"Sir, what is the matter with these fools? As you suggested, whenever I'm out of these damned rooms, I've been having 'casual' conversations with a number of civilians and middle-rank officials – and those older officers who'll speak to a woman soldier without smirking – and none seem very interested in the Kipchaks."
Sam saw a tired Margaret Mosten sitting across from him at their suite's great table – as she undoubtedly saw a weary Sam Monroe. "The matter, Margaret, is they simply don't believe the threat is great. This afternoon, Chamberlain Brady dismissed the Khan with a wave of his hand. These people are not convinced this war requires that they let some war-lord from nowhere – "
"A no-dot war-lord, sir." Lieutenant Darry, still eating at supper's end, paused in forking up a baked apple.
"That's right, Pedro. A no-dot war-lord."
The long table supported the remains of food brought up under covered silver salvers by four servants in the Queen's blood-red livery. Servants accompanied from the kitchens by an untrusting Master Carey… who'd then uncovered platters of salt ham, broccoli and fresh onions, a roasted duck, potatoes creamed to pudding in spotted-cattle milk, and spiced baked apples – tasting them at random while the food cooled, the meats congealed.
Now, supper over, Carey – who remained mysteriously fat, since he never sat to eat – was collecting Island's silverware. The Chief of Kitchens, a tyrant laired deep in Island's cellar warren, counted all returned silverware, even from the Queen's table.
"… But, do they think Toghrul Khan is just going to go away?"
"Margaret, except for some of the officers the Queen has just brought to Island, the Boxcars think he's basically only a more formidable tribesman. And they've dealt with tribesmen and tooth-filers many times."
"But they lost Map-Jefferson City!"
" 'A fluke,' is how the chamberlain described that. I got the impression he thought the Queen was making too much of it."
"The court tends to agree, sir." Darry poured himself more berry brandy. The lieutenant, though slender, seemed to have an extraordinary capacity – was always hungry, and never seemed drunk. "People I speak to, some of them officers of the better regiments, regard this war as… well, a career opportunity. Except for those like Stilwell or Brainard, who have estates to inherit."
"Fucking overdecorated roosters." Margaret made a face. It seemed to Sam she hadn't yet forgiven him for her boots, leathers, and mail, in a court where the women – and men – dressed like furred and velveted song-birds.
"Well, Captain, they're frivolous… and they aren't." Pedro twirled his silver goblet; those were counted in the kitchens, too. "Most of them have fought tribesmen. And if not, fought each other in duels. I feel… really, I feel quite at home. Though, of course, they are a little rough."
"A little rough?" Sam considered some brandy, then decided not.
"Well, sir, Jerry Brainard has killed a man who questioned his family recipe. A question of palms."
"Palms?" Margaret said.
"Yes, Captain. Palms. Girl's palms – of course hardly done at all, now. But the question was whether to cattle-butter them before broiling, or after."
"Lady Weather…"
"And which," Sam said, "did the Brainards favor?"
"Oh, Jerry said, 'Before.' Before, absolutely. Keeps 'em plump; keeps 'em from drying out on the grill."
"These people," Margaret said, "deserve the Kipchaks."
"But our people don't," Sam said, "and Toghrul will see to it that as the Kingdom goes, so will they."
"True."
"And speaking of deserving, I've seen no Jesus priests, no ladies of Lady Weather at Island."
"No, sir," Darry said. "I understand the Queen doesn't allow it, doesn't allow them to stay. She sends them back where they came from with silver pieces. Says to do good – and stay gone."
"Making enemies, Pedro?" Margaret said.
"Don't think so, Captain. I'm told she gives a lot of silver. And the winter festivals, very elaborate, supposed to be wonderful to see. Canceled this year, of course."
"Master Carey," Sam said, "do we have a healthy pigeon?"
"Two, sir. Only two since Hector died on the Naughty. Couldn' stand the motion." Ansel Carey kept the birds in his room, and expressed to them the only tenderness Sam had seen from him.
"Leave the silverware; let the Queen's people count it when they come for the platters."
"What message, Sam?"
"To Howell and Ned, Margaret, through Better-Weather. Howell's probably joined by now, and Eric can relay dispatch-riders up to them. I want them moving north fast as possible. Forward elements should already be out of West Louisiana."
"Sam, they know that." Margaret had carved the supper meat, and was cleaning ham juice from her long dagger's blade with a red woven-cloth napkin. "They don't need to be reminded… if a galloper could even catch up to them."
"Well, they may not need a reminder if they get it – but they might have needed it, if they don't."
"Sam, that doesn't make any sense at all."
"Does to me," Darry said, and pushed his dessert plate away. The lieutenant tilted his heavy chair back and sat at ease, gleaming boots crossed at the ankles. "Precious Miss Murphy's Law. What may be fucked up – your pardon, Captain Mosten – will be fucked up. So, better a pigeon, to be sure."
"My thinking," Sam said. "And it's possible that Howell… even that both of them have been killed."
"Nothing," Margaret said, and got up from the table. "Nothing could kill both of those men. I don't think Ned is killable."
"Did lose his hand," Darry said.
Master Carey's room was down the corridor. Sam could hear him murmuring to the pigeons, apparently making his selection.
"Speaking of hands, Pedro; you've had more than a week dealing them out at the card-tables at court. And, I understand, have been successful. What news?"
"Master Carey exaggerates, sir. Just fun cards, small stakes; never enough to make anyone angry. Also, no involvement with any lady having serious connections."
"That's a comfort. Go on."
"Well, sir…" Darry brought his chair forward, sat at attention. "Well, sir – this is no court, in the sense of the Emperor's court at Map-Mexico City. It's… really more like chieftains gathering at a tribal longhouse in the mountains, or north, along the ice-wall. Though the longhouse in this case is stone, and miles each way." Darry paused, considering. "It isn't that there aren't manners here, sir, and decent precedence – there are. But it's all damn shallow."
"Meaning," Margaret Mosten said, "keep a sergeant with you, Sam."
"Yes," Darry said. "Absolutely. Not that murdering you would be undertaken lightly, sir."
"Glad to hear it."
"But it wouldn't be, well, regarded as… memorable."
"And no fucking consideration as to what might happen then?" Margaret leaned over the table like a storm. "With the Kingdom at war, and our army marching into Map-Arkansas?"
"Ah, but you see, Captain, the people who are the considering sort, wouldn't be the ones who killed our Captain-General." He smiled at Sam in encouragement.
"One or more of the sergeants," Margaret said, "and either Pedro or me in any public gathering."
Darry nodded. "We have no dots on our faces, sir, is what it comes down to. We aren't Boxcars."
"Neither was the Queen." Sam reconsidered the berry brandy, poured the barest taste into his glass and drank it… breathed its stinging sweetness in and out.
"No, but she is now, sir. She was married to their king – and, I understand, murdered to hold her own once he was gone."
"Watch your tongue, Pedro. Even stone walls can grow ears."
"Oh – oh, nothing out of the way in that sort of killing, of course, sir!" Darry said. "Admirable, really. An admirable lady… who having been a tribeswoman herself, knew what needed to be done."
"I'd leave the subject, Pedro… Margaret, will you go and persuade Ansel to part with a fucking pigeon. I'd like to get that message sent. And Pedro, you might keep in mind that those people at Island who do 'consider' before they act, might consider it useful to put one of my people into the river, as an indication we're not wanted here, long-term."
"I suppose that's true!" Darry seemed startled at the notion.
"So, if you find even your charm suddenly overvalued by new friends, a new lady, you might be careful what dark corner you're invited to."
"I keep an eye on him, milord." Master Carey carried in a bird basket, with Margaret marching behind him. "I've been Sancho to his Panzo, or whatever… keep close to any fun, or lady."
"Tediously so," said Lieutenant Darry. "It was a question, sir, but I chose our Louella." Carey set the basket on the table. "She's small, but swift. And spirited – flies so hawks can kiss her ass."
Louella set a bright black eye to the basket weaving, examined them.
"Sir," Margaret said, "it would be a mistake. They'll think you have no confidence in them. They'll start looking over their shoulders for more messages."
"Good point, sir," Darry said. "Still, there's Miss Murphy's Law…"
"Pedro," Margaret said, "be quiet."
Sam closed his eyes for a moment… saw Howell in camp, unrolling the bird's tiny message-paper and reading it. Then saying, "Well, for Weather's sake. What the fuck's the matter with Sam?"
"Alright… Take the bird back, Ansel."
There were two very hard knocks on the suite's heavy door. It opened partway, and Sergeant Mays leaned in. "Her Majesty an' the ax-girl to see you, sir."
Master Carey snatched up Louella's basket, and waddled swiftly back to his room as the Queen, in a long wolf-fur cloak, came in past Sergeant Mays, her armswoman behind her.
"Where's that fat man off to?"
Sam stood with Margaret and Darry, and bowed. "Honored to welcome you, ma'am… Carey's our schemer, spy, and supply person. Secrecy's a custom with him, so he snatched our pigeon away."
"One of your Master Lauder's people, I suppose?"
"I'm sure of it."
"This habit," – the Queen stood in the middle of the room – "this habit you have of being so directly honest as to insult those you speak to, I find very unpleasant."
"I apologize, Queen. I do it to unsettle those older and cleverer than I am."
"And that's exactly what I mean – that sort of thing you just said."
"Perhaps I should try a little lying. Will you sit, ma'am? Have wine… berry brandy?"
Queen Joan shook her head, then was silent, as if she'd forgotten why she'd come. Her ax-girl watched Sergeant Mays, since he stood closest to them.
"What is it, ma'am?" Sam said. "What's happened?"
"… Nothing. Nothing's 'happened,' Monroe. I visit where I choose, when I choose." Sam saw, by the hanging lanterns' warm light, that the Queen was pale as cotton sheeting.
"They're on the river?"
"Our difficulties," the Queen said, "our… difficulties are still our concern."
"They've taken St. Louis."
The Queen made a sound in her throat, and clawed her fingers as if she were about to fight. Then, spreading her arms wide, her long wolf cloak swinging open, she began a slow-stepping dance of fury. Her ropes of pearls swaying with her furs, she turned in drifts of flower scent, eyes rolled back, teeth bared to bite. She danced in paces her ax-girl mirrored to stay within reach. "I'll kill… that fucking Kipchak. Every person, everything he loves, I'll kill. I'll skin his wife, his child – I hear there's to be a child. I'll skin that baby slowly, for him to see – and his horses, skin his horses alive before I skin him, roll him screaming in salt, and serve him roasted!"
It was a promise frightening to see danced and almost sung. Sam noticed Sergeant Mays stand back a step, and saw that Margaret had closed her eyes, as if the Queen were a fire burning too close.
When Queen Joan stood still and silent, Sam went to her and took her hands while the armswoman watched. "Give me your warrant, dear."
"… I am not your 'dear.' " But she let him hold her hands.
"Give me your warrant to assist you in this war, to command, so our armies can fight together."
"So you can prepare to take my throne – boy?" She pulled her hands away.
"I swear to uphold you on your throne, Queen – uphold your rule against any and all. I swear it on the memory of my Second-mother… And will hold to it," – he smiled – "no matter how inconvenient."
"Never," the Queen said. " – Never." She turned and walked out. Her ax-girl, following, glanced back to be certain of no surprise, then closed the door behind them.
"What do we do?" Margaret said into silence. "Sam, what do we do, now?"
"What do we do…?" Sam took a deep breath. "What I do is keep trying to persuade the generals and admirals here to cooperate with our army."
"Won't do it, sir, without her." Carey, out of his room like a mountain marmot, appearing in the hall. "Boxcars think we're shit, sir."
"Sad," Pedro Darry said, "but true." An ancient phrase.
"Then fuck 'em," said Sergeant Mays.
"No. We need these people." Sam reached for the brandy, noticed Margaret Mosten's glance, and set the crystal jug aside. "I'll go to the river lords, tomorrow – "
The chamber's door swung open again, and Queen Joan's ax-girl stepped in. "Her Majesty," she said.
The Queen stood in the doorway. "I've… changed my mind." She stared at them a few moments, then said, "Dear God." One of Warm-times' shortest sayings.
After an early breakfast delivered to their rooms – the roast pork, boiled eggs, oat pudding, and honey rolls all first nibbled for safety's sake by Master Carey – Sam, with Sergeant Wilkey pacing behind him, longbow down his back, coursed through Island's passages to East Tower's stairs, cubbies, and chambers, until a serving man nodded to "General Lenihan" and pointed them to offices at the end of a lamp-lit hall. No guard was posted there.
Wilkey opened the oak door and stood aside as Sam walked in. Three soldiers, clerks, stood writing at stands beneath hanging five-flame oil lamps. They were wearing West-bank army's blue wool, but no weapons, no armor. They set their pens down as Sam and Wilkey came in.
"Brigadier Lenihan," Sam said. "I understand he's executive for plans and coordination – dealing with both bank armies?"
"And you are?" The tallest clerk, a sergeant.
"He's 'Milord Monroe' to you," Wilkey said pleasantly. "Now, see him in to your general."
The clerk said, "Sorry, sir – milord," trotted to an inner office door, knocked, opened it, and said, "Lord Monroe to see you, sir."
There was a grumble from inside. Sam walked past the clerk into a smaller space that reminded him of Charles' cramped office at Better-Weather, though more brightly lit. A stocky man with cold gray eyes and several days' growth of beard, wearing West-bank army's blue, stood from behind a desk piled with maps and message sheets. He had three tattooed dots on his left cheek, four on the other.
"General Lenihan, I believe we have some business."
"Sir – milord – I hardly think so." Lenihan's voice was hoarse with fatigue. "And, while I wouldn't wish to be rude, I must say I don't have the time for it." The brigadier looked down at his desk-top. "There are orders to be copied, orders to be sent. In short, sir, I have a war on my hands – at least portions of it."
"I see you do. And how does your war go, General?"
"That, sir, with all respect, is something I couldn't discuss with you. Perhaps the chamberlain's office…" Lenihan, impatient, glanced down and shifted some papers.
Sam shoved a stack of documents aside, then sat on the edge of the desk, one booted foot on the floor. "The Queen has allowed me to be what help I can in this war, Lenihan. So it's by her warrant and authority, as well as mine, that I suggest you drop this pose of 'responsible officer weary of interfering idiots' – and prepare to take my orders."
The general's face flushed. "I would need a written order, signed by the Queen, to do any such – "
Sam lunged across the desk, took Lenihan's throat in his right hand, and drove the man back against the wall. The brigadier was strong, struggled, and reached for his belted dagger. Sam covered that hand with his left to keep the blade sheathed – and heard Wilkey, behind him, draw his sword.
"Put up, Sergeant!" The sword whispered back into its scabbard.
Lenihan, who couldn't breathe, fought hard. His chair went over with a clatter; a fat folder slid from the desk. He struck with a heavy fist at Sam's head and belly, tried for his balls. Then plucked and tore at the strangling hand, to wrench it free.
The office door opened.
"Mind your own business," Wilkey said behind Sam, and kicked the door shut.
The general, though a tough man, was beginning to soften with lack of air. The punches and kicks slowly became random. Sam saw in the man's eyes the astounded realization this might be death – come so oddly, so suddenly, in an office of all things, and at the hand of a titled stranger young enough to be his son.
Sam let him go, and the general slid down the wall to one knee, took long, gasping breaths – then staggered up with his dagger drawn.
Sam, arms crossed, sat back on the desk edge, watching him… taking no notice of the knife.
"You… young dog!" A furious brigadier, and even hoarser now. There were tentative knocks on the office door.
"Get away from there!" Sergeant Wilkey said. There were no more knocks.
Sam was careful not to smile. "I apologize, Lenihan. I was hasty – but I needed to get your attention. We simply don't have time to waste with nonsense." He picked a paper off the desk-top, then another, and glanced over them. "Floating Jesus!" Pleased to have remembered the River's Great. "You people are moving units of East-bank army to cover these fucking towns!"
"That's right!" The general was still gripping his dagger. "The Kipchaks are raiding across the ice, up-river. They're burning East-bank towns. Killing everyone in them. Children… everyone!"
"Of course they are, General." Sam set the papers down. "Haven't you wondered why? – The Kipchaks like children. They have children of their own. So they must have a reason to be crossing the river up there, attacking those towns, and killing your people – including the little children."
"You… put your hands on me." Lenihan sheathed his dagger.
"Yes, I did. And if you don't begin to think, instead of sitting passing papers like turds, I'll put my hands on you again. Is that plain enough for you, General?"
Scowling silence.
"The Kipchaks want you people to break up your East-bank army. Shapilov, and now the Khan, want that army dissolved into little garrisons guarding civilians who should be moving back off the river into the forests. What the Khan doesn't want, is that army united into a single force that might cross the river ice against him!" Sam shook his head. "Lenihan, you and your people at Island have been doing the Kipchaks' work for them."
"We have not."
"Yes, you have. And it must stop. We don't have time for mistakes this serious. So far, you've been dealing with the Khan's generals. But now, Toghrul has taken command. Another blunder like this, he'll tear your throats out." Sam stood up off the desk. "You people are not dealing with tribesmen and savages any longer, warriors who don't know discipline. You're facing a great mechanical of war – do you understand? A veteran horse-army that can move fifty Warm-time miles a day, and fight a battle that evening. All commanded by a man more intelligent than both of us together."
Sam stood off the desk, and went to the door. "So, we do things right, General, and do them quickly and in cooperation – my people coming up into Map-Arkansas, and yours north, on the river ice. We do things right… or your head and my head and the Queen's head will end piled with thousands of others, here in your great courtyard."
"I… don't know."
"Yes, you do know, Lenihan… Now, by right of the Queen's warrant to me, you will inform General DeVane of East-bank army, General Parker of West-bank army, the two senior admirals at Island – Pearce and Hopkins – and the River Lords Sayre and Cooper, that their presence is commanded this afternoon in the Queen's council chamber at… two glasses. Each may bring one aide. And General Bailey may choose to attend, or not."
Lenihan looked even wearier than before. "I will… inform them, milord."
"'Sir,' will do; we don't have time for 'milord's. But you will do more than inform them, Lenihan. You will see to it that those officers and lords are present – if necessary, escorted and under arrest."
"… Yes, sir."
"What's your first name?"
"Patrick."
"Two more matters, Patrick. You're to post a guard at your corridor door. Also, put your clerks up on charges, for not supporting their officer with more than timid tapping while he was being assaulted."
A grudging first smile from the general. "Sir."
"See you at two, Pat," Sam said, and left the office, Wilkey following.
Ned Flores, weary, stood by a hasty nighttime fire, his steel hook reflecting the flames' red. "Howell, we're not moving fast enough."
"We're moving as fast as won't exhaust the men and break down the horses." Howell spit tobacco-juice hissing into the fire. "Won't do us any good, Ned, to ruin the army moving it."
"Speaking of which, we should be nearing the Kipchaks' supply lines soon."
"Yes."
"What do you want done when we hit them?"
"Take what we can use, give the rest to the local tribesmen."
"And the escort?"
"Kill them all." '
"Okay… My men have had no trouble with the savages – called Bluebirds, apparently. And they'll like any plunder we can give them. No trouble with the Bluebirds – but we got some cold looks from those West-bank scouts, couple of days ago."
"We're just passing through, Ned. We won't give them any trouble, and there aren't enough of them down here to give us any trouble. If the drum calls coming down the river are true, the Kipchaks pretty much wrecked West-bank army up at St. Louis." Howell kicked a brand back into the flames. "Also, I intend to look to those river people for food and fodder as we go north to the Map-Missouri line, in case Charles can't get supplies up to us fast enough. So, let's not kill any of the soldiers they have left."
"Right… It's really upsetting."
"What?"
"That you're actually thinking, Howell. It's difficult to get used to."
"You insubordinate asshole. You're lucky you're wearing that nasty thing."
Flores raised his hook and kissed it. "Don't insult my Alice."
"Alice?"
"Why not? Remember Alice Rodriguez? Cold, curved, and dangerous?"
"… Oh, Mountain Jesus. Hadn't thought of her for years. Well, take 'Alice' – and your regiment – and move off north. Smartly, Ned. We'll night-march six glass-hours."
"General," – Flores saluted with the middle finger of his good hand – "consider it done."
With Ned mounted and spurred off through falling snow, calling for his trumpeter, Howell stood warming his hands at the failing fire, watching down the hillside to the defile where Phil Butler's Heavy Infantry battalions were marching north in moonlight. Marching in good spirits, apparently, since they were singing "Gringo the Russians, Oh" as they swung along. Odd, how falling snow muffled sound.
"General?" Roberto Collins reining in his horse – and looking too young to be a captain on the staff. "Last units, sir, except for Colonel Loomis's rear guard."
"All right. Orders."
"Sir."
"Colonel Loomis to deploy three companies of Lights as tail-end charlies. Double-time the others up to flank us, deploying lightly to the east, heavily to the west. We'll be approaching the Kipchaks' lines of supply, coming from Map-Texas to north on the river. Tell her I want no surprises."
"Sir."
"And Roberto, make sure Charmian understands that her people are to stand no engagement. If there's a problem, they're to skirmish, then fall back on the main body."
"Yes, sir." And Collins was off at a gallop through deepening snow. Young, it seemed to Howell, young for a staff officer. And where had "tail-end charlies" come from? Some copybook…
"Big One-eye!" Blue-coated scimitar at her belt, Patience Nearly-Lodge Riley came to the fire's coals – small boots stomping through the snow – and tilted her hat's brim back from a face perfectly white, hair black as blindness. "I could send Webster to our Captain-General at their island. He would find him, if you have a message, or need his advice."
"I don't have a message, don't need Sam's advice, and would appreciate your staying with the baggage train where you belong. Colonel Butler put you there, Lady, and you're to stay."
"Only until fighting. I was promised to hover over a battle like Lady Weather, picking out this one or that one for best luck or bad."
"Right… Well, until that battle, please get your Boston butt back to baggage. We are responsible for you."
"And I so appreciate your protection." The girl smiled up at him, her small, white right hand resting on her sword's pommel. "The Captain-General – he'll be coming soon to fight the battle?"
"Can't be soon enough. Now, if you'll just get back where you belong. We have a night march – "
"You haven't visited dear Portia-doctor at all, One-eye, not a single time in this hasty travel north. Don't you think she would like a visit from you?" Another smile with that.
"Likely as much as I'm enjoying this one," Howell said. "Go back where you belong – or be tied and taken."
Patience made a comic grimace of terror… paused… seemed to drift a little up into the air, then swept away, long coat flapping softly as she sailed over hillside drifts of moonlit snow, and left the snow unblemished.