As to Sam Monroe. His Second-mother's death — while fighting an outbreak of flea-plague in the township of Los Palominos three years ago — has left him with no family. (I must add that I mourn that most tender of physicians still, and deeply regret not seeing her again.)
The Captain-General's occasional women are companions as well as lovers and, I understand, come and go as tasks and places come and go. He is very generous to them, and to his dose friends and officers — but only once. An important gift is given — a prosperous farm, or wide sheepland, or large herd of fine riding-horses — but after that, nothing ever but army wages. So men and women who continue to serve him, do so because they wish to, expecting no further reward.
His army is relatively small, but as I understand it is a 'balanced force,' composed of five fairly equal elements: Supply; Light Cavalry; Heavy Cavalry; Light Infantry; Heavy Infantry. Monroe has stated, in my hearing, that his Light Cavalry, while very good, is not quite a match for the Khanate's, that his Heavy Cavalry, while excellent, is not quite as formidable as the Empire's best, and that his Heavy Infantry, though solid, is not quite the instrument that Middle Kingdom fields. His Light Infantry, however — men and women of the Sierra — Monroe believes to be the finest of our world.
It is the balance of these forces he considers crucial. That, and the strategy and tactics of their use. I'm told he has said, 'These are the edged tools for fashioning victory, as a carpenter fettles a table.' (For 'fettle,' Great Khan, see my monograph on Warm-time Words Unusual.)
The Captain-General's sigil — and, by adoption, the army's banner — is a black scorpion on a field of gold. Though a far-south creature, it is appropriately ominous. While the enlisted men among their prisoners are very well treated, captured enemy officers are invariably beheaded — or, if they are senior, disemboweled. This, apparently, a brutal remainder of these people's desperate days of revolt against the Empire.
FORCES, IF AT FULL ESTABLISHMENT:
Supply: Two thousand men and women. Five hundred draft horses. Five hundred pack mules. Wheeled wagons. Drays. Sledges.
Light Cavalry: Two regiments — each, one thousand men and women. Remounts.
Heavy Cavalry: Two regiments — each, one thousand men and a small number of women. Remounts.
Light Infantry: Two regiments — each one thousand men and women.
Heavy Infantry: Two regiments — each one thousand men and a small number of women.
The fighting formations above are to some extent based on Warm-time copybook models. (See that most valuable Kipling, Rudy. Back shelves, Great Lord, and perfectly alphabetical.) All the army is uniformed in plain dark-brown wool or leather, black cloaks, and black boots — high-topped in the cavalry, cut low for the infantry.
In each cavalry regiment, one hundred persons serve as farriers, armorers, remount herders and fodderers. The nine hundred fighting men and women are divided into three squadrons, first, second, and third. Each squadron then divided further into three troops of one hundred, A, B, and C.
The infantry regiments are each made up of two battalions of four hundred men and women, the battalions then being divided into four companies. The two extra companies in each regiment are assigned special duty as engineer-laborers, assault formations, headquarters detachment, scouts, and cooks.
It should be noted that while the other units often consist of both full-time paid regulars and veteran reservists serving annual duty, Supply is always fully maintained. And noted also, that the structure of 'Supply' includes the army's intelligence, police, and security functions as well as its field medical personnel.
Originally organized by Catania Olsen, the army's medical service is also available to any citizens nearby and in need, a useful component of Monroe's administration, which still tends to be a government-in-the-saddle, to be found alongside units of the army as often as in their capital, the undistinguished small town of Better-Weather, south of Chihuahua City.
Finally, I understand there exists a competent volunteer militia of well-armed men and women organized in each of the five states — and in each, numbering approximately a thousand — intended as the cadre around which a much greater force of irregulars would be organized at need. Since almost all men, and many women, go habitually armed in this country, with weapons play and archery their habit, this irregular force would likely prove formidable.
Military History: Elements of the army have fought five major battles, seventeen to nineteen minor battles and skirmishes. They have, until very recently, never been defeated. This single loss — and only two days ago — has been of more than three hundred Light Cavalry from a regiment unwisely sent down unsupported to meet a weightier imperial force venturing north. An extremely unusual misjudgment by Monroe, and something of a shock to his army, perhaps more disturbing than the casualties resulting from it. In this battle, Ned Flores lost his left hand, but is expected to survive.
A note of interest: Monroe's army is required to submit payment vouchers for any food, fodder, or materiel requisitioned, and the soldiers' behavior on maneuver or campaign is strictly governed. By this, the army's popularity with the people — and Monroe's popularity as well — is preserved.
The army is known for fighting in silence. No cheers, shouts, or battle cries. No sounds but infantry bugles or cavalry trumpets, then the clash of arms when the enemy is met.
And no crying out after, not even by the wounded, a custom apparently descending from the silence and sudden ambushes of mountain banditry, once a principal occupation here.
Commerce: North Map-Mexico is an agricultural and stock-raising area. With a seven-week summer so far south of the ice-wall, they grow cabbage, kale, broccoli, and onions... and trade with the Empire for the tomatoes, planted potatoes, yams, cotton-wool, tobacco and corn grown farther south.
Livestock are sheep, goats, chicken-birds, and to a lesser extent, pigs and spotted cattle.
For trade, as well as convenience, the Empire's silver peso and copper penny are allowed to circulate as North Map-Mexico's currency.
Intentions: Sam Monroe's probable long-term intention: a reasonable and well-administered peace — with local officials now elected every five years by those locals they rule. Territorial defense being sustained by a compact, capable, and veteran army, with the east and west Sierras flanking any invading force.
My Opinion: If placed under sufficient pressure — as for instance by the Khanate — Monroe will certainly seek alliance with either the Empire or Middle Kingdom... and more likely the latter. All New Englanders are despised here, perhaps in some cases unfairly, because of those ruling few who use their minds' rare talents — for warming themselves, and walking-in-the-air — also to make monsters in women's wombs. On occasion, people of this territory have galloped after the few fliers that appear — chasing those individuals by relays for many Warm-time miles — until the New Englander wearies or loses attention, and descends or falls... to be seized and burned alive.
Monroe has put an end to that rough sport.
Finally, my lord Khan, a personal note. I had thought that Trapper cooking was shocking, and Caravanserai's little better — mutton, mare's milk, and more mutton. I did not know when I was well-off. Broccoli and goat-gut sausage... I'll say no more.
To you by my hand only — and otherwise unseen.
Neckless Peter Wilson
CHAPTER 3
Dieter Mayaguez, nine years old, heard singing in the sky. The sun dazzled him when he looked up. His sheep shifted to left and right down the steep hill pasture as a shadow that might have been an eagle's came out of the sun and raced up along the grass.
Dieter saw, a sling's throw high in the air, a girl wrapped in a long dark-blue coat, singing as she sailed along the rise of the hill's slope. She flew sitting upright, yellow-booted legs crossed beneath her. A curl-brimmed, blue hat was secured with black ribbons tied in a bow under her chin.
She held something across her lap, and flew slowly, steadily over him an
d away, her coat's cloth ruffling as she went higher… then higher, to cross the ridge.
Dieter could still hear her singing. It was a song he didn't know. 'Mairzy doats.... dozy doats....'
Excited, he did a little dance in frost-browned grass. — Certainly a Boston person! He would tell everybody, though only his mother would believe him. People were always saying they saw Boston people, and usually were lying. Now he really had seen one, but only his mother would say it must be true.
The sheep — so stupid — baaa'd and began to scatter. Dieter yelled, ran to circle them and hold the ram. If his father had given him the dogs for high pasture, he wouldn't have to be running after the fools.
A shadow came out of the sun — and he thought for a moment it was the singing girl come back. But this was a much bigger shadow....
Patience Nearly-Lodge Riley, her song ended, settled into herself and Walked-in-air over the hills — that 'pushing the ground away and behind' that fools called flying, as if fine-family New Englanders were birds with wings.
True wings, an occa's, were following her, carrying her strapped baggage-packs and Webster's basket. An occa stupid as all of them, but still an impressive result of mind-work on some debtor woman's fetus. Cambridge-made in Cambridge Laboratory, Harvard Yard....
Patience closed her eyes a moment to better feel the slopes and outcroppings a hundred or so Warm-time feet beneath her. She felt them rumble and bump, rough as she went over. But so much soldier, so much better than the Gulf's shifting surface had been, its waves wobbling below her as she went. That had been uneasy traveling — as had the whole several weeks of air-walking south from Boston Town, when sailing a packet down and around and up into the Gulf would have been easier.
"Safer, too," her Uncle Niles had said. "But you will go the difficult way, and air-walk — or, by Frozen Jesus, ground-walk — every mile south. It'll be good for you, Patience, knock some of the Lodge-Riley hoity-toity out of you."
Her Uncle Niles loved her, just the same. She was his favorite niece.
And it had been good for her, those weeks of air-walking. The first weeks were on the ice-sheet, then off it and down over warmer snowfields and sedge willow, past caribou ranches and little towns. Air-walking, and when her mind grew tired, ground-walking. Then, the occa, too baggage-burdened for her to ride, had circled overhead, hooting and honking as she strode along.
She'd hunted for herself and the occa when the smoked seal was eaten up, swooping — while remaining mindful of the ground she kept away — to snip the heads off wild turkeys or ptarmigan with her scimitar, to hack the necks of deer. Then landing, settling into snowy woods, she'd gathered dry branches for her fire, started it with her flint and steel... then butchered the meat out while the occa landed, loomed beside her, hobbling on knees — and what would have been elbows, otherwise — and poked at her with its long jaw, whining for bird or venison bones and bowels.
In all those weeks, Patience had been troubled only three times. An ice-fisher had refused to exchange her smallest silver coin for a meal, so she'd had to take two char from him — but only sliced him lightly, so as not to cripple, since property rights were sacred.
Later, while ground-walking through lower Map-Pennsylvania, well south of the ice-wall, she'd been chased up a tree by a hungry black bear. Too startled, too suddenly set upon, to push the ground away for rising in the air, she'd risen from the tree limbs soon enough and left the bear snuffling, clinging halfway up its climb to reach her.
Patience had been troubled those two times, and one time more. Deep in Map-Alabama, almost to the Gulf, she'd fluttered down to kill a woman who'd thrown a stone and almost struck her as she sailed over a hedge of holly.
…. The hill ridge thumped beneath her in her mind, and Patience thought-stepped... thought-stepped down the western slope, the wind chilly at her hat's brim, lightly buffeting her face. Her face, charming, absolutely pretty by the judgment of everyone who knew her, was reddened, roughened by the weather of travel. But the inherited bit in the brain, that with training allowed a talented few New Englanders — and the very rare exceptions from other places — to air-walk and also keep warm on the ice, was no use in smoothing one's complexion. It seemed unfair.
Before her, across a wide valley to the west, rose mountains harsher than the Map-Smokies had been. The Sierra. A cold wind flowed down from them, and Patience thought heat and caused it to warm her ears, her gloved fingers... the tip of her nose.
She sailed on, out over the valley — sitting properly upright, her sheathed scimitar held across her lap. It was her joy, a present from her mother on her sixteenth birthday — two years ago, now — and a true Peabody of a thousand doublings and hammerings. She called it 'Merriment,' since it had antic curling patterns flowing in the surface of its steel, and also a modest, amusing style of slicing. She'd killed Teresa Bondi with it in a duel, and Tessie's parents had never forgiven her, said she was cruel, a spoiled brat, and bad.
Patience looked back and saw the occa laboring far behind. It appeared to be holding something in its long jaw.
She stopped in the air — a difficult thing to do — and sat waiting for it, rocking slightly in the mountains' breeze. The occa shied and swung on great leathery wings, with the foot-long toothed jaw and bald knob of its idiot head turned away as if not to see her. It did have something in its mouth.
Patience, impatient, whistled it over, and it slowly sidled toward her through the air, its long bat arms and long bat fingers — supporting a skin-membrane's wingspan of almost thirty Warm-time feet — fiddling with wind currents as it came.
Patience whistled again, made a furious face — and the creature came swiftly flapping through the air to her, wind-burned and whining, its wings buffeting alongside. Her baggage duffels and Webster's basket were strapped to its humped back. A sheep's leg hung bleeding from its jaws.
Patience leaned to rap it sharply on the head with her scab-barded sword, and dipped a sudden few feet as her concentration faltered, so she had to recover. "Drop!... Drop!" The creature was getting too fat for good flying as it was.
The occa muttered what was almost a word.
"Drop it!"
The sheep's leg fell away through the air. The occa bent its awkward head to watch it go.
"Now," Patience said, "you fucking fly. And keep up!"
* * *
"Signals say company's coming!" Margaret Mosten's round pleasant face appeared beside the tent flap. "From the Say-so mirror, far south slope."
Sam sat up. "What sort of company?"
"Wings." Margaret seemed not to notice the leather vodka flask lying on the floor beside the cot, the squeezed rind of lime from far south. "Some Boston flier, presumably. With winged item following." .
"From McAllen."
"Likely; they've been wanting to send someone down." Margaret watched him with concern. She'd never mentioned his drinking, never would. But twice — when traveling, not on campaign — he'd drunk from his saddle-flask to find the vodka and lime juice gone, replaced with water.
Sam swung off the cot. "What a pain in the ass." It was a Warm-time phrase out of copied books almost five hundred years old, a phrase that had become popular in the army. Too popular, so rankers were now forbidden to use it in reference to orders.
Sam stooped to pick up his sword belt... and had to steady himself, which Margaret appeared not to notice. "Where?"
"Michael Sergeant-Major is waving the thing in to the football pitch."
"Alright." Looping the belted sword over his right shoulder to rest aslant down his back, he followed Margaret out into an afternoon he found too bright for comfort, and cold with Lady Weather's commencing fall into Lord Winter's arms.
The camp was seething like cooking Brunswick at the flier's coming, but soldiers settled down along Sam's way, sensitive as girls to their commander's mood — many recalling duty elsewhere.
Football, the army's sport even in marching camps of war — though some said it was old
Warm-time rugby, really — had been marked to be played just south of horse-lines on a stretch of meadow softened by cold-killed grass. The field, already enclosed by dismounted heavy cavalry, had been cleared of all except Michael Sergeant-Major, Margaret Mosten's man, who stood in the center of it waving a troop banner for a landing mark.
Sam saw a formed file of the Heavies' horse-archer squadron had arrows to their longbows. The bows, their lower arms curved short for horseback shooting, were half-raised, arrows nocked. He nodded that way. "Whose orders?"
"Mine," Margaret Mosten said.
"Quiver those arrows." He walked out onto the football field, looked up, and saw a figure high against the blaze of the sun. Didn't have to come out of the sun. Making an entrance.
"The thing's above." Margaret had come out to him. She was carrying one of the Heavy Infantry's crossbows, wound, cocked, and quarreled. "My privilege, sir," she said, as he noticed it. "Look there...."
High above the small human figure sailing down to them in silhouette — perhaps a woman, perhaps not — a larger thing wheeled and flapped.
Soldiers murmured at the edges of the field.
"Silence!"
Their commander's mood confirmed, murmuring ceased.
In that quiet, the soft sound of cloth breezing could be heard. In dark-blue greatcoat and dark-blue hat, the Boston person — certainly a woman — sailed down, sailed down… and settled with no stumble on the ground. She held, sheathed in her right hand, a slender curved scimitar, and was smiling.
"Mountain Jesus," Margaret Mosten said. "She's a baby."
"Clever." Sam smiled to match the visitor's, and went to meet her. He was still drunk, and would have to be careful.
The woman — the girl — had a white face, wind-roughened but beautiful, oval as an egg. Black hair was drawn tightly back under the blue curl-brimmed hat, and her eyes were also black, dark as licorice chews. Sam noticed her gloved hands were fine, but what could be seen of a slender wrist was corded with sword-practice muscle.
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