"I believe you're to be congratulated, Monroe." Lord Sayre stepped across West Keep's ground corridor, smiling at Sam like an old friend. "I say it, since you've come from the lady's solar without cat scratches." The wound at Sayre's mouth left lower teeth showing unpleasantly when he smiled, an effect apparently useful to the man.
Sam took the offered hand – a strong hand. "Since you're so… well informed and first with congratulations, except for my sergeant – I suppose I'd better be wary of you."
Lord Sayre laughed. "Always a good idea." He glanced over Sam's shoulder, where Sergeant Burke stood watching. " – And your sergeant, there, also a good idea."
Sam turned to Burke. "Henry, this is Lord William Sayre. Pass the word to the others. Lord Sayre can come to me at any time, his reasons his own."
"Sir."
"This… hasty engagement, with marriage possibly to follow, is going to be so interesting." Sayre walked beside Sam down the corridor, their boots silent on deep carpets, ringing on stretches of stone. "Too bad the war's confusing issues. You know, I'd thought I might have the throne myself, in time."
"You wouldn't have been suited to it, milord. Slightly too honorable, from what I've heard."
"'Slightly.' Mmm, that's possible… Do you play chess, Monroe?"
"No. My friend, Ned Flores, plays a strong game, but I've never really advanced past checkers."
"And I understand Colonel Flores will be playing one-handed, now?"
"Island seems always well-informed." They were walking through a huge room paneled with wood streaked rust and red. Its ceiling, worked in hammered copper and gold, was two stories high – so high that Sam could make out few details in an elaborately carved narrative, apparently of love and loss… By a polished granite fireplace, one of the few he'd seen without an iron Franklin fronting it, a group of men and women dressed in furs, and velvets in every color, were laughing at some notion or remark. The jewels down their weapon scabbards sparkled in the fire's light.
"Island well-informed? Informed about such as your Colonel Flores, you bet, since our strength is not in cavalry."
"Wonderful Warm-time phrase, 'You bet.' "
"Yes… and your checkers game, Monroe." Sayre opened the left of double doors, and ushered Sam through into a long hall he'd seen before. It was decorated with musical instruments of every different kind, hanging on the walls, or, if very large, resting on polished stands. " – A game fairly successful, it seems. You jump a few pieces, and are crowned." Sayre struck a light chord on an ivory banjar as they passed.
"A move isn't the game," Sam said.
Near the hallway's end, rested what seemed a fair copy of the ancient Warm-time piano, massive as a spotted bull, but gleaming black. "Meanwhile…" Sayre, who seemed musical, stepped over to strike a chord on the instrument's narrow keys with both his hands together – a loud crashing sound, but beautiful. "Meanwhile, the Queen still rules."
"A very long meanwhile, I hope. I've had enough of ruling to know the stink of its necessities. And, speaking of necessities, Sayre, I've noticed Island doesn't seem much alarmed at having lost Map-Jefferson City. Not much alarmed at the Khan's certain taking of all Map-Missouri soon – and the river, I'm told, already freezing north of Cairo."
"Ah, well… war." Sayre left the perhaps-piano, which, as they walked away, still sounded softly down the corridor as if reminding of times lost. "Monroe, we're always fighting wars. We have over thirty thousand veteran regulars, taking both bank armies together. Pikemen, crossbowmen. They've never been terribly impressed by horsemen. You know the Warm-time phrase, 'Whoever saw a dead cavalryman?' "
Behind them, Sergeant Burke cleared his throat, his boot-steps, spurs jingling, even more definite.
"I've seen them," Sam said. "And horseback raiders are one thing, the Khan's tumans are another. Thousands of light and heavy horse, under perfect discipline, with fast supply trains and bridging-and-siege engineers behind them."
"Mmm… Jefferson City making your point, I suppose."
"I hope so, for the Kingdom's sake. Once the Map-Texans were beaten at Cut'n Shoot? The old Khan had their bones collected and ground-up to enrich horse feed."
"Yes… A word of advice?"
"Of course." Ahead, polished dark wood, gleaming uncarpeted, ran to the West Keep steps.
"It occurs to me, Monroe, it might be useful for you to speak with Peter Bailey."
"Retired from East-bank army, isn't he?"
"Ah – done your informational! Yes, retired, but still our grand old man. Still the best general in either army, in my opinion. If the King had had him up in Map-Kentucky, the King would still be alive… Bailey's here at Island now, over in East Tower, come for a law-case on some leased estate land."
A small marble statue of a crouching cat was set on a greenstone stand along the corridor wall. Sayre paused and ran a forefinger along the carving before walking on. "Jemima Patch's work… As to General Bailey, the old man doesn't care for me, which you may consider a recommendation; he's not a man for the court. But if I were you – a provincial commander of note, and possibly soon to be a prince – I'd speak with him." Sayre hesitated, seemed to have more to say.
"Yes…?"
"Well, with no intent to offend… most of Middle Kingdom, Monroe, will not find you an impressive heir to the throne. You're pretty much a savage as far as the River's concerned, a no-dot nobody. But Bailey was a great fighting man – both armies loved him, though the Fleet did not. His support would be worth more than regiments to you."
"Sounds like good advice," Sam said. They'd come to the Keep's stairs. "And if the old man bites me, I'll let him know it was your idea of amusement, and I only an innocent and honorable young soldier."
"Ah… checkers." Sayre smiled, bowed, then strolled away.
"Your impressions, Sergeant."
"Good man at your side, sir. Risky, at your back."
"Fair enough," Sam said… And why not to East Tower, now, to see the old man? A long walk, then likely steep stairs. There was no place at Island reached without climbing many steps.
With Henry Burke slouching behind him like some great carnivorous stork in armor – and after two inquiries of the way-Sam climbed a last flight of stone stairs, went down an icy corridor, and found the door to Bailey's rooms.
He knocked… knocked harder, and wasn't answered.
Sergeant Burke eased past, and hit the door hard enough to shake it in the jamb.
Muffled curses from inside. A bolt slid back, and an old man with shaving soap on his face, looked out at them. He was barefoot, and wearing a deep-green belted robe, spotted here and there with grease.
"Oh… it's you." He stood back from the door.
"You expected me, sir?" Sam walked into the room, gestured for Burke to wait outside.
The general, bulky, but bent with age, went back to shaving at a enameled basin of hot water on a stand also holding a small, polished-metal mirror. There were suds and splashes on the stone floor by his meaty, white, bare feet.
The old man gripped a long razor in a knob-knuckled hand, peered into the small reflecter, and began to scrape his cheek. "Expected to be annoyed by some fool," he said, "since the Khan took Jeff City." He paused for delicate work along his upper lip. The razor's blade flashed in firelight. "Damn woman remarked my stubble this morning. Carping old bitch…"
A small iron stove didn't seem to warm the room. Perhaps couldn't; the stone ceiling looked to be three men high.
"This fool, sir, is Sam Monroe."
The old man held his razor away, and smiled. "I know which fool you are, milord." Bailey's eyes, sunk in wrinkles as some far-south lizard's, were an almost topaz yellow. He recommenced shaving. "I used to have a servant for this chore – you know Warm-time 'chore'?"
"Yes. Very apt, sir."
"Mmm… I used to have a servant, before spending every fucking piece of silver I have to settle with a land thief named Edgar Crosby!"
"I've heard of some court case." Sam noticed a faint odor of urine from the old man's chamber-pot.
"Not a 'case.' A crime. I'd intended Highbank for my granddaughter. Now, little Agnes will be a fucking pauper!"
"And if I promise to see to it, sir, that in the future, little Agnes doesn't become a pauper, can we talk about this war?" Sam swung his scabbarded sword off his back, and sat, without invitation, in the nearest of two fat, velveted armchairs facing the futile stove.
Bailey rinsed his razor. "And Crosby's head?"
"Your Master Crosby's head – and all our heads – may be used as buzkash balls by the Khan's horsemen, if this kingdom doesn't come fully awake."
General Bailey grunted, then concentrated on finishing shaving, flicking suds from his razor onto the floor's stone. He had four tattooed dots on one cheek, five on the other. "And from me – retired, aged, forgetful – you wish?"
"Some sensible advice."
"Oh, that. Do you intend to try to command this war for us?"
"The Queen, so far, allows only that I 'advise' Kingdom's forces."
"Ah… And you intend to press that small authority as far as it will go?"
"Yes, I do, sir, since my people also stand under threat. The Queen is a great lady, and a fighter, but not a war planner."
Bailey rinsed his razor, folded it, and set it on the basin's edge. He mopped his face with a white woven-cloth towel. "I found your campaigns very interesting. The Boston people at Map-McAllen, for reasons of their own, reported them to us in detail. I suspect that demonstrated competence is why you are not at the bottom of the river. Apparently it's thought you might prove useful." The old man sat in the other armchair, lifted his bare feet onto a worn ottoman, and settled with a grunt, staring into the Franklin's small fire. "Who suggested you come see me?"
"Sayre."
"Ah… that oh, so clever man. Too fucking clever."
"A soldier, though."
"Yes, a soldier, if you keep an eye on him." The old man shifted slightly in his chair. "Your campaigns. The night thing at – God-Help-Us'
"Yes."
"Really not bad. Better than not bad."
"I was lucky."
"Of course. And lucky in the men – and women, by Lady Weather! – that fought for you. Did seem to me… and of course I wasn't there. But hearing of it, it did seem to me you spent your people a little too freely. Might have substituted maneuver for slaughter – certainly in the initial assault. It can be more useful to confuse an enemy, than kill a few more of them."
"… Yes, you're right, sir. I thought of strong left-flanking, get them half-turned from me, but I was afraid the cavalry might just charge away into the night… turn up weeks later in Map-Guadalajara."
The old man's laugh ended with a liquid cough. "And by Jesus they might have, at that. I've found cavalry… not quite trustworthy."
"I've learned to trust them. And since I'm presently looking at a pair of flat, obviously-infantry feet, I'll dismiss an ignorant observation."
Bailey smiled and wiggled his toes. "Oh, no insult intended. All your people seem to know their business."
"Yes, they do."
The old man stroked his cheeks, evaluating his shave. "Stupid woman…" He turned from watching the fire to look at Sam, an examination as coolly interested as an elderly cat's. "And just what do you, as a young commander of rather limited experience – no experience on the river at all – just what do you think needs to be done?"
"Sir, I think what's left of the West-bank army should be behind fortifications – dug-ditch and palisade, if that's the best they can do – until the river freezes, and they join East-bank army. Your General Pomeroy needs to stop sticking his neck out for the Kipchaks to chop. No more half-assed marching and countermarching."
"Hmm. Miles Pomeroy has had the fever-malaria for years. It makes him short-tempered, restless. I doubt he'll take that 'advice' to heart. Though I also doubt that fortification will win the war."
"It will stop losing it, while East-bank army gets its thumb out of its ass and moves west across the ice. The Fleet should be sailing north right now, ready to rig its runners to join them. The river's already freezing at St. Louis – "
"It's freezing below Lemay. – And this combination of forces will, of course, terrify Toghrul."
"It will keep his generals and half his army busy in the north, sir."
"While…?"
"While my army marches up through Map-Arkansas, threatening his lines of supply… then waits in good defensive country."
Bailey pursed his lips and made soft kissing sounds. "Well, young man, my information is – and I still receive some information, some useful pigeons – my information is that the Khan has already reached his people in the north, taken command from Shapilov. Which means your army had better move fast, or they'll be too late."
"They'll move fast. They should be well into Map-Louisiana now, with the cavalry coming east from Map-Fort Stockton to join them."
"Better be. A great deal seems to depend on your General Voss."
"He's a dependable man, sir."
"So, with your army coming up West-bank from the south… which the Khan probably knows already – "
"I think not. The cavalry, coming east, should screen the army's march for at least a week or so."
"Very well, Monroe, let's say that's true – "
"We'll have my army coming up the west bank, and your East-bank army crossing the ice in the north, supported by the Fleet. The Khan will find himself between two immediately threatening forces – and will have no choice but to divide his army to deal with them. He won't have time to attack one with all he has, then turn to face the other."
"He may try to make the time."
"Not with his supply-lines threatened north of the Map-Ozarks, sir. No fodder; no remounts; no replacements. Time will be against him."
The old man sighed. "From your lips, to the ears of Floating Jesus."
"And Mountain Jesus as well, General."
"Well… it's a very young strategy, Monroe. With many ifs."
"It's the only one, sir, I think has any chance at all."
"Mmm… So, the Khan, once he realizes he's blundered by campaigning with an enemy left behind to cut his lines of supply, must send troops south to at least dislodge that enemy. But he must also leave forces in the north, to hold the river ice against the Fleet, and East-bank army."
"Yes."
"So he will send, or go south himself, to meet… you? I assume you intend to command that battle."
"Yes, sir."
Bailey put his head back and closed his eyes as if beginning a nap. "And what chance do you give this strategy, young man?"
"The only chance we've got, sir."
"Well, that's fair enough. A soldier's answer, at any rate." Still with his eyes closed. " – Of course, if he beats you, destroys your army without taking heavy losses, he'll use your own plan in reverse."
"Yes, if he won with light losses, he'd hook to the riverbank there, let his northern forces keep our northern forces busy until the river freezes down to him. Then he'd send his tumans out onto the ice to take Island."
"And the Kingdom."
"Yes. And the Kingdom. – But he won't have light losses, General. Win or lose, I promise we will ruin him in the fight. So Kingdom will still have a better than even chance against the rest of his army, in the north."
Bailey opened his eyes. "A fair-enough promise. Well, you have a notion, milord. And I like it – there's a nice, nasty unfairness to it. But it will depend, of course, on our people and your people fighting as one, though so many Warm-time miles apart."
"Yes."
"To deal with which difficulty, I suppose, I'm being recruited, though so old, and now impoverished."
"There would be pay."
"Um-hmm. Same nasty odor of taking advantage – always a sign of solid strategy."
"Horseshit," Sam said. "You'd have been very angry if you hadn't been asked to help by someone."
A sideways yellow glance. "And speaking of 'someone,' what does Her Majesty think of your 'advising' Kingdom's men?"
"She dislikes it extremely, and wouldn't have allowed even that if she had a better choice – and didn't need my army."
Bailey smiled. He had two teeth missing. "She is a remarkable woman. A better queen, in some ways, than Newton was a king. His heart was never really in it; he found us… a sad lot. And that Kentucky business, an absolute mess. General Ryan, and his so-faithful tribal allies!" The old man seemed to dream for a few moments, then roused. "So, you 'advise.' I doubt such grudging approval by Her Majesty will be enough."
"The Queen has allowed my engagement to Princess Rachel."
The general sat up. "Has she? Well… that might make a difference. And the girl will have you?"
"I believe she will, though reluctantly."
"Ah. 'Reluctantly.' 'Advise' and 'reluctantly.' Son, you're going to be very lucky to keep your head – even forgetting Toghrul and his Kipchaks."
"I know it."
Bailey hauled himself out of his chair, padded to the Franklin, and struck the hot stove-pipe with his fist. A small belch of ash and smoke came from the fire. "Fucking thing… If the Kipchaks had not taken Map-Jefferson City – "
"I know. In that way, Toghrul works for me."
"He'll work against you, when he finds he has to take half his army down to Map-Arkansas." The general's robe was dusted with ash. "Think you can beat him?"
"If he fights my fight – yes."
"And your fight will be?"
"Wait for him in broken, wooded country, hills with some height to them. On perhaps a seven-to-eight-hundred-acre front, cut by narrow hollows. And all under Lord Winter's snow."
"Map-Ozarks."
"Yes."
Bailey tapped the stove-pipe again, absently. "So, you leave him no room for sweeping cavalry maneuvers… He'll break his command into smaller units, try to work them along the ridges into your formations."
"I would, in his place."
"And, of course, he'll dismount most of his people – have them come against you on foot."
"So I hope, sir."
"He'll still have numbers on you, even with only half his army with him."
"Yes."
Thinking, Bailey touched the stove-pipe again, left his fingers on it too long. "Ow! Damn thing. It seem cold in here to you?"
"It is cold." Sam demonstrated by blowing a faint cloud of breath. "You need a bigger stove."
"What I need," the old man said, "are twenty fewer years and two thousand pieces of silver. You'll meet him on the ridges?"
"Cavalry waits along the ridges, in reserve. His dismounted men will have to attack up snowy hillsides; the Light Infantry will fight them as they climb the slopes. The Heavy Infantry will be waiting when – if – they reach the crests."
"Umm. Of course, the Khan will soon know of your army, and approximately where it will stand. There'll be no surprises for him, then."
"Yes, but it seems to me, no choices either. He'll have to come to us."
"Alright." Bailey dusted ash off his hands. "I'll do what I can, milord. As you 'advise.' But everything depends on your people marching north from West Map-Louisiana. If that army doesn't move north, doesn't threaten the Kipchaks' line of supply, there'll be very little either you or I can do."
"Understood. And Howell Voss should join them with the cavalry at any time; possibly already has."
"Let's hope so. What I can do, now, is pigeon to suggest strictly defensive formations to West-bank army in the south. Pomeroy will listen; he's not an idiot. It seems to me that Cotton is already doing the best he can in the north, at St. Louis."
"I think so. I'd be very grateful for that pigeon, sir. And East-bank army?"
"Ah… my old command. Mark Aiken will do as he's ordered, and there's the rub. Know that phrase?"
"I believe I've heard it, sir. Very apt."
"Well, there is the rub. Aiken will require orders, since moving even toward West bank is contrary to founding regulations. 'Advice' won't do – not even from me. He will move only at the Queen's command, or by the Queen's warrant. Won't do more, won't do less… I'd say that up till now, no one has ordered him to do anything, other than local defense situations. Still, once he's told what to do, Aiken will move, and quickly, and be glad to." The old man began to pace back and forth in front of the stove. It was slow pacing, with a limp. "We're… you must understand, Monroe, that we're an aggressive military. Defense is a poor doctrine for us. You know the Warm-time 'doctrine'?"
"I do, yes. Sir, the Kipchaks want to be attacked. They hope for it, as a knife fighter wishes for a clumsy thrust to counter for his kill. What they don't want, is delay, and a mobile and determined defense."
"Oh, I understand very well." Pacing away, the old man spoke that to a wall and glassed arrow-slit. "But what you must understand, young man," – limping back, now – "is that by being aggressive, the Kingdom's forces have been very effective at controlling the river and six Map-states. Dealing for the most part, of course, with savages, tribesmen and so forth. Now, they're being asked to meet a military at least as formidable as ours – and commanded, I regret to say, by a genius of war."
"And the division of the army into East and West-bank commands?"
The old man stopped pacing. "Oh, that began as a sensible precaution on the part of our kings. Did you know it used to be a death-penalty offense for an officer of one bank army ever to cross the river… ever to have a close relationship with an officer from the opposite bank?"
"I'd heard that."
"And heard correctly. It was all a matter of careful balances – and now, of course, has become a weakness. It had occurred to no one, myself included, that it might be wise for both bank armies to cooperate against the Kipchaks, moving back and forth across the river to threaten his forces' flanks."
"Must be done now, sir." Sam stood, buckled his sword harness… reached over his shoulder to touch the weapon's hilt.
"Yes. Now it must be done, milord. And the Fleet won't like it. They've always been pleased to deal with a divided army. But East-bank was my old command, and I believe Mark Aiken will at least prepare to move, if I convince him that a direct order will be coming. Then he'll be able to get his regiments out onto the ice with no delay."
"That is… better than I'd hoped for, sir. I owe you a great debt."
"You keep that in mind, young man. I believe you mentioned… pay?" Bailey stooped for a small piece of firewood at the stove's rack, tossed it into the flames.
"I'll see to it, General… And I think I've taken enough of your time."
"Oh, nothing but time, now. Time, and a little widow – quite old, of course – but enough of a bitch to be interesting."
"The suggester of shaving?"
"The very one." He walked Sam to the door. "Remember, milord, your people have to be in place – and soon."
"I know it."
"And the other matter – "
" – Is Kingdom's fleet."
"That's right. If our fleet doesn't get north, and onto the ice to slice through those tumans' formations…"
"Any influence with the admirals, sir?"
The old man smiled. "Why, yes. The admirals are very much like sea-whales – they snort and wallow, roll and blow. And they hate my guts. That's always influence of a sort, if properly applied."
Sam paused at the door. "My thanks again, sir, for your help."
"You haven't got anything to thank me for, yet." The old man put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "When you can do a little better than 'advise,' you might take it upon yourself to see Lenihan. He's supposed to be coordinating command, here."
"I will. And I wish you could be fighting with me."
Bailey shook his head. "You are young. I can't tell you how grateful I am that I won't be fighting beside you. What's the copybook phrase? 'Scared to death'? I was scared to death, every battle I fought."
"I doubt it," Sam said, and swung the door open. Sergeant Burke came to attention.
"What's your name, Sergeant?" Bailey bent a yellow eye on him.
A more rigid attention. "Burke, sir!"
"Well, Sergeant Burke, watch this boy's back."
"Sir!" Followed by a very snappy salute – now, it seemed to Sam, as much a part of his soldiers as their belly-buttons.
… There was no temptation as great as inaction. Sam stood weary in the corridor's cold, drafty gray stone, Sergeant Burke standing silent behind him, and wished for rest, solitude, an end to persuading strangers. An end to maneuvers of words, as wearing as a battle in this great smoky warren of wind and rock.
The sergeant cleared his throat. And as if that had been a signal to march, Sam marched.
It would be the chamberlain's office, next – undoubtedly a mile away through freezing granite halls and stairways – to attempt to persuade that clever fat man to, in turn, try to persuade the Queen to loosen her grip, only slightly, on power.
It seemed unlikely – as everything on the river seemed unlikely, dreams flowing down in the current's ice with their Floating Jesus, so Sam felt he might wander Island forever.
Rodney Sewell had come down-river from Cooper Estate just two days before. Sent for to come quickly, he'd landed still wearing the family's livery, but changed in the dock shed to brown smock and sack trousers.
A preparation under-cook had been willing enough, for a bare handful of copper, to provide a place for a tall, shabby, ginger-haired stranger to sleep, deep in the kitchen cellars. Willing enough, if chicken-birds were properly gutted, potatoes peeled, and onions sliced by the basketful.
The people called him Ginger, since Sewell never offered his name, and were impressed by his gutting chicken-birds like a wonder. But though he always washed that mess off at the pump before the scullions' meals were served, and was quiet and decently mannered, the pot girls avoided him. Perhaps he washed too well, as if his hands – large, and long-fingered – had more important things to do.
Also, his first day working, he'd responded in an unpleasant way to the teasing any new kitchener was bound to expect. He'd stared at them, and was so oddly silent – while the gutting knife worked on, worked faster, its greasy blade flashing through flesh – that the teasing stopped.
Lunchtime on his third day, Sewell had strolled past the serving trays for a suite of Tower rooms. Strolled so near that the meat cook, Mr. Harris – in conversation with a fat servant belonging to those rooms – had cursed him and waved him back to his work.
Hours later, after filleting a deep basketfull of fishes to rest in ice as dinner preparation, Sewell ambled by the trays again. One held sliced carrots, turnip crisps, and pickled mussels. Sewell hesitated there, saw the idiot scrubber watching him, and walked away. He went through the second kitchen and down the cellar corridor to the turning for barrel preserves, and the jakes.
The storage there, shadowy and damp, extended from the corridor on either side down long, narrow aisles, walled by high stacks of barrels with more barrels packed behind them. All smelling sour with tons of brined cabbage – Warm-times' 'sour kraut' – some of it five, six years old. Sewell had never had a taste for it.
Down each dark aisle, hacked cabbages and huge open barrels – some half-filled, some crusted with salt shipped up from the Gulf Entire – stood beside long, knife-scored work tables.
Sewell had come to the end of storage, had the door to the jakes in sight, when something very heavy draped itself across his back and shoulders. It staggered him, with surprise as much as anything, but Sewell was quick, had always been very quick and strong. He would have had his gutting knife out, except that two fat legs had wrapped themselves around him, so his arms were pinned to his sides.
The knotted cord that whipped around his neck was inevitable, though Sewell did everything that could and should be done. He tried to scream – just too late – so made only a soft croaking sound. He bent, and bucked into a somersault to smash the strangler to the stone floor. Then he got to his feet – a difficult thing to do – and drove backward with great strength into a side aisle and a work table's heavy, seasoned edge.
With luck, the oak might have broken the strangler's spine, but hadn't. Whoever, he was a sturdy man, and he'd shifted a little just in time. Even so, given only one good breath – only one – Sewell felt anything might be possible.
But no breath was given, and Sewell thrashed and staggered this way and that down the narrow aisle, kicked and arched his back, writhed to work his arms, his hands, free of those fat legs locked around him. It was difficult to do with no breathing… Soon it became impossible, and he knelt on the stone – that great weight still clinging, bearing on him. The cord buried deep in Sewell's neck seemed now made of diamonds, it sparkled so in his mind. He felt little things breaking in the back of his eyes from brightness.
He was lying down, face pressed to cool stone, and had no idea how that had happened, where the time had gone. He could feel a thing in his chest trembling. He was warm in the seat of his pants…
Ansel Carey, whistling a song his father had taught him, went up the aisle to the corridor, looked left and right, then came back to haul the corpse onto the work table, and go through its pockets. He found a gutting knife, another little blade hiding strapped to the right ankle, twenty-seven coins – copper, silver, and gold – and a tiny blown-glass bottle with a string-wound stopper. There was a thimbleful of ashy powder in it, that smelled like toasted almonds.
He tossed everything but the money into a brine barrel at the end of the work table, then slid the corpse that way. With grunts of effort, he doubled it over, lifted it… and stuffed it down into the big barrel butt first, so the feet and black, swollen face came together at the top, awash in pickling.
"Unappetizing," Master Carey said, fitted the oak lid down tight, then used a mallet to set the top hoop… While he labored – rolling the barrel to the back of the narrow aisle, then, with the aid of a plank as lever, hoisting it level by level, deep into the storage stacks – he decided the matter had been, after all, too slight to have mentioned beforehand, orders or not. And too squalid to report now, to a young Captain-General with more important matters on his mind.