Kingdom River

The Bad-lip Lord went in – then stepped out again, took Martha's arm, and pulled her inside with him.

It was a narrow room, its walls painted scarlet, with many old flags, banners, and lit chain-lamps hanging down from a ceiling shining with gold. At least it looked to Martha like gold – though there seemed too much of it for even a Queen's Island. The gold, or whatever bright metal it was, was hammered into shapes, possibly stories. Things flew among golden clouds up there – things like birds, but with stiff straight wings – and there were buildings appearing taller than buildings were made, taller even than fortress towers…

A woman was laughing, down at the end of the room.

Behind all these people, who looked warmed by red paint and lamplight, Martha stood with the Bad-Lip Lord beside her. He was tall as she was, no more or less. A steel edge of his breastplate's hinged shoulder-guard touched her arm… There were so many men and women crowding, they made the narrow room seem smaller. The most surprising thing was there was no stink of old sweat or foot-wraps – none at all – as if everyone had come fresh from a summer washtub bath, their clothes just off a summer line.

A few of these people were talking with each other, but softly. Martha saw not one man who wasn't dressed richly, not a single lady who wouldn't have put any rich wife of Cairo to shame for her finery. Several had blue panels sewn into their long skirts. A few had green.

The woman at the end of the room laughed again – she was a loud laugher. Being taller than most, Martha could see it was a lady dressed in red velvet, sitting one step up on a big black-enameled chair, her head back, laughing careless as a man. She was holding a short spear in her left hand; its narrow steel head shone in lamplight… Martha thought this must be the Queen, to be so loud amid grand people.

The woman stopped laughing, and said, 'Fuck them and forget them is the rule for you, Gregory. You're not deep enough for love!' She had a strong alto voice, like a temple singer's; it rang down the room.

The person she was talking to was tall, mustached, and seemed to Martha beautiful as a story prince. His long, soft copper hair lay loose, and he was dressed all in velvets, coat and tight trousers made in autumn greens and golds. ' – And that very shallowness, ma'am, I've confessed to Lady Constance, and asked her pardon. It's her brothers who concern me. They, apparently, believe in true love and marriage. In fact, they're insisting on it. Marriage, or my head.'

People standing near Martha laughed – but not the Bad-lip Lord beside her.

'Well, you naughty man.' The Queen was smiling. 'You can tell the fierce Lords Cullin that I would be displeased to be deprived of your company.'

'Thank you, Kindness,' the tall lord said, and bowed graceful as a harvest dancer.

'Um-hmm. Now, go and get into more mischief.' The Queen shooed him away, then looked down the length of the room and called out loud as a band horn, 'You! Tall one! You must be the strong-girl. Ordinary… Martha, isn't it?'

Martha looked around as if another Martha must be there.

'Answer her!' a woman said.

Martha nodded and said, 'Yes,' but too softly to be heard.

'You come closer. Come closer to me!' Queen Joan's voice seemed younger than she was.

The Bad-lip Lord took Martha's possibles-sack and rolled cloak from her. A hand – she didn't know whose – shoved at her back, 'and she stumbled, then walked down the room as people stepped aside. She felt everyone looking; their looks seemed to touch her. A woman said something softly, and laughed. They'd be looking at her shoes, the poor leather, and the mud. Looking at her hair… her ugly, ugly dress. A big stupid up-river girl, in an ugly dress.

She stopped almost at the step and made a bow, then began to get down on her hands and knees, in case bowing wasn't enough.

'Stay standing, girl. We're not Grass Barbarians here; a bow or curtsy will always do.' The Queen, though sitting, looked to be tall as a man if she stood, and had a man's hard blue eyes set in a long heavy-jawed face. Six dots were tattooed on her left cheek, six on her right. There was a scar on her pale forehead, one on her chin, and another at the left corner of her mouth.

Martha bowed again, very deeply, then straightened up. She saw the Queen was smiling, and supposed she'd bowed wrong after all… Queen Joan's hair, its dark red threaded and streaked with iron gray, had been braided, then the long braids coiled like slender snakes crowning her head. There were many, many jewels – little red stones, blue and green stones, and strange bright stones clear as water – pinned to her braids here and there, and fastened to her deep-red robe in intricate patterns, so she seemed to shine and glitter in the lamp-light as she sat.

'No, no,' the Queen said, still smiling, 'you bowed very well… And the shining stones you see, ice-looking, are diamonds. They are old as the world, and change never.'

Martha understood the Queen had read her mind by reading her face, and supposed that was a skill all kings and queens must have.

'Now.' Queen Joan leaned down from her throne, and held out her right hand. 'Now, since you are so large, and supposed to be strong and a bone-breaker, come take my hand in yours, Martha-girl… and try your best to break my bones.'

But Martha just stood and shook her head no. Her heart was beating hard as the boat's drum had sounded. 'No – I'd hurt you.'

But the Queen didn't seem to understand 'No.' She didn't appear to have even heard it. She held out her hand.

Martha reached up and took it – hoping that gripping firmly might be enough. The Queen's hand was white and long-fingered, warm as if fresh from hot-water washing.

They held hands like friends, for a moment. Then, slowly… slowly the Queen's grip tightened. The long fingers seemed to slide around Martha's hand as if they were growing, and the Queen's grip, terribly strong, tightened and tightened as though Martha's hand wasn't there at all.

It was uncomfortable. It hurt… then hurt worse – and Martha, frightened, began to squeeze back. Her hand was losing feeling; it seemed separate from her, and she had the dreadful imagining that the Queen was going to crush it, break its bones. Martha tried to keep that from happening – gripped against that happening with all her strength.

Suddenly, there was no pain, no terrible pressure – only the Queen's long white hand lying relaxed in hers.

'Strong enough, Large-Martha.' The Queen took her hand away, and sat back on her enameled throne. 'And no tears. You do please me.'

Some people in the room said, softly and together, 'And should be always pleased…'

'You're seventeen years old?'

'Yes… Queen,' Martha said, though 'Queen' didn't seem enough to call her.

'I'm told – by those I almost trust – that you beat three strong men down with a smith's hammer. Is that so?'

'…I did. I did, Queen – but none of them died. I'm sure none of them has died!'

'Don't be frightened. I don't care if all of them have died.'

People laughed at that.

'But you did it, Martha? And you did it alone?'

'Yes. They were hurting Pa.'

'Mmm… And did you enjoy what you did with the hammer?'

Martha looked around her for a friend – but she had no friends here, as she'd had none at home. Her hands were shaking, and she put them behind her so the Queen wouldn't see.

'-I don't ask questions twice.'

'I didn't want to… but I was angry.'

'Alright. Good. And I understand your mother died of insect fever years ago?'

'Yes… Majestic Person.'

Queen Joan laughed. It seemed to Martha she had good teeth for a woman her age, teeth strong as her grip. 'Please, please don't ever repeat that 'Majestic Person.' I'm manured with enough titles.'

A man in the room laughed.