Sam had occasionally seen Kingdom warships at a distance, rigged for the Gulf's summer wet and ponderously tacking offshore, great white seashells of sail taut with wind – or their ranks of oars out, flashing yellow in sunlight. Banners streaming from their masts.
And in winter, once, riding high along the coast with a file of troopers, he had heard a great hissing, like some monstrous southern snake's – and seen one of the Kingdom's great ships, driven before the wind, skating the Gulf's ice on huge, bright steel runners.
But to have seen at a distance was not the same as seeing close when the Cormorant, intercepted under a storm-darkened sky by a Kingdom cutter at the river's mouth, was held rocking in the tide while a warship came drum-thundering, oar-thrashing down upon them.
"Nailed Jesus," Margaret said, as it came.
After a shouted interchange over gusting breezes, they were invited to board by clambering up the great ship's side on a dripping rope ladder, as it heaved and rolled in the delta's swell. The ship's name was worked in bronze at its bow: QS Naughty.
Their packs and baggage followed them, knotted to slender ropes – 'whips,' by the orders given – and drawn up to the ship's deck by silent sailors, working barefoot in the bitter wind. Heavier tackle was rigged, cable and belly bands, to haul the kicking horses up one by one to the warship's deck, then to be chivied into a large shelter of heavy canvas and taut-stretched cord, made in moments.
"Your people, sir, to remain on this section of deck – and wander nowhere else." A pleasant officer in Middle Kingdom's naval-gray cloak, jacket, and trousers – and young, a boy no more than fourteen or so, his dark hair cropped short. A blue dot tattooed on each cheek, a heavy curved knife at his belt, he swayed to the ship's motion as Sam and his North Mexicans staggered.
"My men," Sam said, "and Master Carey, will stay where you put them, with our packs and gear. They're to receive refreshment. My officers come with me."
"Sir, the captain's orders – "
"Belay those orders, Fitz." A very small man strolled down the deck, stepping without looking over fixtures, lashings, and coiled lines. This man – with hard black eyes, a weather-creased face tattooed with three dots on one cheek, four on the other – wore frosted silver moons on his gray cloak's shoulder straps.
"Captain." The boy officer saluted himself away.
"Milord." The small captain bowed to Sam, raised his voice against the wind. "Ralph Owen. I have the honor to command this Queen's ship. You are welcome aboard – and your officers, of course, stay with you."
Sam saw the man's surprise, noticing Margaret Mosten. "A lady…"
"It's our custom." Sam smiled. "Captain Mosten has commanded light infantry in several battles. Presently, she acts as my aide and executive."
"Ah…"
"And I'll introduce Lieutenant Pedro Darry."
Pedro stepped forward, snapped to attention. "Captain Owen. A pleasure, sir."
"Darry… Darry," the captain said, ushering Sam and the others down the deck. "I believe I know the name."
"My father, Elmer, has been to Island twice, I think, sir. On business."
"Oh, yes," the captain said. "Heard him spoken of."
"Admiral Reynolds had become a friend, I believe, sir. And an associate in developing larger milling saws."
"Planks." Captain Owen nodded, moving them along. "Planks and sawn members; that's it. The admiral mentioned that to my brother some time ago."
Margaret, stepping around a large metal obstruction left on the deck for some naval reason, raised an eyebrow at Sam as they went, at Pedro's already proving useful.
The captain's cabin, arrived at through odors of sawn wood, paint, damp canvas, and old sweat, was reached by a dim, narrow passage, then up a steep and even narrower stair. Its door was guarded by a large soldier – a marine, Sam supposed – in hoop armor enameled half-green, half-blue, from helmet to hip. The marine struck the butt of a pole-ax on the deck, then stepped aside.
Ushered in by the captain – out of shadow into light – Sam saw a room painted all white, fine as those described in Warm-time copybooks of sea travel, sea fighting. Spacious enough, though low overhead under massive beams, with crossed short-bladed sabers and two painted pictures on its side walls – one of a fleet of ships on winter ice, the other a yellow boat in stormy waters. The room was furnished with a woven blue carpet, a wide wood cabinet on the wall across, and round-back chairs at a polished fir-wood table bolted to the deck.
There were six large, wonderfully clear pane-glass windows across the cabin's back wall. Against two of them, big wooden machines, fitted with heavy windlasses and long steel bows set horizontal, were drawn up and fastened to thick ring-bolts with heavy rope and tackle.
Past these, Sam saw the river through the window glass; its current, surface roughened by the wind, streaked dark and silver in cloud-shadowed light.
The cabin was a chamber fine enough – as the warship was massive and complex – to put a provincial in his place. Sam had a moment's admiration for the Khan, for the perfect confidence necessary to assault this Kingdom.
The small captain waited while an elderly sailor in gray shirt and gray trousers – come silent through some trap or door – took the visitors' unbuckled long-swords, sabers, and rapiers, and then the cloaks to hang beside them on pegs along the near wall. "Please…" Owen gestured to his beautiful table, and when they were seated, took a chair across from them.
Seated, Sam thought, just in time, as the ship suddenly rolled steeply to the right… then seemed to swing half-around, timbers groaning as they took the strain.
"I can offer you berry juice," the captain said, "imperial coffee, or imperial chocolate. No vodka or barley whisk, I'm sorry to say. Queen's ships carry no liquors."
"Juice would be appreciated," Sam said. "And my men?"
"Are being attended to, milord."
" 'Sir' will do, Captain. I don't require 'milord'ing."
"As you wish… sir." Captain Owen smiled, and sat silent while the old sailor padded in through what seemed a pantry door with four silver mugs on a fine brass tray. He set the tray on the table, and handed the mugs round. To Sam first, then – with only momentary hesitation – to Margaret, then Darry, and his captain last.
Sam had heard that sailors toasted sitting, so he stayed put and only raised his mug. "To the Queen."
"To the Queen."
"The Queen."
The juice was blackberry. Sam had tasted it before, but never served hot as coffee. "… Wonderfully good."
"You'll be my guests at supper, of course. We'll have a two-day run up to Island, milord – "
" 'Sir.' " Sam smiled.
"Sir. Two days up to Island. The Fleet had been noticed, some time ago, of the possibility of your coming, though not how or when."
"Events determined," Sam said, "as they must in your Service."
"Truer words never," the small captain said, and looked as pleasant as a narrow and ferocious face allowed. He reminded Sam of the champion Sonora jockey, Monte Williams, a bane of Charlie Ketch's betting-luck. "The ship's honored to receive you, sir, and you'll honor me by using my cabin."
"No, Captain Owen; I won't displace you on your own ship. But if other officers will be kind enough to make room for us, it would be appreciated."
"… Of course, sir, if you prefer."
The old sailor came back from the pantry with a silver platter of what seemed to be large honey cookies.
"Do try these," the captain said. "Peter claims to be a baker, though some doubt it."
"An' haven't I baked goods for you since ever?" the old sailor said to him. "An' taught you stem from stern when your nose was still runnin'?" He set the platter firmly down, and padded out.
"There you have years of shipping together," Captain Owen said, "from when I was a boy. And in battles and Gulf hurricanes. After such a time, you see friendship has overcome discipline."
"And should in that case," Sam said, "or an officer's no officer."
They sat silent for a while, sipping steaming berry juice… Sleet came lancing across the great stern windows, and as if discomfited by it, the ship seemed to swing and swing away. Sam was glad to be sitting; he had a vision of himself stumbling across the uncertain deck, perhaps vomiting, to sailors' amusement.
And having imagined that, he saw himself, Margaret, and Darry, as this veteran little captain must see them… Three young people, Margaret the oldest, but still three young people. Soldiers – scarred, though not by passing years – and all wearing tanned-sheepskin tunics, brown woolen trousers, riding boots, and hauberks of light chain-mail.
Pedro Darry, of course, also sporting his own gold hair-clips, gold broach, and jeweled rings, leaving Sam and Margaret comparatively unadorned, though she'd insisted on a wide silver and sapphire bracelet for Sam's sword arm – an imperial piece, acquired from the duke's baggage at God-Help-Us – and a massive signet ring as well, onyx scorpion on an oval of gold.
Which decorations, of course, might only add a certain barbarous air… So, three provincial soldiers sitting at the captain's table, young enough to be his children – and ignorant as children, both of sea war and the complications of Middle Kingdom. But still representing a land, a people, and a veteran army.
The captain would be making judgments, and likely others in Middle Kingdom would tend to judge the same as he. So, if a certain simplicity was bound to seem obvious to such people, then why not be simple – and certain. Let them grasp directness, feel its edge.
Sam set the silver mug down; it slid a little on the tabletop with the ship's motion. "I won't pretend not to be impressed, Captain. Impressed by this ship, and the Kingdom it represents. You seem a formidable Service, the more so since we have no experience of navies whatsoever. My people are mountain people – though we've learned to fight where we have to."
Captain Owen put his own drink down. "Good of you to say, sir. And from what we hear, your army fights very well on any field… We also do well enough, and are going to do better, patrol the Ocean Atlantic in force – as we now patrol the Gulf and Carib Islands."
"My father," Lieutenant Darry said, "spoke of the great expense of the Fleet, Captain."
Owen nodded. "And he was right. We are expensive. Good timber, imperial cotton and manila for sails and rigging. Long-leaf tempered steel for the catapults and mules."
"And of course, your people," Sam said.
"Yes, sir. The largest expense. Our rowers are serfs, but serfs must be fed, and well fed, to row a warship. Our sailors have River Freedom of course, and must be paid, as the marines are paid."
"Furs and hide," Margaret said.
"Why yes, lady – excuse me, Captain. Exactly; we can't winter-dress our people only in woven wool. It soaks in spray and freezes. We use sealskin cloaks when we can get them, other leathers when not. Those, usually oiled."
"So," Sam said, "without supplies from Mexico City on the one hand, and Boston on the other, your Fleet might find itself in difficulty."
Owen smiled. "That's absolutely right, sir. Of course, in that case, the Empire's coastwise traffic in the Gulf, and New England's coastwise traffic down Ocean Atlantic, might also find themselves in… difficulty."
"Still, you'd always need a year or two of supplies laid up."
"We would indeed," Captain Owen said, still smiling. "Try the cookies."
"I already have, sir," Darry said, chewing. "Damn good."
"Smart soldier." A voice from behind the pantry door.
Darry hesitated a moment, thrown off stride. "Very good cookies… It occurs to me, Captain, that my father might be interested in providing your fleet with sheepskins. We wear them in the army – warm, light, and well greased with the animal's own fat."
"Hmm… But a sufficient number of those skins?"
"Captain," Sam said, "we have many more sheep than people. Your supply vessels could pick up the shipments from our Gulf coast. And, of course, that source would lessen your fleet's dependence on New England's sealskin."
Owen nodded. "That's of interest, milord – sir. I'll mention it to my admiral. We do lose a number of sailors to frostbite, and a sailor with fingers and toes gone is no longer a sailor."
The ship suddenly heaved forward, then heaved again, so they swayed in their seats.
"What's that?" Margaret gripped the arms of her chair.
"They're rowing, Captain?"
"Yes, sir," Owen said, as the ship seemed to rise slightly and heave forward again. "We've turned upriver and upwind. This is to the beat of Lose-no-time. For the rowers' stroke speeds, there's Loiter, Keep-station, Lose-no-time, Pursuit, and Battle-and-board."
The ship surged… surged… surged. Sam seemed to feel the great effort through his bones – the rowers' strength straining at the long oars to drive forward this monument of oak and fir, of supplies, gear, and tackle, of men and steel.
"Captain, how long can they do this work?"
"Oh… at this beat, sir, a glass-hour and a half, before relief. At Battle-and-board, of course, a much shorter time."
"And years of service?"
"Ten years would be the usual, though there are men rowing who've been with her for… fifteen, sixteen years. Of course, those started young."
"Changes with Lord Winter?"
"Oh, when we rig to skate, sir, rowers are transferred to the Carib, and coasts south. No ice there."
"And if," Darry said, "or when, they break down in service, sir?"
"Well, Lieutenant… that depends on the original reason for assignment." The captain took a cookie. "If they're indentured serfs, they're put to lighter duty, longshore labor and so forth. That's routine for many of them in any case, when the ice comes down. But if assignment was for a criminal or treasonous matter, then, with the sentence no longer in abeyance, it's carried out."
"So," Margaret said, "a man may row your ships for fifteen years, and when he can row no longer – "
"Hanged. Burned. Whatever his original sentence. It's hard, ma'am – sorry, Captain – but the Fleet is a hard mistress, even for those who aren't serfs, and who don't row. And the custom does insure that those who are criminals, lean into their looms."
"And," Sam said, "in the Ocean Atlantic?"
"Ah… in those waters, sir, we've found oars of little use. Water's too rough, waves too high. Out there, a man must sail his ship." The captain finished his cookie as Sam reached to try one.
The cookie was soft, crumbling, rich with honey… and something else. "Spotted-cow butter, and what flower spice?"
Margaret took one and tasted. "Rosemary…?"
"Southern sunflower seed!" From behind the pantry door. "Ground fine!"
Sam raised his voice. "Delicious!" And received a possibly pleased grunt in response.
"Old Peter," the captain said, "used to bake certain savages taken in fights off Island Cuba. It was the beginning of his cookery."
"Better the cookies, sir," Margaret, chewing hers.
"Yes… That's becoming the general opinion. Though there are old captains who still hold to celebration roasts on long voyages. I served under one, Jerry Newland. 'Old school,' as the copybooks say. Newland's father had filed teeth. Codger came aboard once to visit… had a smile one remembered. Map-Louisiana family."
"It seems," Sam said, "that the ships become villages to your people, with village memories."
"Oh, that's exactly so, sir. They do become our worlds, so much that after months on the water, particularly if there's been fighting – pirates always, of course, and imperial ships from time to time, though those not officially – "
"We meet them much the same, Captain. Fighting, sometimes very serious fighting, but not war declared. Mexico City is… cautious."
"Right, sir. Absolutely. And after such cruises, it does often seem the land is less actual than the river, gulf, or ocean, and home a poor substitute for a ship of war."
"Promotion?" Margaret said.
Owen smiled. "Ah, Captain, the fundamental military question. Promotion is as always, everywhere. Merit, to a point. Influence, to a point. And luck, above all." He took another cookie, and called out, "This is a good batch, Pete."
"Not speakin' to you." Muffled, from the pantry.
The captain grinned and ate his cookie.
It occurred to Sam that just this sort of man would be required to found coastal fleets for North Map-Mexico. Now, having met Ralph Owen, he saw that fishermen wouldn't do. Would do for corsairs, certainly, but not for naval officers. That would require men like this one, persuaded somehow from the Kingdom's service or the Emperor's… It was something to consider.
Captain Owen leaned back in his chair. "I doubt if Admiral Reuven would garrote me, sir, if I mentioned some news pigeoned in to New Orleans yesterday. Not Kingdom news, after all."
"Yes?"
"I understand you sent a force up into Texas, or so the Boston people at Map-McAllen claim."
"Yes."
"You may not have heard what has been reported."
"We haven't."
"Ah. Two days ago – this only by McAllen's pigeon, of course – your people are said to have taken and burned Map-Fort Stockton."
"Weather!" Margaret said, and hit the tabletop with her fist.
"Took, burned… killed many hundreds in the garrison, and, according to the McAllen people – who, I suppose, can be trusted in this – came away driving well over a thousand of the savages' remounts."
"By the Nailed Jesus!" Darry stood up, then sat down.
"On Kingdom River, Lieutenant," Owen said, "we thank Jesus Floating. He rules here, as much as any Great can."
"Sorry, sir."
"Oh, no offense taken."
"Losses, Captain?" Sam saw Howell for a moment, trotting through the dust at Boca Chica, holding a bandanna to his ear.
"Apparently too few, sir, to burden a pigeon with."
"I'm in your debt, Captain, for the pleasure of that news." Now, Howell – ride east. And ride fast.
"Courtesy to a guest, sir."
"And news that is your Kingdom's news? If I may ask, how goes the fighting in Map-Missouri?"
"Oh, the little I know would only bore you, sir." Captain Owen held out the cookie platter. "Another?"
Sam woke to a change. The ship was moving differently… the rowers' rhythm slightly slower, as if even effort must drowse so near the morning. There was slower surging, a lower pitch to the groaning music of the ship's hull and fittings – and less of that wallowing side to side that had almost sickened him at supper.
He'd gone to bed in the first-officer's cubby – more closet than room – and somewhat stifled, had regretted the captain's cabin. Now, with the ship rolling only a little, he could still reach out from the narrow, swinging cot to touch each side wall, alternately. As he swayed one way, then the other, a hanging tin lantern sent shadows after him – its little wick burning as his night-light privilege, in a ship where any fire but the galley's was usually forbidden.
Sam lay awake for a while, then tossing aside his canvas cover – blankets apparently considered softening influences in Kingdom's Fleet – swung his legs out, managed a get-down rather than a fall-down, and staggered about the cubby, dressing. Finally, bracing himself to buckle his sword's scabbard down his back, he considered the unhandiness of long-swords in ships' close quarters.
The lamp blown out, the cubby's curtain – pulled open – brushed a heavy shoulder. Sergeant Mays, standing at ease in full armor, dagger, and short-sword as the ship shifted, turned his helmeted mastiff head and said, "Mornin', sir."
"Morning, Sergeant." Comforted by such formidable night-watch, Sam jostled down the swaying corridor and climbed a dark ladder-stair to the next, the big infantryman behind him. They managed down a slowly pitching passage to a hatchway – and out into near dawn, and a gentle freezing wind over a deck sheeted with ice.
"Footin', sir." Mays stepped close behind, hobnails crunching.
Sam, passing two sailors at the ship's great steering wheel, reached the right-side – starboard – rail, got a grip, and the sergeant stood away. There were serried small waves on the river – what North Mexico fishermen called 'chop' – and swirls of dark current here and there. Leaning over the rail's thick oak banister, Sam saw the two ranks of long yellow oar-looms rise all together… pause… then dip like birds' beaks into wind-roughened water. Dip… bow slightly with the strain of the stroke, then splash up and out together. Pause… then dip again.
He could hear what sounded like wooden blocks struck together to keep the rowers' time. A hollow, almost musical note.
"Morning, sir!"
Sam turned, looked up to the high stern deck – apparently, and rather comically, called the 'poop' – and saw Captain Owen, in a tarred canvas cloak too big for him. The captain stood with one of his officers behind a low railing that ran across that higher deck, with entries only for two narrow accommodation ladders.
"Morning, Captain…!" Sam's breath drifted in frost for a moment, then was whisked away on the wind.
He turned to the river again, and saw no shore, even with dawn streaking the eastern horizon pollen-yellow. No shore, no margin, only the odor of fresh water and ice coming on the wind. Only that, its smaller waves, and what seemed a tidal race, marked it different to a landsman from the Gulf Entire. Sam could see two distant lights – ship's lanterns, each far enough away to seem only glimmers, like dying sparks risen from a campfire.
Somewhere to the east, likely already passed in the night, the old New Orleans – of so many copybook tales – lay, as most ancient river cities, long drowned. Owen's first officer had claimed at supper that a church bell tolled in its sunken tower there, and could be heard as deep currents swung the bronze… The town now called New Orleans, seemed to be one of the Fleet's headquarters and harbors, so was barely spoken of.
"Sam…" Margaret came and stood by him, yawning, her cloak's hood drawn up against the cold, its dark wool pearled with mist-droplets.
"Others up?"
"Roused or rousing, sir. Short sleeping seems the rule on these ships."
"Hmm. Look at this river, Margaret. Big with summer melt off the ice. According to Neckless Peter, at least three times, maybe four times, what it was before the cold came down. So the cities on it now, all named for flooded Warm-time towns that had been near, aren't really the old Map-places. According to a ship's officer, aren't called 'Map' at all."
"Why not 'New' this or that?"
"I don't know. Perhaps concerned their Floating Jesus might object."
"It's a perfect prairie for the Khan's tumans, sir, once it freezes."
"A prairie for them from the north, as it freezes."
"Sam…" Margaret put her gloved hand over his bare hand on the rail, as if to warm it. An unusual touching, for her. "Sam, I know… we know what you intend to do. And you can do it, no matter how big the fucking river is."
Sam smiled. "Without my vodka?"
"With or without it, Sam." She took her hand away. "These Boxcars seem to be a formidable people, but they're like the Kipchaks, full of pride and horseshit. Both are ripe for a kick in the ass."
"And I'm the boot?"
"You're the boot, Sam. You, and the rest of us sheep-stealers." Margaret glanced behind them, saw only Sergeant Mays, standing weighty on the deck. "…We have interesting news. Master Carey shared beer with the cooks in the galley last night, and helped with pots and pans. Ship's gossip is that Jefferson City, Map-Missouri, has been taken by the Khan's general, Andrei Shapilov. And every man in the garrison there killed. Three… four thousand of the West-bank army."
"Weather… But I knew, knew there was something. There was more on the captain's mind than cookies."
"Jefferson City might wake them."
"Wake some, Margaret. And send others deeper to sleep." Sam lifted his hands from the rail, blew on them to warm his fingers. "- But I'd guess, not the Queen."