Kingdom River

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 marble – 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 –