. "I believe Caminillo was challenged twice for his judgments, but refused to duel. Sought those men out, and beat them with a ball-stick. He's quite highly regarded out there."
"Well and good," Sam said – a very old copybook phrase. "But see he does what has to be done."
"I said I'll do it."
Disapproval, and anger. Sam let it be. Losing an old friend to these necessities. But it's only fair – been losing myself to them for some time.
"One thing's sure, Sam," Eric said. "You've made an enemy of the governer."
"There's something surer than that. Governer Stewart has made an enemy of me." For a few moments, there was no sound but the stove's fire dying. No fear. Please don't let me find fear in my friends' faces…
"… Jaime," Elvin said, "pass me some of that custard. What in the world did Oswald-cook put in the mutton? Tasted like fucking pepper soup!"
"Sam," – Howell spit tobacco juice onto his saucer – "Map-Louisiana and Map-Arkansas are both Boxcar states."
"Howell," Margaret said, beside him, "where's your spit-cup?"
"I've put civilization behind me, Trade-honey… Sam, we'll be crossing the Kingdom's territory most of the way north."
"Yes – but with the Kipchaks already striking to their river up in Map-Missouri, I don't think the Boxcars will mind. I think they'll be pleased to see our army coming."
"And if they mind, Sam?"
Sam smiled. "Tough titty." It was one of Warm-time's oldest military sayings.
"More beer, anyone?" Margaret lifted the clay pitcher.
"There's not enough beer for this," Ned said, and the others smiled. Sam felt the tautness in the room slacken. There was a turn at the table, a turn from worry to work to be done. There was also – he'd felt it many times before – an odd feeling of relief from the others. They'd been commanded, commanded to a grave but reasonable risk, and there seemed to be subtle enjoyment in that for them… For them, not for their commander.
"So, Sam," Phil Butler said, "who does what?"
"Howell leaves day after tomorrow, picks up the cavalry as he goes. Elvin and Jaime order the army assembled – with the regular militia companies of Coahuila and Nuevo Leon. You two are in charge until the forces are brought together here at Better-Weather… Phil, once that's done, you command the army's movement north, taking Portia-doctor and the medical people. Charmian and the western militias will still be busy playing games with those Kipchak units come down west of the Bend. She and her light infantry will be the last to join you."
"Join you," Ned said, "if she isn't enjoying herself too much."
"Ned, you'll be well enough by then to scrape together what few mounts Howell hasn't taken. You'll command rear-guard cavalry scout as the army moves north."
"Alright, Sam. And once we're in Map-Arkansas?"
"Howell should already have come east from Map-Fort Stockton, brought the main body of cavalry there to join you." Sam paused a moment. "… And in the Hills-Ozark, Howell commands the army. You, Ned – and Phil and Charmian – serve under him."
"Howell, Sam?" Phil Butler said. "Not you?"
"I… will be visiting the Kingdom."
The fifth silence. Sam supposed Charles would be first to break it.
"No! Absolutely not!" Charles hit the table with his fist. "Sam… they'll cut your throat for you, no matter the Queen knew dear Catania, no matter she knew you when you were a baby. I'm the one who should go."
"Queen Joan won't cut my throat."
"If she doesn't," Ned said, "the generals and river lords will."
"And cook and eat you, besides." Jaime shook his head.
"It's the Queen," Eric said, "who wants this meeting. Asked for it."
"Don't do it, Sam." Ned cradled the stump of his wrist. "You're not fucking immortal, no matter what you think. They'll kill you – or keep you under stone until you rot."
"They might want to, Ned, but they won't. They need us."
"They may not need us, Sam. They can fight the Khan and maybe beat him without us. And New England will help them."
"A point," Eric said. "Sam, our Light Cavalryman has a point. I doubt if the West-bank generals or East-bank generals – let alone two or three hundred river lords – consider us ideal allies."
"Perhaps not ideal, Eric. Still, it can't be comfortable for the Kingdom with the Khan to the west, savages and tribesmen north, and New England breeding Mountain-Jesus-knows-what to the east."
"True… and, of course, we also need them."
"Yes, we do, unless we want to face the Kipchaks alone once Middle Kingdom goes down – and then have to conduct a fighting retreat south through the mountains, where the Empire's army will certainly be waiting for us."
Neckless Peter cleared his throat. "I believe New England will not help the Boxcar Kingdom. I felt so when they sent the girl, Patience. New England wants them to lose. Wants us to lose."
"Us?" Eric smiled.
"Eric," Sam said, "that's enough."
"Boston wants the Kipchaks winning?" Ned looked better with impatient color in his face. "Horseshit, old man. That would leave the Khan ruling all the civilized river-country!"
"Yes, Colonel. But the Khan isn't civilized, and his people aren't civilized. He orders, and they obey. They have no Warm-time law. No law but his word."
"You might ask the governor of Sonora about laws and words and obedience, Librarian." Charles took a sip of beer.
"Charles," Sam said. Certainly a friend beginning to be lost. "That's almost the same, but only almost. If the state reeve had refused to arrest, if the magistrate now refuses to convict, I'll have to come to some accommodation."
No answer from Charles Ketch.
"To hell with Stewart and Sonora," Ned said. "Eric – this visit to Middle Kingdom. This was your idea?"
"The Queen's idea, Ned," Sam said. "And she wouldn't want the visit just to toss me in the river. She's looking for what help we can give them."
"Looking for more than that," Charles said.
"More?" Howell spit into his saucer.
"There's a bride-groom question." Eric smiled. "Her daughter."
"Wedding bells with the Princess Rachel?" Ned grinned and thumped his wrist-stump on the table. "Ow! Weather damn this thing!"
"An engagement, perhaps," Sam said. "I doubt the Queen really intends a wedding."
"Look, Sam," Howell said, "your plan makes good sense. But that will make no difference if Middle Kingdom doesn't agree, doesn't care to listen to you. The Boxcars don't like our holding the Gulf's west coast. They don't like us freeing serfs that run south. They don't like North Map-Mexico having an army, and especially not a good army. And they don't like you ruling down here with no dots on your face."
"Still, the Queen needs us."
"And afterward, Sam, if she no longer needs us?"
"By that time, the Princess Rachel and I may be engaged – if a serious engagement was ever intended. It's likely a notion of the Queen's to keep the river lords unbalanced."
"Right," Eric said.
Neckless Peter said, "Probably."
"And it's possible" – Sam smiled – "that the Queen will grow fond of me."
"Oh, how not, boy?" Elvin said through his bandanna. "And you such a charmer!" He found a strip of mutton fat on his brother's plate, and threw it down the table. Missed Sam, and hit Margaret on her shirt's shoulder.
"That's my fucking red southern-cotton!" She kicked her bench back and jumped up. "If you weren't dying, Elvin, I'd kill you. I've got to get warm water on this." She went out into the hall. "Louis, get down."
"But Sam," Charles said, "engaged? Is it necessary?"
"I think it's going to be."
"Nailed Jesus." Jaime picked up a fork, toyed with it. "Nailed Jesus, Sam. Engaged… then married into those people?"
"Cannibals." Ned rested his wrist stump on the table.
"Used to be cannibals, Ned."
"Sam," Howell said, "you talk of the Princess and the Queen. But the river lords, the generals, the admirals of the Fleet – will they 'grow fond' of you?"
"Perhaps they'll learn to seem so… And, another matter. Phil, forgive me, but the Boston girl goes north with the army."
"You're joking."
"No, Phil, I'm not. A price of her silence, her not at least trying to inform Map-McAllen that you're coming over the border."
"Sam," Eric being patient, "her silence could have been assured otherwise. And her little flying-thing gone the same way."
"Eric, I think we have enough on our plate without murdering Boston's ambassador, and her pet."
"As I understand it," Neckless Peter said, "New England would likely regret the Mailman as much as the lady. The creatures are very expensive."
"There you are, Eric – both too expensive to murder."
"I hope, Sam, they won't prove too expensive kept alive."
"A concern for another day. So, Phil, arrange a small guard detachment for her, see to her comfort and supplies. And apparently she's a killing lady; watch that that scimitar doesn't get her into more trouble than she can get out of."
Butler took off his imperial spectacles, polished them with a linen napkin, "This must be punishment for sin."
"Punishment for bringing those damn dogs to dinner," Elvin said. "Have we more business here? I have to pee."
"Louis, get down.…" Margaret came in from the hall. "And let me tell another old dog that he's very lucky that stain seemed to come out. I hope it came out." She settled onto her bench.
"I wasn't throwing at you."
"Elvin," Jaime said, "just be quiet."
"Don't tell me to be quiet. – Baja."
"What?"
"Jaime, Baja militia should be ready to move east with Sonora's, if Charmian has trouble with those Kipchaks come down."
"I think Charmian and Chihuahua can handle them. But alright; we'll pigeon Oso. Tell him to stop fucking his sheep and get his people assembled."
"What about New England?" Howell spit into his saucer again, winked at Margaret.
"As I said" – Neckless Peter no longer so shy – "Boston wishes the Kingdom defeated."
"And why would New England want the Khan to win, Librarian?" Ned took a swallow of beer. "How does that help them?"
"They want it, Colonel, because the Kipchaks are a fragile force – "
"Right. Only thirty, forty thousand cavalry."
"Still fragile, Ned," Sam said, "in time. The Khan will die someday, and his son, or his successor, is unlikely to be as formidable. But their Khan is all the Kipchaks have. Without Toghrul, or another like him, they're only separate tribes of shepherds and raiders."
"That's true enough." Howell bent to spit in his saucer again, but Margaret reached over and snatched it away. "Well, for Weather's sake! Women in trousers… never a good thing – oof!"
"Now, children," Phil said.
"She has an elbow like an ax! – Give me the damn dish."
"Spit in your fucking pocket," Margaret said.
"A brute with tits."
"You two finished?" Sam said. "… I think Peter's right, and New England takes the long view. Middle Kingdom, if it survives, will certainly grow to threaten Boston in time. The Kingdom is a book-civilization; formidable even under weak rule. New England would certainly prefer, in the future, to deal with the Kipchaks."
Eric nodded. "It does make sense that Boston would like to see us and Middle-Kingdom go down. Also, considering the future, most of Map-East America is wooded, close country. Some mountains also, apparently. Kipchak horsemen wouldn't be as comfortable campaigning there."
"And," Charles said, "whatever womb-things the New Englanders are mind-making are likely to enjoy dark woods."
"Can we leave the future alone?" Elvin said. "Sam is going off to the Kingdom – likely get his throat cut – and we're to kick the Khan in the ass. Now, if there's nothing else, I need to get out of here, or piss under the table!"
Sam smiled. "Only this: Charles holds here as administrator – with Eric, in case one or two governers see a chance for independence with the army gone north… Eric, failure to produce supplies, or nonpayment of taxes, is to be regarded as treason. Charles knows how I want such cases handled."
"Understood."
"Also, Neckless Peter is to act as adviser to both of you. And is to be consulted on all important matters."
"… Very well."
"Okay. Then there is no more business at mess. – I leave in two days, and I'll want a written plan of action from each of you before I go. We'll work on supply and reinforcement matters tonight… troop movements, dispositions, and objectives tomorrow and tomorrow night."
"Not enough time."
"Howell, it will have to be enough time. I leave day after tomorrow." Sam shoved his bench-seat back and stood. "Good dinner. Margaret, please thank Oswald-cook. The little peppers in the meat were… interesting. I'll be leaving for the coast; you'll be coming with me – and a small escort."
"How small, sir?"
"Four or five presentable men."
"Not enough, Sam."
"Ned, four or five are enough. I don't want the Boxcars to think I'm afraid of them."
"Still," Eric said, "not enough."
"Sir, you're a head of state!"
"Yes, Peter, I am. The head of a minor state, coming to make great demands on Middle Kingdom for cooperation in war. I think going modestly will better serve the purpose. – Margaret, only four or five presentable men come with us. Men only, the Kingdom doesn't approve of women soldiers."
"Margaret's a woman soldier," Howell said – and was elbowed again.
"Margaret," Sam said, "will be an exception, and a useful lesson to them."
"You don't want us going up with the army?" Jaime said.
"Stupid question," Elvin muttered through his bandanna.
"No, Jaime. You two don't go up. If this ends badly, take the people into the Sierra and find a wiser Captain-General." Sam took his sword from the weapons rack, and walked out. They heard him say, "Louis," then murmured talk to the mastiff about behavior.
"'Into the Sierra.'" Howell made a face. "I can see myself, an old man eating goat hooves and setting ambushes."
"He will not come back," Jaime said.
"Shut your mouth." Elvin, looking tired, sat with his eyes closed.
"Perhaps he'll come back," the little librarian said, "but not the same. A Captain-General is one thing. A future king, is another."
Neckless Peter, carrying a lamp, was skirting frozen puddles to the tent lines when Eric Lauder caught up with him. They walked side by side though gusts of bitter wind, so Lauder had to lean close, raise his voice a little.
"Your opinion, Librarian?"
"If one thing goes wrong, all goes wrong."
"Yes – but if all goes right?"
"Ah… Then, it seems to me, Toghrul will be destroyed, and Middle Kingdom will have our Captain-General for husband to their princess – and likely, heir to their throne."
"Then to be our king, as well."
"Yes."
"And should the Khan be destroyed – regrets?"
"I will have regrets. He was a wonderful boy. And his mind… you know the Empire's fine-cut gems?"
"Yes."
"So, Toghrul's mind."
Peter slipped a little on ice, and Lauder took his arm. "But this fine mind seems interested only in war, conquests."
"Of course, to battle boredom – the cancer of all conquerors."
"Not our reluctant Sam." They'd come to Peter's tent.
"No. His sickness is sadness at what must be done."
"Well…" Eric patted the frosted shoulder of Peter's cloak. "Well, welcome to us, Wisdom."
Peter called after as Lauder walked away. "And am I now trusted?"
Eric turned and smiled. "By all but me," he said, and went into the dark.