"Good?… Sufficient?"
The Khan Toghrul, lying at cushioned ease in his camp yurt by lamplight, scattered a few more grains of feed down the front of his yellow over-robe, and watched a small blue-and-white pigeon strut on his chest, pecking. He felt the little steps the bird took as it fed.
Apparently sufficient feed for this bird of best luck – a pigeon to live, from now on, a life of reward and no message flights where birds of prey might strike it down, the Sky's winter storms freeze it in flight. A lucky bird, a bird that had brought luck, the news of a baby boy. A boy… and an end to uneasiness in certain Uighur and Russian chieftains. Men who, so mistakenly, thought the succession their business.
But politics – wonderful Warm-time word – the usual political triumph didn't occasion joy. Not the joy that had a Khan lying cooing to a pigeon, sprinkling pinches of seed for it on his breast. A boy – Bajazet, for the old Khan – and reported healthy as his mother was healthy. There was no pretending the wife's life wasn't dear as the child's, or nearly. This fondness for her a weakness, no question, and as a weakness, best admitted to.
Toghrul blew gently to ruffle the bird's feathers, and the pigeon glanced at him, startled.
"Only fondness," the Khan said to it, cupped the pigeon gently in both hands… then got up, crossed piled carpets to a small cage-roost, and ushered the bird in. "Soon, once we're finished here, a silver cage for you. A silver cage, but big, with room to fly."
Toghrul closed the roost's little wooden door. Happiness a danger in itself, a sort of drunkenness, so that everyone seemed a friend and all seemed possible.
As, of course, it seemed impossible that an experienced commander – granted Shapilov had not been a vital intellect – still it seemed impossible that an experienced commander, left with his dispositions in the north carefully ordered, and careful warnings given of the River's ice-ships, their strengths and limitations… that the man would still prove fool enough to keep tumans in mass formations, unwieldy, and perfect prey for those vessels.
Fortunately for him, the ass had died in his own disaster – where, supposedly and by third-hand information come just this evening, the Kingdom's so-rude Queen had also died. That news, as copybooks had it, likely 'too good to be true.'
So, even the happiest of men, of fathers, was left with work to do. A catastrophe – with truly catastrophic losses – to be balanced now by victory… Toghrul went to his yurt's entrance, paged heavy felt hangings aside, and stepped into darkness and a freezing wind that made the guard-mount's torch flames flutter.
"Senior officers," he said.
"Great Lord." The officer stationed there went to only one knee in the snow – the Guard Regiment's privilege – then rose and ran for the commanders' camp.
The other sentries stood still, eyes front.
"Uncomfortable," Toghrul said to them. "This damp cold, here. Not like our prairie air." And it was uncomfortably dank amid deep-snowed stands of hardwood trees and thorn-bush thickets, on ground that always sloped away down tangled draws.
The guards seemed to have stopped breathing, apparently frightened by being spoken to. And, of course, they didn't answer him. Stupid creatures… Toghrul stepped back through the curtains, went to the near brazier to warm his hands, then bent to warm his face. He opened his eyes to the coals' bright blazing till they watered as though he wept.
Bajazet. A name chosen before the boy was conceived. A name both ancient and noble… What lessons must the boy be taught? Weapons and war, of course. And should be given treacherous ponies, difficult horses as he grew older, so distrust became natural to him, despite his father's love. He must be given young companions, as well – of good blood, but none quite his equal. One boy might be stronger, another more clever, a third luckier or more handsome. But none as strong and clever and lucky… The best of virtues must be his: endurance, unswerving purpose, patience – and cruelty, of course, that tedious necessity. He would have to be taken from his mother early – by four, perhaps by five – or Ladu's gentleness would suit him only for defeat.
So, treacherous ponies for the boy, and difficult horses. But not dangerous…
"As you commanded, lord."
The four trooped in, breathless, bowing. Murad Dur – and three competent nonentities, interchangeable brutes with at least veteran notions of giving and obeying orders.
"Oh, Lord of Grass, and now – father," Dur led the others in more bowing.
"So," Toghrul said, foolishly pleased, "good fortune follows ill."
"Still," Murad said, and bent his head so his face – harsh, hook-nosed, very like a red-tailed hawk's – was shadowed by a hanging lamp. "Still… some illness lingers."
The other three said nothing, stood dripping melting snow onto the carpets.
"So?"
"Sled savages, lord."
"Sleds?"
"As reported, Great Lord. Savages – though only a very few. Archers from North Map-Texas, driving dog-sleds over deep snow, attacked a remount herd. Eight hundred horses."
"Go on."
"The remounts were dispersed and lost, Great Khan. Herders were killed, and the Lord Chimuk was… also killed. An arrow struck his throat."
It was surprising what a shock that was. For a moment, Toghrul couldn't catch his breath… Old Chimuk, killed by some Sky-cursed savage. Yuri had seemed one of those men who couldn't be killed by any enemy. In how many battles had that old man fought? From Siber Gate, across and down to Map-New Juneau… Map-Portland. Years of battles. And now, an arrow through his throat in this stupid wilderness.
"Were all the herd-guards killed?"
"Most, Great Lord."
"Kill the rest of them," Toghrul said. "Their throats to be cut for the cowards they are."
"As you order, lord."
Not caring to be stared at after such news, Toghrul turned back to the brazier and stood holding his hands to the warmth, thinking. What was that wonderful copybook saying? It's an ill wind that blows no good. Yes, really a perfect old saying, since now, with his grandfather gone, there would be no powerful person troubled by the unfortunate death of that so-brilliant young commander Manu Ek-Tam – presently demonstrating his talent by chasing sheep in North Map-Mexico.
An ill wind… Certainly including the clever North Map-Mexican rabbit – that had run, jinking here and there as the hawk went stooping – but was now revealed to be a wolf. Wolf enough, at least, to have snarled some sense into the Kingdom's cannibals, so they'd actually concentrated for battle in the north…
Silence from the four commanders. It occurred to Toghrul that those silences – so usual, so proper – might occasionally have deprived him of useful information.
"Very well." He went to his couch, sat, and settled amid cushions, booted legs crossed, his sheathed sword across his lap. "Very well. As put so perfectly by the ancients: 'To business.' We have a lost battle in the north – but not a lost war. It requires only to finish the clever young Captain-General in these hills – I think of him as younger, though apparently we're close to the same age." Toghrul considered having his generals sit, then decided not.
" – If this Lord Monroe is beaten quickly enough, then we have time left to march east to the cannibals' river, and campaign north up the ice – instead of south, down it. The result would be the same, and Shapilov's defeat only incidental."
Murad Dur nodded, apparently understood. The other three generals – perhaps only careful to appear stupid – stood stolid as posts.
Toghrul paused, considered reviewing good news – beside the birth of his son – pigeoned from Caravanserai, then decided not. It might be considered weakness, an attempt to obscure the disaster below St. Louis. Good news from Map-Los Angeles; payments in silver now perfectly acceptable to the Empire… Good news from Map-Fort Stockton; herds being replaced through bitter snows. Good news, but not good enough.
"It's an interesting problem, really." Toghrul smiled. "An interesting problem. By day after tomorrow, Third Tuman will have joined us. And certainly by that time, the Captain-General will have joined his army. We will have a competent – say, very competent – commander, whose army has taken a defensive position just south of us, in broken hills. His intention will be to hold those draws, slopes, and wooded ridges against our tumans. Hold the slopes with his Light Infantry, of course, the crests with his Heavy Infantry, the ridges, with his cavalry. Short charges through deep snow, brush, and so forth, to keep us off the heights."
"Great Lord…"
"Yes, Murad?"
"Isn't it possible that Monroe is already with his army?"
"Murad… Murad. Have your scouts reported yet that the soldiers of that army – usually proud of silence – have begun to sing, to strike their cooking kettles, to joke while performing sentry duties? Any such welcoming celebration?"
"Ah… of course," said Murad Dur.
Toghrul waited for any additional comment, response. The three wooden generals seemed less worried, now, perhaps even interested… But was it, perhaps, not the best notion to have Manu Four-Horsetails killed? Should even dangerous talent be allowed for its usefulness? No question, that officer would have been valuable here, if his arrogance could have been borne…
" – So, certainly the enemy will have made those dispositions. Object? To bleed our people in country they don't care for, and in which it's difficult to maneuver to effect. Monroe will assume we're much too subtle to simply go slaughtering in direct attack at his center. He'll expect something of our steppe and prairie way – sudden sweeps, brisk flanking, and staggered assaults into the resultant confusion. I believe he'll expect those maneuvers – or at least as near them as this rough country allows."
Nods. The wooden three were capable of nods, at least. Not entirely simple.
" – Since, however, I'm not inclined to do as an opponent expects, we will do the opposite. His object is to bleed us. My solution, since flanking would find the same country east and west, with no advantage… my solution is to bleed – and win, bleeding. The last thing this North Mexican will expect from us is a stupid and direct frontal assault on foot, heedless of losses." Toghrul tried another smile. "After all, long winters in warm yurts breed replacements soon enough."
And, by the Sky, at last one smile in return. Murad, of course. Intelligent, and not afraid – sad to consider that these very virtues might, in time, make him dangerous.
"To continue. We dismount the tumans, so our clever Captain-General fights, not horse archers, but archers as woods' hunters first, then infantry in assault. And, of course, we'll have to mount a very convincing – though necessarily shallow – attack on… the western flank, to persuade Monroe to weaken his center to oppose it. This false attack is to be driven home as if all the army came behind it. Officers are to spend their men for that effect – and, if necessary, spend themselves."
Toghrul clapped his hands. "A solution certainly not perfect, but probably sufficient."
And no general said otherwise.
At the handclap, a guard had come through the yurt's entrance. "My lord wishes?"
"Your lord wishes roast lamb with the Empire's golden raisins, dishes of soft cheese and dried plums, kumiss and vodka for himself and his generals."
The guard bowed.
"Oh, and music. Is Arpad in the camp?"
"His squadron's in, lord." Murad Dur.
"Then we'll have the captain and his oud – and any decent drummer."
The guard bowed and went away.
"Sit." Toghrul gestured the generals to the carpet. "I'll draw our dispositions in lamb gravy, while we enjoy an evening's pleasure – before tomorrow's pleasure." And got smiles at last from all of them, properly, since they were being honored by his presence at a meal.
The commanders sat carefully cross-legged, their boots tucked under so no dirty sole was exposed as Toghrul joined them. They leaned a little back and away from him as he sat opposite, since no honor was without peril.
… A reminder that Bajazet would need to know more than how to frighten such fools. More than knowledge of horses and archery. There must be a tutor for the boy. But who? Would it be possible, once the North Mexicans were broken, would it be possible to forgive an old man his treachery? And if Neckless Peter Wilson were forgiven, and became the boy's teacher, what lessons would be taught? An aging man's cautious consideration of every point of view, so decisions came slowly, if at all? Bajazet – while certain to be a delight – might not be gifted with sight so perfectly clear that argument evolved swiftly into action…
The commanders were sitting silent until spoken to, as was proper, eyes lowered so as not to offend.
… So, a tutor for Bajazet, certainly. But an old man who'd insulted his master by refusing service? Worse, who'd taken service with an enemy. A dilemma. It was a tremendous responsibility, raising a boy. And all the more, raising him to be lord of everything he saw, everything his horse rode over…
The yurt's thick entrance-curtain was paged aside, and four servants filed in. They carried a tray of silver cups, a pitcher of warm kumiss, and polished brass bowls of dried fruit, scented herbs, and rose-water. Toghrul could only hope his opposites might wash hands undoubtedly dirty, before the lamb arrived.
Sam came ashore in bitter dark before dawn, from a freezing river already streaked and stiffening with ice, so the boatmen, as they'd done off and on for two days and nights, had had to batter and break thin shelves of it, sailing, then rowing, to reach the appointed West-bank beach.
Sam, then Wilkey, despite their protests, were lifted and carried ashore like cargo bales, the rivermen splashing, cursing, stomping crackling edge-ice. Carried, deposited… and left.
Wilkey held a boatman's woolen smock as he started away. "Is this the fucking place?"
"An' how would you know if it wasn'?" the boatman said, and pulled loose – but managed a bow to Sam. "Sir, here's North Map-Arkansas, an' jus' the spot away to your people. We didn' fail you."
"I never thought you would," Sam said, gave the man silver… then stood with Wilkey to watch the boat pull away.
'The fucking place' looked to be just that, as much as a fading moon, cloud-buried, could show. A narrow, frozen bar of beach, then a steep bank with dark trees and tangle thick along its top, all bending to the river's wind.
"We'll get off this shelf." Sam led the way up sliding sand, gripping frozen roots and brittle vines to climb… At the top, he got a good grip, hauled himself up and over onto all fours – and found six pairs of shaggy moccasins waiting. The savages, pale as the dead in dark-gray light, were tall, thin men. Five were carrying steel-blade tomahawks, and one, the tallest, a long-handled, stone-headed club.
Sam heard Wilkey, coming up behind him, say, "Shit," and was considering a lunge to one side to clear.his sword, when someone laughed.
"Not the most dignified entrance, for a Captain-General! And… bride-groom?"
"Ned – you son-of-a-bitch." A perfect use of the copybook phrase.
Ned slid down from a dappled horse, and walked out into the last of moonlight to offer Sam a hand to stand. "You're in one piece, anyway. They didn't kill you. – Sergeant."
"Sir." Wilkey stood watching the savages.
"Don't be troubled by my Bluebird friends. I'm a favorite of theirs, for some reason I'd rather not know."
The tallest of his friends, the man with the stone-headed club, smiled and said in fair book-English, "Ned man, is a merry man." The Bluebird's teeth were filed.
"Very merry, now," Ned said, smiling. "Our song-birds, here, came from their camps last evening with wonderful news. News, I suppose, drummed all the way down the river, from tribe to tribe."
"Wonderful?"
"We – well, the Kingdom's people – have won, Sam! A victory in the north, fighting all day yesterday – and according to Toothy, here, right on through the night. He says the drums say, 'A so-cold dying on the ice for the horse riders.' "
"If it's true… if it's true." Sam felt relief rise in his throat, painful as sickness.
"Oh, my friends here don't lie, Sam. Don't think they know how, actually. – Great thieves, of course, steal anything not chained to a tree. Understand they like to bake children in pits in the ground… Reason I haven't accepted invitations to dine." Ned went back into the brush, came out with four more horses on lead. "Didn't know if more might be coming with you. Sure you recognize your favorite."
The imperial charger, Difficult, night-black and looking big as a house, tried to bite Ned's shoulder.
"Behave yourself." Sam took the halter. "So Toghrul is coming down with only half an army, Ned – thanks to the Boxcars. Lady Weather bless Hopkins and Aiken!"
"Friends?"
"Well, a winning admiral, and a winning general – which makes them our friends."
"And Toghrul is not 'coming,' Sam. He's here. Arrived with his first elements yesterday. Man seems to be in a great hurry."
"But he hasn't attacked?" Sam went to Difficult's left side, tugged the stirrup strap down, hopped in the snow to get his boot up, and swung into the saddle. The charger sidled, began a buck, and blew noisy flatulent breaths.
"What a brute," Ned said, and was on his horse simply as taking a step. " – No. Still settling in just north of us when I rode out to meet you. Fourth day I've ridden up and down the bank, hoping to their Floating Jesus this was the place meant. No real notion when you'd be coming, only word sent over from a Kingdom ketch."
"Supposed to be a one-day sail here. Became more than two, with the ice."
"Yes. A possibility Toothy mentioned. Not much the Bluebirds don't follow on the river. Have to – the Boxcars hunt them, now and then… Sergeant, mount up."
… Then, a long morning's ride through deepening snow. They climbed slow-rising slopes west of the river, horses bucketing through deep drifts – the white lap of Lord Winter – as the Bluebirds paced them, drifting in and out of sight through bare-limb trees and snow-drifted bramble, jogging along, never seeming to tire.
"Good men," Sam said.
"Yes," – Ned smiled, riding beside him – "but risky at dinner."
"I see that. What news from home, Ned?"
"One piece of very bad news, Sam, pigeoned up a couple of weeks ago."
"Yes?"
"Elvin… The old brigadier's dead, back home. Died in his sleep of that fucking disease."
"Elvin dead…"
"Yes, sir. Jaime's still doing organizational work down there."
"Mountain Jesus."
"Does seem wrong, doesn't it, Sam? Old man was meant to die fighting."
A dusting of new snow was falling. Nothing much. It barely sifted in Sam's sight, then vanished. "Jaime won't live long, now Elvin's gone."
"I suppose that's right," Ned said. "So there was that message, a while ago – then, last few days, three separate gallopers come all the way up from the Bravo – killed a couple of horses doing it."
"Saying?"
"First one was from Charles: 'All going to copybook hell-in-a-handbasket. Trouble with the provinces. Trouble with money. There isn't any money. Imperative you return soon as possible!'… Then, the second, from Eric: 'Enemy agents cropping up, possible rebellion planned in Sonora, paid for by the empire. Imperative you return as soon as possible!' "
"And the third?"
"Oh, the third – and last – was from the little librarian. Four words: 'Nothing important happening here.' "
Sam smiled, still thinking of Elvin. Remembering him throwing the dinner roll.
"A sensible old librarian," Ned said, "Neckless Peter."
"Yes. A sensible man."
As they climbed a steep slope through cold clear light – come far enough that the river, when it could be seen those miles behind them, was only patches of bright glitter in the rising sun – Sam heard bird calls, but calls from the birds of the Sierra. The tall savages trotting alongside laughed, imitated those calls perfectly… and Light Infantry – from Kearn's Company, by their bandannas – stepped out to meet them.
… Sam had said to the Princess, 'My farm will be the camps; my flock, soldiers.' Saying it, of course, as a measure of loss – which now was proved a lie, since he found himself truly happy in dark, wooded hill-country, deep-snowed and freezing. Happy that a ferocious arid brilliant war-lord had come south to oppose him. Happy in the warmth, the trust of more than ten thousand soldiers, men and women who greeted him now from regiment to regiment with stew-kettle drums and singing. They enclosed him like a warm cloak of fur… fur with fine steel mail woven through it. 'My flock… soldiers.' He prayed to the Lady, riding through them, for those who would die by his decisions.
… Most of the rest of the day was spent learning the ground – riding rounds down deep, snowed gullies, then up their wooded, steep reverses – and in greetings, embraces by officers and their scarred sergeants, shy as girls. Wilkey had gone back to his company, reluctant to leave Sam guarded by only a half-dozen.
From one height, Howell pointing, Sam could see over bare treetops to the Kipchak camp – sprawled, as his army was sprawled, across country too rough for regularity. An imperial far-looking glass cold against his eye, he thought he made out the Khan's yurt, bulky and bannered in a town of lesser shelters. By fire smokes, by men's movements across white snow, by horse lines that could be seen, the camp looked to hold perhaps twelve, perhaps fifteen thousand men.
"All Greats," Sam said, his breath frost-clouding, "bless the Boxcars and their Queen."
"Yes." Howell took the glass. He began, by old habit, to put it to his black-patched socket, then held it to his right eye and peered out across the hills. "Or we'd have thirty thousand of the fuckers to fight."
Sam had been… not startled, perhaps saddened to have noticed Howell, Ned, Phil Butler, and the others seeming older now than when he'd left them only weeks before. He supposed that he looked older, too, the price of large matters being dealt with.
Howell slid the glass shut into itself and handed it back. "How do you want to go about this, Sam?"
"To begin with, let's get warmer."
… Sitting on his locker, Sam envied Toghrul the big yurt. His canvas tent was cramped, packed with commanders sitting on his cot or camp-stools, with their silent second-in-commands: Carlo Petersen, Horacio Duran, Teddy Baker and Michael Elman, standing or kneeling behind them. And all smelling of sweat, leather, horse, and oiled steel. It was not a restful space, though warm enough now, with crowding.
"First, I want to thank Phil, and the army, for a brilliant march up through Map-Louisiana, Map-Arkansas."
"I had to hurry, Sam." Butler had brought only one dog on campaign; rat-sized, brown-spotted, it peered from his parka's pocket. " – That Boston girl was impossible. One more week, I'd have hanged her."
"No," Howell said, "I'd have hanged her."
"A wonderful march of infantry," Sam said, "and, Howell, a perfect move east. Not a trooper lost coming over from Map-Fort Stockton."
"Luck, Sam."
"No. Not luck. Charmian, how was the Bend border when you pulled your people out?"
"Busy." Charmian Loomis had a rich, sweet singer's voice, sounding oddly from someone so lean, dark, and grim. "They had a very good commander come down with them – not Cru-san; better than Crusan. If he'd had a couple of thousand more people, it would have been a problem."
"But as it was?"
Colonel Loomis considered. "As it was, it was… busy, but not a problem. We killed them at night, usually. And left… oh, perhaps eleven, twelve hundred still riding that whole territory, trampling farmers' starting-frames. Just good practice for our people down there."
" 'Good practice,' " Ned said. "You terrifying creature."
Colonel Loomis smiled at him – a rare event for her. She'd always seemed to like Ned, so much her opposite in every way but soldiering. Sam had wondered, as had others, if there might be a match there, someday. An odd match, to be sure. Lightness and darkness.
"This is my first day back. Tell me about the Khan."
"Sir, his dispositions – "
"I know how his army lies, Charmian; I've seen it, seen your map. I meant… what do your people feel about that army."
"They're careless," Charmian said.
"Careless?"
"Yes, sir – as if they have no doubt they'll win. Their patrolling is alert, but not aggressive."
"Right," Ned said. "They don't push. Just run regular patrols, keep in touch with our people."
"And on our flanks?"
"Nothing much. More… a little more activity at the base of our main ridge, Sam."
"Just a little more," Charmian said. "We've got high ground here, running up to all five ridges, though the west ridge is lowest. They seem interested in Main Ridge, and the rise to the left of it, but they're still willing to let my people hold those slopes. No contesting."
"No contesting… And nothing much on the flanks at all."
"That's right, Sam," Howell said. "And it's strange, because he brought those people south like a rock slide. Came down through Map-Missouri very fast."
"They overran two of my patrols." Ned tapped the curve of his steel hook against the tent's pole. "Killed them."
"So," Sam said, "in a hurry, then; but now… not in such a hurry."
"I'd say," – Butler had his little dog out on his lap, was stroking it – "I'd say he intends to move very decisively. Whatever feints he may or may not use, he'll drive his main attack all the way. Don't think he means to toy with us at all, no two or three days counter-marching for advantage."
Howell nodded. "I agree."
"Flanking," Sam said, "has always been their way."
"A good reason for him not to do it," Ned said. "Good reason for him to go for the center."
"He already lost," Butler scratching his little dog's belly, " – or his general lost, that battle in the north. First really serious defeat for them. Bound to take that into account, dealing with us."
"Yes," Sam said. "So, a decisive move, not a drawn-out piecemeal battle that might leave some of our army intact, even losing. It's a temptation to attack him – last thing he'd expect, an attack tonight."
Some apprehension in his officers' faces.
" – But this position is so perfect for defense." Sam smiled at their relief. "Now, if he goes for our flank, it will be a hook to our left. Attacking to our right, he takes a chance of being caught between us and a possible sortie by Kingdom troops from the river. So, if it's flanking, it will be to the west."
"Country over there's not much different, Sam." Ned shook his head. "No advantage for horsemen."
"But less chance of a disaster for him, than in a direct engagement up the middle."
"Less chance of a decisive victory for him, too," Howell said. "I think he intends to wipe us out, then go for the river down here and ride north into the Kingdom. Bluebirds say it's freezing fast."
"Yes," Sam said, " – it is. But win or lose, we won't leave him enough men alive to do Jack Shit."
"I've read that one," Ned said. "That's a good one. 'Jack Shit.' That's very good."
"So…" Butler put his dog back into his parka pocket, and stood. "How do you want us?"
Sam sat silent, eyes closed, picturing the army as it lay across wooded hills and hollows. Picturing the draws, wooded and deep in snow, stretching away north to the Kipchak army… For Toghrul to attack there, to come directly at him that way, was to sacrifice his men in the hope of swift and overwhelming victory. Taking a great, almost desperate, chance.
In 'his mind's eye' – wonderful old phrase – Sam saw them coming. Dismounted, of course. At least, he would dismount them. Thousands of short, tough men with hard-hitting bows and curved yataghans. But not trained infantry, not really comfortable off their horses… And all remembering that half their tumans now lay dead, north on the river's ice.
"I think… a flank attack to the west is more likely. He can always regain his balance, if he's beaten trying that."
"My people stay in the center?"
"Yes, Phil, Heavy Infantry stays on the center ridges. And no reserves. Bring everything up on the line."
"I disapprove of that."
"And very sensibly. But do as you're told."
Butler sighed, and strolled out into the snow, Duran behind him. They could hear him shouting for a dispatch-rider to take orders. "Is there a fucking man on a horse?!"
"Speaking of men on horses," Ned said, "where do you want the cavalry?"
"I want them – want you – to do two things at once."
"Nothing new."
"I want the Heavies high on the west ridges, ready to oppose any flanking attack successful enough to threaten our center. I want the Lights positioned, in company and squadron strength, as reaction forces to charge any breach that forms elsewhere along our line – and also prepared to chase when we win. Then, as many Kipchaks as possible are to be ridden down and killed. The Khan is to be hunted and killed."
"Toghrul killed…" Ned breathed on his hook, polished it with his bandanna. "Right."
"Sam," Howell said, "who opposes his flank attack directly?"
"I do," Charmian said, and got up and left, Teddy Baker following.
"I wish she wouldn't do that," Howell said. "Damn woman always just walks out. No fucking further planning… no coordination."
"I know," Sam said. "It's annoying."
"But, Sam – only light infantry?"
"Yes."
"That's… You're sacrificing them."
"Yes."
"Best we have!"
Sam sat looking at him.
"Howell," Ned said, "it's because they're the best we have."
Howell stood, seemed to wish to pace, but found no room for it. "Still wrong, to sacrifice Charmian like that. If her people go under, she'll go under with them… Hard to forgive, Sam."
"Howell," Sam said, "these things are impossible to forgive. I thought you understood that."
"… Alright. Alright, where do you want me?"
"Highest hill, back of Butler. Best place to command from, if something happens to me."
"And you'll be where?"
"He'll be with Charmian, Howell." Ned stood and stretched. "Now, let's get out of here, and leave him in peace."
Sam stood – his back feeling better, standing – and put his hands on their shoulders as he walked them out into falling snow, Petersen and Elman trailing after. "Listen, both of you; there is another order. Live."
"That's it?" Ned smiled. "I'd already decided to."
"It may be too much trouble." Howell reached up to rest his hand over Sam's for a moment.
Their boots crunched in the snow. "Once the people are in place," Sam said, "which is going to take time, with the Light Infantry completing a march to the west – once they're in place, no fires, no noise. I'll be along to review dispositions, make any adjustments to our lines." Ned and Howell swung up onto their horses. " – Feed the people at least a little hot food, as much Brunswick as Oswald-cook can send up from the field kitchens, then give them a few hours' sleep. But they're to be in position at least two glass-hours before dawn… I'd come with the last of night – and so will he."
"Good to have you back," Ned said, saluted with his bright hook, then turned his horse and rode away, Elman spurring after him.
"Sam…" Howell held his big charger still, Petersen just mounted beside him. "Don't do anything stupid. We've got ten thousand swords on these hills – we don't need yours."
"And won't have it, if I have the choice."
"I hold you to that," Howell said, "on your honor."
"On my honor."
Sam walked back into his tent, past a smiling Corporal Fass, on guard – a tent, now he was alone in it, no warmer than the evening. 'On my honor,’ he'd said. Certainly the least of his concerns – to strike or be struck at with sharpened steel. It would be… such a relief to have only that to consider, and not his thousands of soldiers here, not the hundreds of thousands of men and women in North Map-Mexico, waiting to hear whether they would live free and at peace – or in a desperate resistance of several generations against the Kipchak tumans.
And would be such a relief, also, not to have to consider Rachel – and those hundreds of thousands more – waiting along the river for him to win their war, or lose it.
Sam sat on a camp-stool, spread Charmian's map on the cot, and bent in yellow lamplight to study neat notes inked at its edges, fine lines drawn curving with hills' slopes and rises.
"Corporal."
"Sir?"
"If they carry up stew, please bring me a bowl."
"Yes, sir. I can go back to the kettles and get it."
"No. But if they bring it up to the lines, I'll have some."
"Yes, sir."
Sam leaned closer, saw the pen's crosshatching of indicated forest thicken to the west, showing awkward country… then much more awkward. And if the Khan did flank to the right, instead, taking the chance of being trapped against the river? The country east was a little more open… bore thinner forest. But the snow had drifted that much deeper there – slow traveling when he'd come that way, and by tomorrow, even more difficult. It didn't seem a likely line of attack, with all their nice maneuvers slowed to lumbering.
Also, the east flank offered no surprise. The army, camped higher, would see the Kipchaks coming miles away, and all the better as they came over snow, in daylight or moonlight.
Charmian's fine map made the Khan's choice for any flanking clear. 'She'll go under,' Howell had said. 'If her people go under, she'll go under with them.'
And so, of course, she would. How old was Charmian? Twenty-eight? No, certainly thirty, at least. There was gray in her hair – as in all their hair. They were all dyed a beginning gray by blunders, however rare, grim enough to stain anything.
… This was a time, if Margaret were here, that she'd nudge the vodka flask out of sight. Wasted effort. There wasn't vodka enough on earth to drown this difficulty.
Did fine Warm-time Caesar, did fine Napoleon or Lee dream of leaving their tents before battle, of walking away into the night, free of any expectations? So their armies and their people and the future would no longer know of them at all, leaving only a fading mystery to their puzzled, aging soldiers.
Howell had done a very good job, settled like the banner's scorpion on several rough hills, claws and stinger poised and ready. But was there another way than flanking to shift this ten-thousand-soldier scorpion, send it scuttling sideways, then back… and back, until the Kipchak boot came finally down?
Assault to the front. Possible, though not Toghrul's style at all – which, as Ned had said, argued for it. And would have made some sense if he still had a whole army, instead of only half. Here – with, probably, neither force withholding reserves – to lose in a frontal assault would be to lose utterly. It seemed unlikely Toghrul would accept that gamble. Seemed unlikely…
Sam folded Charmian's map – really fine paper, imperial stuff – stood, and tucked it into his belt's wide pouch. To arm, or not yet?… Not yet.
He turned down the lamp's wick, unslung his sword, and lay down on the cot with the weapon beside him. The cot seemed more comfortable than Island's feather bed had been. Probably spoiled for comfort, by soldiering…
Sam dreamed of Rachel, tall, dark-eyed, her father in her face. They were in her solar tower. Sergeant Burke was there with them, sitting reading a copybook, tracing the words with his finger, moving his lips as he read. Sam was explaining to Rachel the difference between the Ancient American Civil War – Red-Badge of Courage – and the wars he'd fought in North Map-Mexico. "In those ancient battles," he said to her, "few screams were heard, because of the noise of tremendous bangs of black powder. Cannon. Muskets. So those were the noises heard during their battles. Very few screams, until the fighting was over."
Rachel agreed it was probably so, but Burke said, "Sir."
Sam said, "What?" both in the dream and waking.
"Sir…" Corporal Fass. "Lady to see you, sir. Told her you were asleep."
"Alright… alright." Sam rolled off the cot, turned the lamp's wick up.
"I've brought stew," the Boston girl said, the shoulders of her blue coat dusted with snow, " – and news. Wasn't that kind?"
"Very kind." Sam took the bowl from her. "Please… sit." Standing to one side of the hanging lamp, he dipped a horn spoon into the steaming Brunswick, took a sip.
Patience settled onto the cot, her scimitar across her lap, and smiled up at him. She seemed as she always seemed, rested, lively, interested. "You don't think I might have poisoned it?"
"I don't care," Sam said, and took another spoonful.
"Poor old Louis, in Map-McAllen, would have wanted me to poison it. Boston would have said, 'Well done.' "
"If the Khan wins, you won't need the poison." The stew was very hot. Some solder must have run from back of the hill, run through the dark with the yoked buckets slopping.
"If the Khan wins," Patience thoughtful, "I do think he will fall in love with me. He can't be used to someone as pretty and clever."
"Probably not." Sam blew on his spoonful. "You said, 'stew – and news.' "
"Yes, and you're the first to hear it. I came to you first of all. A Mailman flew here just a little while ago; he must have hunted the camp like a night-jar to find me – I heard him calling. A really nasty thing; I asked his name, and he said, 'Fuck you.' Webster hates him and tried to bite, but still, he's the first to ever bring me news "
The Brunswick had cooled enough to eat. "And that is?"
"The battle north – on the river ice?"
"Yes. Won, thank Lady Weather."
"And will you thank her that there the Queen was killed? The nasty Mailman brought the note – news down from Baton Rouge by pigeon, then up from Map-McAllen to here."
"… Killed?"
"Yes, killed. Her ship broke, and the Kipchaks swarmed over."
… Then, sitting puzzled on the cot, Patience reached up to take the stew bowl from him, and said, "Weeping… How does that feel to do?"