Kingdom River

by Mitchell Smith

  "Understood."

  * * *

  ...In the corridor, two big soldiers with curved body-shields at rest, short-swords drawn, stood spaced down the passage a few yards apart. In greased boots and horse-hide trousers, with straps of oiled steel body-armor from shoulder to hip, they stood still as if frozen, their faces obscure behind helmet nasals.

  A watch-mastiff's rising — and Sam's shadow, thrown by sconced lamplight along the walls — alerted both deaf-mutes as he came, and their helmets turned toward him smoothly as Warm-time machinery must have done.

  The first guard was a woman — taller than Sam was, and wider. She made a comic face, wiggled her eyebrows at him as he passed her great grumbling dog, so he went smiling past the second soldier to the stairs.

  CHAPTER 10

  Martha was lost. Almost two weeks in the Queen's chambers had taught her nothing of Island's directions, passages, and endless ups and downs.

  The Queen's chambers were the whole top of North Tower, three great whitewashed drum-round rooms, one above the other. The lowest was guarded on narrow left-winding stone steps by six soldiers, three in green-enameled steel, and three in blue. Very polite soldiers, who'd nodded and smiled at Martha every time she went up or down.

  They'd smiled and nodded, but never spoke to her, and all six unsheathed their swords each time the iron doors opened at the top or bottom of the stairs. They drew their swords… watched her coming to them, up or down, then sheathed their swords, smiled and nodded.

  In. those few days, Martha'd learned that tower. Queen's chambers above, guardroom below, kitchen and pantry below that... then down more winding steps to the scrub-laundry, with its water barrels, kettles, stone tubs, and ever-hot iron stove. The laundress was Mary Po, a big silent scrubber with hands ruined by lye and hot water; there were no nails on her fingers. The girl Walda helped her, and ironed the Queen's robes and woven linen with flat polished stones hot from the Franklin, so the room smelled of cloth heated to nearly scorching.

  There were all those levels of the Queen's tower, and places deeper still, down steeper steps through little iron doors. Darker places, where Martha was not permitted. The green-steel Guard captain, Noel Purse, had ordered her not, her first day.

  "Guests, down there," he'd said. "Her Majesty's important guests, resting in chambers beneath. And that will never be your business."

  "Yes, sir," Martha'd answered as if she were a soldier, since she felt like a soldier, though a girl, and was armed with her spear as a guard herself.

  Down there, someone must have heard the captain talking to her, because the faintest howling began, so she supposed one of the guests had brought his dog-pet with him. — But later, when she mentioned the dog-pet to Maid Ulla, Ulla had made a child's warning face and told her it was people, and the Queen would visit them, but never let them out.

  So, there was no dog-pet under the tower.

  At first — perhaps because she was tired — Martha had thought she might be dreaming of the Queen's chambers, dreaming and drifting through them as she sometimes drifted in dreams. The huge round rooms, their stone walls lime-washed snowy white, were draped in great soft sheets of orange cloth and gray cloth, purple, rose, sky-blue and pinewood green, so there was color everywhere. Some cloths hung against the walls, and others fell across from round alder rafters to divide one place from another — so each great room was like a house with smaller rooms within it.

  There were those richly colored cloth curtains, and woven tapestries of war, of hunting, of handsome Extraordinaries playing banjars, flutes, and drums among flowers in glass-ceilinged gardens. Then others of the same people kissing and fucking, and also summer wet-ships and winter ice-ships sailing the river through the three seasons…. The tower chambers always bright with many hanging lamps, and sometimes sunlight shining through stone-slit windows sealed with glass very close to clear.

  There was also see-through southern gauze — which Martha'd heard of but never seen — that hung here and there like smoke, and stroked her as she walked through it behind Queen Joan. All almost a dream, and seeming more so since the women — Ulla, fat Orrie, and the great ladies who waited on the Queen — stepping quietly on the carpets, appeared as if by magic when a curtain was suddenly pulled aside.

  So the Queen's daughter, Princess Rachel, once appeared for breakfast with her mother — a princess seeming to Martha more serious than the story ones. Tall, dark-eyed, dark-haired, face too strong-boned for beauty, she'd stalked through drapery unsmiling. But introduced, had taken both Martha's hands with gentle courtesy, and said, "Welcome to our household."

  Though later, buttering muffins with her mother at table by the solar's iron stove, she'd glanced at Martha — standing nearby with her spear — raised an eyebrow, and murmured, "Mother...."

  "What?... What?"

  The Princess had sighed, and said, "Never mind."

  Ulla told Martha that Princess Rachel lived in a different tower, came to breakfast rarely, and the black stains on her fingers were writing-ink.

  ... As the Princess had come to breakfast, so other great ladies came to visit through the days. Some brought their children, others little dog-pets to play with — but none stayed long. The Queen preferred privacy. In these wonderful, cushioned, quiet rooms, only she was harsh and noisy, striding here and there, making rough jokes and criticizing her women's sewing as they sat at the long table in the gauze-curtain room, doing fine stitchery in linen kerchiefs, and on the Empire's white cotton underthings.

  Martha had touched and dirtied a kerchief her second afternoon, and been sent down to the laundry for a bath. "With lye soap!" the Queen had called. — "I'll have no pig to guard me!" So, in a stone tub, with Mary Po pouring buckets of hot water, and the ironing girl, Walda, scrubbing with a bristle brush, Martha was made clean enough to touch Jordan Jesus' altar cloth. Then she was dressed in heavy sandals and fresh linen, in underclothes and overdress, with long sleeves like almost a lady — though one who would soon wear padded fine-mesh mail under her gown. That had been fitted-for, but not yet finished.

  When done, her hair dried at the laundry hearth and pinned up, a finger ringlet before each ear, Martha took her spear, went up the many stone steps — smiled at the six soldiers as they smiled at her — and climbed past them to the Queen.

  "Better," Queen Joan said, looking her up and down. "You'll never be a pretty girl, but 'handsome' may be. possible in time, though a fairly large 'handsome.' The ringlets, the ringlets have their charm." And Martha, now so clean, was invited to sit beside the Queen at a mother-of-pearl table, to sort old earrings for keepers and pairs.

  "Trumpery crap, most of these." The Queen's long fingers sorted and shifted, flicking silver and gold, bright stones and stones softly-rich this way and that. "Those I had from my sweet Newton, I know and keep — what are you doing?"

  "Separating the plain hoops."

  "Well… the silver; put those aside."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  The Queen began to hum as she worked, then said, "What do you think of these?"

  "They're very pretty."

  "Yes. I thought so too, many years ago. Now, of course, I know better — and so they are spoiled for me." She began to hum again, fingers deft among the jewels. "I do not remember the names of half the men who gave me these... made flowery fucking speeches, bowing, asking Newton's permission to gift me this or that. Once, my sweetheart smiled at Liam Murphy — Lord Murphy's gone, of course. Whole family's gone, and a daughter eaten. Newton smiled at him and said, 'You may give my lady what you please. As it pleases her, it pleases me… though doesn't turn me from my way.' "

  The Queen set green studs aside. "Poor Liam should have listened more closely.... Do you think of men, Martha?"

  "... No."

  The Queen stopped sorting. "Martha, you're going to be with me for many years. You've just told me a lie. Never, ever, lie to me again about anything."

  "I'm sorry. I do think of men, sometimes."

/>   "And in particular? The truth, now."

  "Well, I liked Ralph-sergeant."

  The Queen found a little gold lump, with no pin or clasp. "Trash.... You liked Ralph-sergeant. And who is he?"

  "A soldier. He came to get me at my father's house."

  "And why did you like this soldier?"

  "He was big — bigger than me. And he was kind."

  "Ah… 'kind.' I have many large sergeants in my armies, East-bank and West, but I hope not too many that are kind.... Do you have a match for the turquoise?"

  "No, ma'am."

  "Of course not; that would be too fucking lucky. How am I to get a turquoise to match with that Kipchak squatting on Map-Arizona? This is a useless earring."

  "You could give it to Lord Pretty."

  "Yes, Gregory'd wear it. Damn fool…."

  Through the following days, Martha had learned the attendant ladies' names and titles, learned the servants' names: Ulla, Francis, Orrie, and Sojink — a tiny Missouri tribeswoman with filed teeth and a bluebird tattoo across her face.... Martha'd learned the cloth-draped spaces of Upper Solar and Lower, and where Queen Joan slept by a window in the high chamber, curtained in cloudy gray. She'd learned also to stay very near the Queen, just to her right and a little back, the spear always in her hand.

  Still, Martha could go up and down the tower, and visit as she wished — but never for very long. That was decided when the Queen was choosing a robe for Wintering the Gardens, and didn't care for the velvet that fat Orrie showed her. She said, "Everything from that clothes-press smells of river mold! Orrie, take them all down to the laundry to be cleaned and pressed again. Martha, help her, and stay there to see it properly done."

  "No, ma'am."

  The Queen stood very still, then said, "What did you say?" Seeming startled, as if there'd been a birdsong she'd never heard before. Fat Orrie was panting like a puppy.

  Martha said, "No, ma'am. I won't go down with the laundry, and stay there."

  Then, though the Queen's face didn't change, she put her hand on her dagger's pommel. That knife was a soldier's weapon, long-bladed and heavy enough to weight her jeweled sash.

  "I'm here to guard you, ma'am," Martha said, though she was frightened. "I can't guard you if I'm sitting waiting in the laundry."

  The Queen turned her head as if she were listening to voices… then took her hand off her dagger. "Yes, that was a proper 'No, ma'am' from you. You'll help Orrie take the laundry down — then come right up again to be near me."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "But, Martha," the Queen said, "don't become too free with noes."

  ...And Martha had been careful not to. She'd shut her mouth and opened her eyes and ears through her first days, and learned the solar chambers, the tower and its people, very well, except for the deep places below. But now, with another place to be at mid-day by the glass exactly, she was lost and wandering Island like a pony loose.

  After she'd asked directions of two people — people who seemed Ordinaries, and not too great to answer — then asked a third in a granite passage along her way, Martha climbed, at last and late, two flights of stairs in the South Tower... tapped on a narrow oak door, received no reply, then slowly opened it onto a wide sunny room. It was very bright with windows. The floor, polished white marble streaked with brown, was puddled here and there by something spilled. Smelled like a lamp's Boston oil.

  A man was standing by a long oak rack of weapons. He was short and seemed massively fat, big around as a cabbage barrel. He wore low boots, loose tan trousers, and a yellow shirt, and though he appeared to be only in his middle years, his hair — cut evenly in a circle just above his ears — was dappled gray. A bowl-cut, they'd called that in Stoneville.

  "You're the Queen's Martha, I suppose. I'm Master Butter-boy." He set a slender sword into the rack. "Don't come late to my class again." Master Butter-boy had a pleasant deep voice, sounded to Martha like a good glee singer. His eyes were dull green, and small.

  She closed the door behind her, and set her spear leaning against the wall. The streaks and spills of oil made the marble floor slippery. "I couldn't find the way, Master."

  "You have no master now, only the Queen for mistress. 'Sir' will do." Butter-boy strolled a few steps nearer, moving like a pole-boater, with an easy rolling gait. He stood looking at her — and Martha saw he wasn't fat, only very wide, and thick with muscle. Scars were carved into his round face, and three blue dots were tattooed on each cheek. Thinner white scars laced his heavy forearms. " — You are the Queen's, and no other's. You might keep that in mind when some try you for this or that favor, or attempt to command you."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And you say you couldn't find your way here?"

  "Yes. I went to West Tower."

  Master Butter-boy gave her a hard look. "Then learn your way. Learn Island well enough to run its passages blind. Because on some dark night of trouble, you may have to. We are at war, though many here don't yet seem to realize it."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Mmm…. Well, you've got size, if it doesn't slow you. None easier to butcher than Large-an'-slows. And thank the River you don't carry big teats — very much in the way, fighting hand to hand. No big teats, and no balls to guard, either.... Your age?"

  "Seventeen, sir."

  "Better and better. Youth makes the third fighting gift. No comment? We stand silent? — though I hope, not stupid." Butter-boy smiled, drew a small knife from his belt, and threw it at her spinning.

  Martha thought of ducking away, but there was no time. Thought of catching the knife by its handle, but that seemed unlikely. She swung her hand as the knife came whirling, and slapped it to the side to clatter across the floor. Her palm was cut a little.

  "Did you think of catching it?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then why didn't you try?"

  "I think I thought… better a cut, than chance the point coming in."

  Master Butter-boy smiled. "You and I, Martha Queen's-Companion — may I call you Martha?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, Martha, you and I are going to settle in very well when it comes to murder." He walked over to pick up his knife. "You do know that all killing is murder, though often for worthwhile reasons?"

  "…. I suppose so."

  "She 'supposes so.' " Butter-boy began to sheathe his knife, then spun and threw it at Martha again, but underhanded, with a swift shoveling motion.

  Since it wasn't spinning this time, Martha thought she might catch the knife's handle as it came — stepped a little to the right, reached out, and just barely managed to. Then, for no particular reason, it seemed reasonable to immediately throw it back.

  "... I can't tell you, Martha," Master Butter-boy said, "how pleased I am with you already." They were at the weapons racks, putting yellow ointment on their cuts. "You are the season's surprise!"

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Now — not to waste instruction time..." Butter-boy put the ointment pot back on a shelf, considered a moment along the racks, then chose a plain, long-bladed, double-edged dagger. "Ah, is there any creation as honest as an honest weapon? No, there is not."

  Master Butter-boy stepped out onto slippery marble. "Difficult to be sure of your footing on this. Deliberately difficult. Did you think I'd spilled oil come all the way from Map-New England — rendered out of whatever sea beasts — in carelessness?"

  "I wasn't sure, sir."

  "Well, I didn't. Learn to fight on treacherous footing, and firm footing comes as a gift." In illustration, Butter-boy began to stride, the long dagger's needle point balanced on his thumbnail. Suddenly he slipped, slid, and tripped stumbling across the floor. But the weapon went with him perfectly, didn't sway as he mis-stepped and staggered, didn't threaten to tumble and fall. It seemed to have grown, become rooted, where it stood on his thumb.

  "The knife… the knife... the knife." Master Butter-boy jumped suddenly forward, then sideways, then high-stepped back and back on the oiled marbl
e — very light on his feet, it seemed to Martha, for so wide a man. The dagger stayed with him as if they were partners in a dance.

  "Listen," he said, always moving — turning in circles now. "Every steel weapon, sword to ax, flowers from the knife and its discipline of timing, force, and distance to strike. The swinging ax, the parrying sword, are only children of the knife. Never despise it — though there are fools who do, until its blade slides between their ribs." He flipped the dagger off his thumbnail, caught it casually by the grip, and stood easy.

  "Some courtiers — you know that word? It's a Warm-time word, and means those who linger in a king or queen's court. Some of those will stare at your ax, which I understand is being fettled for you, and consider it your first weapon in protection of the Queen. They will think of the ax — perhaps one or two plan for the ax — and forget the long knife entirely. See to it you do not."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And always remember this: Your weapons, if across a room and out of reach, are no weapons at all, but only a source of amusement for those butchering you, then your Queen."

  "I understand."

  "Never, never, never go unarmed."

  "I won't."

  "And never unarmored. Always at least fine chain-mail over a padded shift to protect your breast, your belly — and your back, above all."

  "Yes, sir. They're making it."

  "Now, Martha, choose a knife from our weapons stand, and come see if you can cut off some portion of me — keeping in mind there are no dulled instruments here, bleeding being the best teacher."

  * * *

  "The Queen is among her pickles." The East-bank soldier, steel armor-straps enameled to gleaming jade, stepped aside to let Master Butter pass into storage — household storage, not the great, dark, echoing chambers beneath Island's inner keep, stacked with barrels of crab-apple, barley, pickle-beets and onions, salt beef, salt mutton, salt pork, and salt cabbage.

  Here, in Household, were small rooms of special cooked and jarred far-south fruits, condiments, compotes, and particular meats — boiled and poured into clamp-lid crocks, then sealed with wax, so they almost always lasted more than a year. Though sometimes not, and burst with hard sounds and messes.