Kingdom River

'Michael, don't you dare!'

The man laughed again, and said, 'The court won't use it, ma'am. We promise.'

There was a murmur of promises.

'So, Large-Martha,' the Queen said, then said nothing more for a while, but only sat looking into Martha's eyes as if there was a secret there she must find out… Then, she nodded. 'So, you have no mother. And, I'm told, not much of a daddy. But what if I promise to be nearly a mother to you, if you will come and live with me? If you will serve me, stay by me always, and guard me with your life until the evening I lie, a very old lady, dying in my bed?'

It was such a strange thing to hear, that Martha waited for someone to explain it to her. It seemed the Queen could not have meant 'guard,' since there were soldiers standing against the room's walls, and a soldier in blue- enameled armor standing on one side of the throne, a green-armored soldier on the other.

'Yes, I have guards, Large-Martha, but they are men. And there are occasions when even a queen must be with women only. I'm tired of having to guard myself at such times… lying in my bath, sitting on my toilet-pot with an assag across my lap.' She tapped her short-spear's butt against the stone floor, and raised her head and her voice. ' – And if it were not in the River Book that soldiers must be men, I'd have women soldiers, as The Monroe has in North Map-Mexico… Proper in that, at least, though our currents might, were matters different, have flowed to drown that boy – as they will the fucking Kipchak Khan! I knew Small-Sam when he was a baby, carried him tucked in his blanket… wiped his ass.' Silence in the Red Room.

The Queen looked down at Martha. 'Now, girl, you give me an answer – and make that answer yes.' Martha said, 'Yes, ma'am.'

The Queen smiled and sat back on her throne. 'Oh, there's a sweetheart. My Newton would have said you'd make a Trapper-girl. A great compliment… Lord Sayre!'

'Ma'am?'

'See that the Master teaches my constant companion, Martha, neater fighting than with a smith's hammer.'

'You have in mind… the sword, ma'am?'

Martha knew the man's voice without turning to see him. It was the Bad-lip Lord.

'Mmm… no. I have in mind… a light, long-handled double-headed ax. Blade and spike-point, I think.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'But not too light – something suitable to her size and strength. Rollins is to forge the ax-head from a cake of the Emperor's gift, hammer that steel to tears, as if for me.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'No plate armor. Only best fine-mesh mail to rise from thigh to shoulder, then fasten turtle at her gown's neck – oh, I'll see you have such pretty dresses, child!… And a long knife, same steel and straight-bladed for strike or throw. A knife, no lady's frail whittler.'

'I'll see to it.'

The Queen raised her head and called out, 'Now, she is mine… and no longer an Ordinary!' Then she spun the javelin she gripped in her left hand, and held the shaft down to Martha. 'Take this, Strong-girl – then come up and stand behind my throne, to give your life for mine.'

Martha reached up to take the spear, and felt as she'd felt the motion of the river, when the red boat had heaved and pitched with its rowers' labor. Now, everything seemed to shift beneath her in just that way – and she would have been sure she was dreaming but for the rich colors of everything, the strange voices… and the Queen's eyes.

'- I said, 'Come up.''

Martha climbed the step, her knees shaking, and the soldier in green armor turned aside to let her pass. She stood behind the throne, her breath coming so short she was afraid she might faint, and had to lean on the spear's smooth shaft… Over the Queen's jeweled braids, Martha looked out on people in velvet, fine leathers, feathers and fur, wearing daggers, short-swords, and gold. Most of the men's and women's faces were tattooed in dots across their cheeks – some faces soft, some fierce, but none with pleasant eyes.

'Are you where you should be?' The Queen did not turn her head to look. She was wearing the perfume of a flower Martha didn't know.

'…Yes,' Martha said. 'I am.'

CHAPTER 9

'I keep my pay!'

Eric Lauder had lathered a fine paint pony, and called as he rode down to the column in early evening, five Warm-time miles from Better-Weather.

Charmian Loomis rode just behind him – bone thin, taller than Lauder, and awkward in her saddle. Her long black hair, always loose as a child's, never tied or ribboned, bannered behind her. She rode in the army's brown wool and tanned leather, and wore Light Infantry's chain-mail hauberk with a colonel's gold C pinned at her right shoulder. A rapier hung to the left of her saddle-bow.

Howell Voss, then Carlo Petersen and his captain, Franklin, reined aside for them.

'… I keep my pay, Sam.' Eric was short of breath as if he'd been doing the galloping. 'Two regiments. They crossed the Bravo together, day before yesterday, assembled in the brakes east of Ojinaga. Their outriders caught and killed two of my men, but not the third.'

A cloud shadow, as if in memorial for the two, drifted over on chill wind. The sun, throughout the day, had been hiding in shame at the Daughter's death.

Charmian Loomis climbed off her horse, said nothing.

'Have those border people obeyed my orders, Eric?'

'Yes, sir, they have. I've pigeoned with Serrano – '

'Paul Serrano?'

'Yes, and Macklin. Our people are already out of Presidio, and we're clearing every village and hacienda from Ahumada past the Bend to Boquillas.'

The pinto stretched his neck to nip Sam's big black, and Sam turned his horse – the imperial charger now named Difficult – a little away to avoid a reprisal. 'And John Macklin understands my orders about fighting?'

'He does. Cut throats, but no set battles.'

'And the Old Men?'

'Sam… the brothers are not pleased.'

Howell Voss slapped a fly on his horse's neck. 'For Weather's sake…'

'Howell, let it go. The brigadiers are owed a part in this. Eric, where's Charles?'

'In town. None of my business, but people in Sonora aren't paying their taxes.'

'They will.' Sam swung off his horse, relieved to be out of the saddle. More than a year ago – almost two years ago – an imperial Light Cavalryman had sabered him across the small of the back in a stupid scrambling fight below Hidalgo del Parral. His mail had turned the cut, but still some soreness there came and went. 'Now… all of you get down. We're going to talk a little campaigning.'

The others dismounted, then stood or squatted, holding their horses' reins.

'Howell, Carlo, call your officers up here. All of them. Is there any dirt to draw on?'

Voss drew his saber, sliced frost-burned turf, then bent and tore it away to clear a patch of ground. Major Petersen, bulky as a bear and awkward out of the saddle, went to speak to his banner-bearer, and the man rode away down the column.

Sam sat on his heels, waiting for the others to come up the road. 'Eric, we have the wounded with us. They stay in Better-Weather; Portia-doctor and her people stay there with them.'

'How's Ned?'

'No rot in the stump. He'll do well enough… already up and walking a little. The wounded stay, and Jaime and Elvin stay as well.'