Kingdom River

by Mitchell Smith

  "Footin', sir." Mays stepped close behind, hobnails crunching.

  Sam, passing two sailors at the ship's great steering wheel, reached the right-side — starboard — rail, got a grip, and the sergeant stood away. There were serried small waves on the river — what North Mexico fishermen called 'chop' — and swirls of dark current here and there. Leaning over the rail's thick oak banister, Sam saw the two ranks of long yellow oar-looms rise all together... pause... then dip like birds' beaks into wind-roughened water. Dip… bow slightly with the strain of the stroke, then splash up and out together. Pause… then dip again.

  He could hear what sounded like wooden blocks struck together to keep the rowers' time. A hollow, almost musical note.

  "Morning, sir!"

  Sam turned, looked up to the high stern deck — apparently, and rather comically, called the 'poop' — and saw Captain Owen, in a tarred canvas cloak too big for him. The captain stood with one of his officers behind a low railing that ran across that higher deck, with entries only for two narrow accommodation ladders.

  "Morning, Captain...!" Sam's breath drifted in frost for a moment, then was whisked away on the wind.

  He turned to the river again, and saw no shore, even with dawn streaking the eastern horizon pollen-yellow. No shore, no margin, only the odor of fresh water and ice coming on the wind. Only that, its smaller waves, and what seemed a tidal race, marked it different to a landsman from the Gulf Entire. Sam could see two distant lights — ship's lanterns, each far enough away to seem only glimmers, like dying sparks risen from a campfire.

  Somewhere to the east, likely already passed in the night, the old New Orleans — of so many copybook tales — lay, as most ancient river cities, long drowned. Owen's first officer had claimed at supper that a church bell tolled in its sunken tower there, and could be heard as deep currents swung the bronze…. The town now called New Orleans, seemed to be one of the Fleet's headquarters and harbors, so was barely spoken of.

  "Sam...." Margaret came and stood by him, yawning, her cloak's hood drawn up against the cold, its dark wool pearled with mist-droplets.

  "Others up?"

  "Roused or rousing, sir. Short sleeping seems the rule on these ships."

  "Hmm. Look at this river, Margaret. Big with summer melt off the ice. According to Neckless Peter, at least three times, maybe four times, what it was before the cold came down. So the cities on it now, all named for flooded Warm-time towns that had been near, aren't really the old Map-places. According to a ship's officer, aren't called 'Map' at all."

  "Why not 'New' this or that?"

  "I don't know. Perhaps concerned their Floating Jesus might object."

  "It's a perfect prairie for the Khan's tumans, sir, once it freezes."

  "A prairie for them from the north, as it freezes."

  "Sam..." Margaret put her gloved hand over his bare hand on the rail, as if to warm it. An unusual touching, for her. "Sam, I know... we know what you intend to do. And you can do it, no matter how big the fucking river is."

  Sam smiled. "Without my vodka?"

  "With or without it, Sam." She took her hand away. "These Boxcars seem to be a formidable people, but they're like the Kipchaks, full of pride and horseshit. Both are ripe for a kick in the ass."

  "And I'm the boot?"

  "You're the boot, Sam. You, and the rest of us sheep-stealers." Margaret glanced behind them, saw only Sergeant Mays, standing weighty on the deck. "...We have interesting news. Master Carey shared beer with the cooks in the galley last night, and helped with pots and pans. Ship's gossip is that Jefferson City, Map-Missouri, has been taken by the Khan's general, Andrei Shapilov. And every man in the garrison there killed. Three... four thousand of the West-bank army."

  "Weather.... But I knew, knew there was something. There was more on the captain's mind than cookies."

  "Jefferson City might wake them."

  "Wake some, Margaret. And send others deeper to sleep." Sam lifted his hands from the rail, blew on them to warm his fingers. "— But I'd guess, not the Queen."

  CHAPTER 16

  "My regiments…!"

  Queen Joan had cried this out several times through three days and nights, but not as if requiring comfort. And even men and women who ordinarily weren't wary of her, hadn't dared offer it.

  It seemed to Martha that the Queen's rage, like a lightning stroke near a bee tree, had set the hive of Island humming.

  Officers of both bank armies — very senior and important men, usually seen allied at court — were suddenly absent. And very different officers, lower-ranked, harsh-faced, and grim, suddenly appeared to take up posts, positions, responsibilities… work they never seemed to rest from.

  So, in only three days and three nights, Martha saw what queens were for.

  "A poor time," the Queen said, holding a green velvet gown out at arm's length to see what window light did to it. "A poor time for that puppy Captain-General to decide to come calling."

  "But you invited him…."

  "Martha, don't use my past actions against me. I might have invited him — and I might not."

  Distant trumpets and drums, preparing welcome at the Silver Gate, sang softly through the tower's stone.

  "The young jackass." The green velvet was dropped to the floor. "I'd look like some pricey whore, rowing up to Celebration. Well" — she smiled at Martha — "perhaps more like the whore's mother, along for bargaining."

  "No, ma'am. The whore herself, and beautiful."

  The Queen, at the wardrobe, turned with a look. "So, I'm flattered and put in my place at once. I've come to suspect, girl, you've a brain along with your muscles." She rummaged, disturbing pressed gowns. "Probably should have you whipped…. What about this?" A long dress striped black and silver.

  "Seems... gaudy, ma'am."

  " 'Seems gaudy, ma'am'! Well, what then?"

  "The dark blood-red."

  "Hmm. Worn several times before."

  "And worn well, Majesty."

  The Queen found the gown and hauled it out. "Pressed, at least. I'm amazed it's cleaned and pressed. Lazy bitches...." She held it up to the light, then held the dress to her and went to stand before her long mirror's almost perfect silvered glass.

  "That fucking stupid Merwin dog," she said, examining her reflection. Martha had heard her say it before, referring to General Eli Merwin, dead with his men at Map-Jefferson City. The Queen had written and sent a letter to the Khan's general, Shapilov, thanking him for ridding her of a fool.

  Queen Joan turned a little to the left, a little to the right. "I suppose it might do."

  "Do nicely, ma'am," Martha said, and with Fat Orrie, began to dress her.

  "Well, this Small-Sam Monroe deserves no better. Get it on me. The black shoes — I'll freeze — and only jet for jewelry, as mourning for my poor dead soldiers." Cascades of band music now drifted into the tower. "Who in Lady Weather's name do those people think they're greeting? Jesus come rafting by?"

  "We need to hurry, ma'am."

  "Don't rush me." With both hands, the Queen lifted the Helmet of Joy from its silver stand and settled its weight carefully on her head. "Terrible for my hair..."

  Then the Queen was rushed, though apologetically, by Martha, her waiting women, and finally the chamberlain, Brady, come panting up the tower stairs in as much temper as he dared to show.

  "For the — ! Ma'am, we have a head of state now landing!"

  "Calm yourself, old man." The Queen made a last pass before her mirror. Then, satisfied with red and black, led out and down the flights of stairs, her soldiers saluting as she passed.

  Princess Rachel, wearing a simple, long, white-wool gown, with a thick goat's-hair shawl paneled in blue and green — and with only one lady in company — was waiting for them at the tower door. Her dark-brown hair was ribboned down her back in thick braids.

  "Dressing to be plain?" the Queen said. "Fear rape, do you?"

  The Princess didn't seem to hear, took her mother's hand a
nd kissed it, then stepped back beside Martha as they walked down the long north staircase, past the glass Flower House. The Princess's lady — a blue-stocking named Erica DeVane — waved good fortune as they went.

  Martha had seen Island's Silver Gate — had become familiar with almost all of Island, as Master Butter had advised her — but never with nine or ten thousand people, Ordinary and Extraordinary, packing its cut-stone landings and docks. Men, women, and children, all dressed for holiday, and so many that she saw stirs here and there where someone, shoved by crowding, had fallen into the harbor and had to be fished out before the icy water killed them.

  The Queen's throne had been perched on the wide first-flight landing of the Gate's middle staircase. She settled into it, warmed by an ermine cape and lap robe, and crowned with the Helmet of Joy, its thirteen human hearts — shiveled knots bound in fine gold netting — dangling, swinging in the bitter wind.

  Deep drums rumbled as a warship — Martha thought she saw the name Haughty as it turned — swung in to tie at Central Finger.

  "Well-handled," the Queen said. "But certainly with more important duties... better things to do." Martha could hardly hear her over the band music. One dull-voiced instrument in there sounded very like a plow-horse farting.

  As she watched past the Queen's heavy helmet of hearts, gold, and yellow diamonds, Martha saw the warship put out a broad bow-gangway, as if a great sea beast had stuck out its tongue.

  A little group of six appeared there, and the crowd cheered all together, a tremendous almost solid weight of sound, so even the bands seemed silenced. Martha thought the Queen said, "My, such enthusiasm." And she must have said something, because Martha saw Princess Rachel, now standing beside her mother, smile.

  The little group came down the gangway, cloaks blowing in the river wind. They marched up the dock to the harbor steps with one man walking slightly ahead, then climbed the stairs between lines of soldiers, to shouts and tossed women's favors of bright kerchiefs and painted paper flowers.

  In an almost-hush of cheering between one blared march and another, Martha heard the chamberlain say, "Seem pleased to see the man."

  "Jefferson City," the Queen said, "has frightened them. So they look to even improbable friends." She said something more, but the bands had struck up Warm-time's 'Semper Fidelis' — or its fair copy — and Martha couldn't hear her.

  But the bands and crowd quieted as the group climbed closer to the Queen.

  "For God's sake, Brady… he's a boy."

  "Twenty-seven years old, ma'am. And experienced."

  "Experienced, my ass." The Queen ruffled her ermine cape and loops of jet beads. "Experienced at hanging sheep thieves — which he was himself, once."

  "But is no longer, ma'am." Martha noticed the chamberlain had kept his voice low, apparently to encourage the Queen to do the same.

  "Is to me; I changed his shit rags. Very noisy baby..." The Queen was drowned out by a last blare of music with cymbals and rumbling drums, as North Map-Mexico came up the last steps.

  Monroe — bare-headed, well dressed in dun velvet, with silver on his arm and a fine ring on his finger — seemed handsome to Martha, in a way. Broad-shouldered, a little shorter than she was, he looked tough and tired, like any young officer who'd seen fighting. He was wearing only a fine cloth cloak — dark brown as imperial chocolate — against the cold, and was armed with a long-sword down his back, even coming to greet the Queen. He looked strong to Martha. Long arms and big hands. I'd have to close with him. Short-grip the ax, stay inside the swing of his sword. And quickly, quickly.

  He stood at the foot of the throne. His people had stopped well back. To Martha, almost all of them — the soldiers, the woman, too — looked Ordinary, but dire fighters. Only one, a tall young man in black velvet, and very handsome as the court judged handsomeness, seemed well-born though not dotted.

  The music having crashed to a stop, the Queen raised her voice over crowd noise. "How very welcome you are, Captain-General, to Middle Kingdom — and in time for our Lord Winter's Festival!"

  "I look forward to it, Majesty." A young man's light-baritone, raised to be clearly heard. He sounded a little hoarse, to Martha. Perhaps from shouting battle orders. "Look forward to it... and with heartfelt thanks for your kind invitation to visit your great and beautiful river country."

  "Your pleasure, Lord Monroe, is our pleasure!"

  Martha supposed the Queen was smiling, to show how pleased she was.

  " — And we hope your visit with us will be the longest possible, so we may come to know one another... as our people and yours may come to know one another."

  Monroe bowed to the Queen, then turned a little to bow to Princess Rachel. Not, it seemed to Martha, really graceful bows. They were too... casual. She supposed he wasn't used to it. "Your Majesty's welcome reflects your own graciousness, kindness."

  Martha thought Queen Joan must still be smiling, but heard her mutter, "Is this shit-pup making fun of me?"

  "No, no." A murmur from Chamberlain Brady. "All in form."

  The Queen stood up. "Then come, welcome guest, and those you've brought with you, to rest in comfort from your journey!"

  "Should say more, ma'am." Brady's murmur.

  "Fuck that," said the Queen, stepped down from her throne, and offered Monroe her arm. He was smiling — Martha supposed he'd heard the 'Fuck that' — took her arm, and swung a slow half-circle with her as the crowd began a rhythmic clapping, loud, and with shouts.

  Following the Queen close as they climbed the steps — the Princess had dropped back to walk beside the chamberlain — Martha glanced over her shoulder to be sure Monroe's five fighters were coming well behind. Then she set herself to watching those bowing as they went by, those clapping and cheering in the crowd, watching for anyone a little too tense for the occasion.

  They passed Master Butter as they climbed to the second Grand-flight's landing. He was standing with Lord Vitelli's man, Packard — blew an almost-hidden kiss to the Queen, then winked at Martha as she went by.

  "In the old days," the Queen said to Monroe, raising her voice through the crowd's noise, "Chamberlain Brady would have welcomed you naked, or nearly naked, with the 'My Sunshine' dance."

  "Really?" Their guest looked over his shoulder. "Chamberlain, I'm sorry to have missed it."

  "Just as well, milord. Not what I used to be, prancing."

  "Oh," Monroe said, "I imagine you still step lightly enough."

  Martha heard the Queen's little grunt of humor through the cheers and shouts around them, and there came a shower of perfumed paper flowers, tiny twisted petition-papers, and candies wrapped in beaten silver foil.

  Ordinaries in the crowd were shouting, "Mother! River-mother!" and grinning at the Queen like — as she always said — the great fools they were.

  * * *

  "Thank Mountain Jesus that's over."

  "The Jesus here floats, sir," Margaret said. "But Weather, this place is big!"

  "Oh, I'd say these rooms are proper," Darry said, "a suite commensurate with rank."

  "I think Margaret meant Island, Lieutenant, though these rooms aren't nothing."

  Chamberlain Brady had led them a long way, commenting to Sam on the warmth of the people's greeting, and mentioning the banquet of welcome at sunset. They'd come a great distance through granite passageways and up granite stairways, to this 'suite.'

  First, a high-ceilinged entrance chamber with a long, beautifully-carved table set in it — and woven tapestries along the walls, with scenes of men and women hunting animals Sam had never seen or heard of, dream animals from copybooks.... There was this great room, warmed by two corner Franklins with fires rumbling in them, and lit by lanterns hanging from its ceiling on silver chains. Then, on both sides of a wide hallway — its walls decorated with painted pictures of river people at common tasks — were six more rooms. The first was a small laundry room with both bath and wash-tubs. On the stove were kettles of hot water, already steaming. The ot
her five were sleeping chambers, each very fine, with polished wood furniture, beds with duck-feather mattresses and pillows, and flower drawings on fine paper on every wall.

  These rooms, also, each held a stove burning. And the last chamber, largest and most beautiful — with two glassed arrow-slit windows cut through yard-thick stone — was warmed by two stoves.

  "This is all to impress us," Margaret said, and making a face of not being impressed, joined Sam and Darry sitting at the entrance room's big table. The three sergeants stood at ease along the near wall. Behind and above them, a woven hunting party of people wearing feathered cloaks rode after a six-legged elk.

  "Well, it impresses me," Sam said, "to afford such warmth and comfort in this huge heap of stone in winter. Island does impress me, as that warship did. Great wealth, and great power — and they make it plain."

  Master Carey came in with two liveried servants carrying the last of the baggage... and saw it stowed. His and the sergeants' gear in the two bed-rooms nearest the entrance. The lieutenant's in the next. Then Margaret Mosten's. Then Sam's.

  "We should have brought finer things to wear," Margaret said..

  "No, we shouldn't," Sam said. "Decoration won't win us anything, here." He waited for the last of Island's servants to leave and close the door behind him. "Now, first, remember that what we say in these rooms may be overheard, stone walls or not."

  "Right," Margaret said.

  "This is what I want done...." He paused to pick an apple from a silver bowl.

  "Apple should be tasted, sir." Carey, come to stand with the sergeants.

  "Oh, I don't think I'll be poisoned today. That would be a little abrupt." Sam took a bite and chewed. "It's sweet. Wonderful, a sweet apple…. Now, Sergeants Burke, Mays, and Wilkey, you'll take Lieutenant Darry's orders as to guard-mount. But there is always to be a man on duty at the entrance, here. And, I suppose, I should have someone with me."