Kingdom River

by Mitchell Smith

  "Elvin," Jaime said, "just be quiet."

  "Don't tell me to be quiet. — Baja."

  "What?"

  "Jaime, Baja militia should be ready to move east with Sonora's, if Charmian has trouble with those Kipchaks come down."

  "I think Charmian and Chihuahua can handle them. But alright; we'll pigeon Oso. Tell him to stop fucking his sheep and get his people assembled."

  "What about New England?" Howell spit into his saucer again, winked at Margaret.

  "As I said" — Neckless Peter no longer so shy — "Boston wishes the Kingdom defeated."

  "And why would New England want the Khan to win, Librarian?" Ned took a swallow of beer. "How does that help them?"

  "They want it, Colonel, because the Kipchaks are a fragile force — "

  "Right. Only thirty, forty thousand cavalry."

  "Still fragile, Ned," Sam said, "in time. The Khan will die someday, and his son, or his successor, is unlikely to be as formidable. But their Khan is all the Kipchaks have. Without Toghrul, or another like him, they're only separate tribes of shepherds and raiders."

  "That's true enough." Howell bent to spit in his saucer again, but Margaret reached over and snatched it away. "Well, for Weather's sake! Women in trousers… never a good thing — oof!"

  "Now, children," Phil said.

  "She has an elbow like an ax! — Give me the damn dish."

  "Spit in your fucking pocket," Margaret said.

  "A brute with tits."

  "You two finished?" Sam said. "... I think Peter's right, and New England takes the long view. Middle Kingdom, if it survives, will certainly grow to threaten Boston in time. The Kingdom is a book-civilization; formidable even under weak rule. New England would certainly prefer, in the future, to deal with the Kipchaks."

  Eric nodded. "It does make sense that Boston would like to see us and Middle-Kingdom go down. Also, considering the future, most of Map-East America is wooded, close country. Some mountains also, apparently. Kipchak horsemen wouldn't be as comfortable campaigning there."

  "And," Charles said, "whatever womb-things the New Englanders are mind-making are likely to enjoy dark woods."

  "Can we leave the future alone?" Elvin said. "Sam is going off to the Kingdom — likely get his throat cut — and we're to kick the Khan in the ass. Now, if there's nothing else, I need to get out of here, or piss under the table!"

  Sam smiled. "Only this: Charles holds here as administrator — with Eric, in case one or two governers see a chance for independence with the army gone north.... Eric, failure to produce supplies, or nonpayment of taxes, is to be regarded as treason. Charles knows how I want such cases handled."

  "Understood."

  "Also, Neckless Peter is to act as adviser to both of you. And is to be consulted on all important matters."

  "… Very well."

  "Okay. Then there is no more business at mess. — I leave in two days, and I'll want a written plan of action from each of you before I go. We'll work on supply and reinforcement matters tonight… troop movements, dispositions, and objectives tomorrow and tomorrow night."

  "Not enough time."

  "Howell, it will have to be enough time. I leave day after tomorrow." Sam shoved his bench-seat back and stood. "Good dinner. Margaret, please thank Oswald-cook. The little peppers in the meat were… interesting. I'll be leaving for the coast; you'll be coming with me — and a small escort."

  "How small, sir?"

  "Four or five presentable men."

  "Not enough, Sam."

  "Ned, four or five are enough. I don't want the Boxcars to think I'm afraid of them."

  "Still," Eric said, "not enough."

  "Sir, you're a head of state!"

  "Yes, Peter, I am. The head of a minor state, coming to make great demands on Middle Kingdom for cooperation in war. I think going modestly will better serve the purpose. — Margaret, only four or five presentable men come with us. Men only, the Kingdom doesn't approve of women soldiers."

  "Margaret's a woman soldier," Howell said — and was elbowed again.

  "Margaret," Sam said, "will be an exception, and a useful lesson to them."

  "You don't want us going up with the army?" Jaime said.

  "Stupid question," Elvin muttered through his bandanna.

  "No, Jaime. You two don't go up. If this ends badly, take the people into the Sierra and find a wiser Captain-General." Sam took his sword from the weapons rack, and walked out. They heard him say, "Louis," then murmured talk to the mastiff about behavior.

  "'Into the Sierra.'" Howell made a face. "I can see myself, an old man eating goat hooves and setting ambushes."

  "He will not come back," Jaime said.

  "Shut your mouth." Elvin, looking tired, sat with his eyes closed.

  "Perhaps he'll come back," the little librarian said, "but not the same. A Captain-General is one thing. A future king, is another."

  * * *

  Neckless Peter, carrying a lamp, was skirting frozen puddles to the tent lines when Eric Lauder caught up with him. They walked side by side though gusts of bitter wind, so Lauder had to lean close, raise his voice a little.

  "Your opinion, Librarian?"

  "If one thing goes wrong, all goes wrong."

  "Yes — but if all goes right?"

  "Ah... Then, it seems to me, Toghrul will be destroyed, and Middle Kingdom will have our Captain-General for husband to their princess — and likely, heir to their throne."

  "Then to be our king, as well."

  "Yes."

  "And should the Khan be destroyed — regrets?"

  "I will have regrets. He was a wonderful boy. And his mind… you know the Empire's fine-cut gems?"

  "Yes."

  "So, Toghrul's mind."

  Peter slipped a little on ice, and Lauder took his arm. "But this fine mind seems interested only in war, conquests."

  "Of course, to battle boredom — the cancer of all conquerors."

  "Not our reluctant Sam." They'd come to Peter's tent.

  "No. His sickness is sadness at what must be done."

  "Well..." Eric patted the frosted shoulder of Peter's cloak. "Well, welcome to us, Wisdom."

  Peter called after as Lauder walked away. "And am I now trusted?"

  Eric turned and smiled. "By all but me," he said, and went into the dark.

  CHAPTER 13

  Sam, his farewells said in camp at Better-Weather — farewells only by-the-way in the hustle and hurry of the army's business — rode along the frozen path to meet Margaret and the others, come from south stables. They and the baggage waiting on the road leading to Saltillo, then Montemorelos... and finally the port of Carboneras on the Gulf Entire.

  Howell already gone to La Babia to join the First Division of Cavalry, then move north. Ned gone, too — west to gather what spavins were left, gather Charmian and the Light Infantry as well — allowing any surviving squadrons of Kipchaks there free rein to plunder and burn vacant farms and fields.

  Phil Butler, circumferenced by little dogs — was that a correct use of the Warm-time word, 'circumference'? Phil would be muttering in his tent, peering over copy-maps many centuries old, showing ways to go to many places nowhere now. His captains would be scratching at the tent-flap to ask questions, only to be told he'd answer when he damn well pleased, and meanwhile, get out!

  The brothers still the irascible center of it all; the gathering army's every problem coming to them. And almost every problem solved....

  Sam was tired — sleepy, really. Last evening, he'd gone down for a hot-water bath in the laundry at the fort, and found Ned there, submerged in the deep stone tank, all but his bandaged stump. He'd held that up out of the steaming water…. They hadn't spoken of war or the campaign at all. Hadn't even mentioned it, splashing, scrubbing with lye soap. They'd spoken of old sheep stealings, recalled boyhood friends. Remembered, laughing, Catania coming up one morning to north pasture, where they'd folded two fine stolen rams — Catania walking up the mountain w
ith a slender peeled pine branch in her hand. When she'd seen them, higher, poised to run away, she'd called, "Stand still."

  And they had. She'd walked up the slope to them, loosed their belts as they stood, then yanked their sheepskin trousers down. And as they still stood, not moving, not avoiding, she'd whipped them until their legs and asses were striped, and bleeding here and there.

  "Steal," Catania'd said, tossing the pine branch aside, "steal — and pay the thieving bill." Then she'd said, "In these times, those who are men find better things to do."

  That night, sore and stiff-legged, they'd taken the rams back down the mountain to Macleary's place — and the next day, went west to serve under Gary Jeunesse, fighting the Empire's soldiers.

  Sam and Ned had recalled and laughed… claimed scars still from the whipping. Ned's mother had been long dead then, and it had seemed to Sam at the time that while he might have run after the first few blows, Ned never would, so hungry for a mother's attention, even though punishment.

  They'd laughed, splashed, and not spoken of the war at all.

  Sam — for some reason never at ease in fortress chambers — had dried, dressed, went out the postern gate, and trudged over frozen mud to his tent, finding Margaret there amid possibles, garments, and a large cedar chest.

  "What's this?"

  "A clothes chest."

  "We'll leave it. Duffels will do."

  "Sir — Sam, you're going to a kingdom, a queen's court! They'll expect you to look like a Captain-General. It will hurt us if you look otherwise."

  "No."

  "Why? We have gold and silver, jewels and jeweled weapons. We're not savages."

  "Why? Because, Margaret, they will have more gold, more silver, more and finer jewelry, furs, and velvets. If we try to meet them on that field, we will seem savages."

  "Alright…. Alright. What do you want me to pack? Just tell me and I'll do it."

  "Don't be angry."

  "Sam, I'm not angry. What do you want me to pack? I don't give a damn how I look before those ladies."

  "We pack as if for campaigning. New woolens, warm and clean. Good cloaks, ponchos. Best-quality leathers and good boots. Plain fine-steel weapons, plain fine-steel armor — showing signs of use."

  "Going too far the other way...."

  "Yes, it would be, so I'll take one set of rich cloak-and-clothes for ceremony, and each of us will also wear a ring from the treasury — one of the imperials' we took at God-Help-Us. Gold, with a considerable stone."

  "So, at least something."

  "And a matching bracelet for you."

  Margaret gave Sam a wife-look. "And that's to bribe me to silence about appearing in Middle Kingdom looking like a file of lost troopers?"

  "That's right. Margaret, it's our army standing behind us that they'll see. We dress to remind them of that army."

  "Well, I'm not going to argue with you. I'm tired of arguing." She dropped the chest's lid closed with a thump.

  "Good. Finish packing, then go to Charles' people and wrestle that treasury jewelry from their grip. They'll want a signed receipt."

  "They'll want several receipts."

  Margaret gone unsatisfied, Sam had lain on his cot, holding a vodka flask for company — and found, oddly, that even holding it helped.

  He'd tried to sleep, but only planned dispositions in Map-Arkansas. On the border, really, between North Map-Arkansas and Map-Missouri. He'd seen, as he lay there, how quickly the Khan was certain to act when he realized what they'd done. Toghrul wouldn't hesitate, wouldn't consider — he'd turn back from Kingdom's river and attack. There would be no delay.

  By then, Howell must have brought the army up into place. In proper country — steep, but not too steep, and wooded. There'd be barely time to prepare for the blow....

  Sam had lain awake long glass-hours, the war's possible futures folding and unfolding like one of the decorated screens the Empire's ladies were said to love, colorful with signs, secrets, and portraits of their families and lovers intertwined with painted flowers.

  He'd risen before dawn in cold and darkness, set his flask aside, draped his cloak, and strapped his sword on his back. Then walked icy ground to north stables and the brute imperial charger from Boca Chica — Difficult. The stableman, Corporal Brice, had tacked the big animal up — kneeing the horse's belly to burp air out of him for the cinch — stood aside while Sam mounted, then reached up to touch his knee. "Good luck, General."

  "Jake — you people, the army, are my luck."

  … Sam saw the camino from the ridge. Six people mounted, with four packhorses on lead, were waiting at the roadside, their cloaks blowing in a cold wind. The rising sun threw their shadows sideways. — As he'd seen the riders, they'd seen him, and watched as he spurred down the slope.

  When he trotted up, Margaret heeled her horse to meet him... seemed troubled.

  "Sir — "

  "What is it?" Sam said, then looked past her at the others. A lieutenant of Light Cavalry, and three sergeants — one each, apparently, from Heavy Infantry, Light Infantry, Heavy Cavalry. The army's four divisions represented…. There was also a grinning civilian, very fat in a stained red-wool cloak, holding the packhorses' lead. Undoubtedly one of Eric's dubious people, acting as cook, hostler, strangler on occasion….

  Sam knew the lieutenant. And two of the sergeants.

  "Margaret, what in the fuck did you think you were doing? I said, 'presentable'!"

  "Sir, the brothers, and Eric, and Phil Butler — they all insisted."

  "They ordered these men here?"

  "Yes, sir, ordered them with you as escort."

  "I gave you a different order, Margaret. And I want it obeyed."

  "... Sam, I agree with them."

  He reined Difficult past her. "You men get back to camp."

  The young lieutenant of Light Cavalry saluted him. "Sir, wish we could, but we've been promised hanging if we don't travel with you." The lieutenant, Pedro Darry, was wearing a marten cloak as costly as a farm. Son of one of the richest merchants in North Map-Mexico, handsome and spoiled, he'd ornamented the Emperor's court in Mexico City while serving as a factor for his father, before destroying two marriages and running one of the husbands through in a duel.

  "I see, promised hanging…. Then go back and be hanged, Lieutenant. And take these other men with you."

  "Please, sir — if we swear to be presentable?" Red-haired, green-eyed, and slender, with a pale and elegant face, Darry smiled winningly while managing a restless gray racer.

  "No," Sam said. The lieutenant, sent back north in disgrace, had managed to fight three more duels in the last four years — while on leave, so permitted though not approved of — and had killed all three men, Pedro being not only a spoiled son of a bitch, but an accomplished swordsman…. And, to do him justice, one of Ned Flores' favorite troop commanders.

  "Sir, if we swear word-of-honor? Otherwise, well… I'll have to resign my commission, and these men desert, so we can follow after you."

  "Might be useful, sir." Margaret, behind Sam — and meaning, of course, Darry's skills at court as well as with the sword. His looks... his manner. Not the sort of young man to be considered a back-country barbarian — as another young North Mexican surely would be, ruler or not.

  And it was possible that the three sergeants — professionally expressionless, and sitting their saddles at attention — though not presentable, and obviously chosen for ferocity, might also prove useful as visible reminders of the army they represented…. Sam knew David Mays, a silent, squatly massive Heavy Infantryman with a face like a fighting dog's, a man avoided even by those considered dangerous themselves. Sam knew him, and Sergeant Henry Burke, a tall, lank, hunch-shouldered Heavy Cavalryman. Burke was known for his savage temper — and the ability, on a sufficient bet, to bend his knees, reach both arms under a horse's belly, and lift the animal slightly off the ground… holding it there for a count of five.

  Sam didn't recognize the third sergeant —
a Light Infantryman, lean and boyish, so pale a blond his hair looked white, his eyes a very light gray. He carried a longbow on his back, a short-sword on his belt.

  "Name?"

  "Wilkey, sir. Company of Scouts."

  He smiled at Sam, seemed perfectly relaxed and at ease, containing none of the fury the other two sergeants carried locked within them — and for that reason, was perhaps the most dangerous of the three.

  Sam looked past him. " — And you?"

  The fat man saluted badly, with a flourish. "Ansel Carey, milord. Cook, hostler, rough-medic, and... what you will."

  'What you will' Sam supposed, included any necessary murders, though the man wore no weapons… Phil, Eric, and the others must have enjoyed choosing these guards and companions. A dandy and duelist, three dangerous sergeants, and a servant with certain skills. And, of course, Margaret Mosten. On consideration, a useful party... though not perfectly presentable.

  "Darry..."

  "Sir?"

  "If you cause any trouble in the Kingdom — any problems with women, any embarrassment at all — you will wish to Lady Weather you hadn't."

  "Understood, sir."

  "And the same for you men! If trouble comes, it had better come to you, not from you."

  "Sir."

  "Sir."

  "Sir."

  "Master Carey?"

  "Hear an' obey, milord."

  " 'Sir' will do." Sam hauled Difficult's head around, and spurred the charger down the road and into its customary punishing trot. Four days, at least, to the Gulf Entire, with a boat pigeoned to wait for them. Then, a two-day crossing to the mouth of Kingdom River... and what welcome the Kingdom chose.

  * * *

  It was odd to ride where no mountains rose in the distance… oddly calming, dreamlike, as if riding might continue forever.

  Howell turned in his saddle, as he'd done before, to confirm that more than four thousand cavalry rode behind him, raising no dust on the prairie's frozen grass and ground. Carlo Petersen at the front of First Brigade, with his trumpeter and the banner-bearer — the great flag restless in the breeze, its black scorpion threatening on a field of gold… though scorpions were deep-south creatures. The only scorpion Howell'd seen had been in a glass bottle, looking furious.