Kingdom River

'But they didn't; I know. He gave us a hard time. Rodriguez, one of the new ones.'

'So' – Ned leaned back to spit again – 'a lot of our people killed. All my fault.'

'Ned…' Howell plucked out a soft fandang rhythm. 'What in the world were you doing down there at all? And with only half a regiment of Lights? Why would Sam send you? We could have waited for those people to come up, get into real trouble.'

'Oh, both of us thought it seemed a good idea.'

'At the time.'

'Yes. Seemed a good idea at the time.'

'Mmm…'

'Change of subject from my command blunders, Howell… I'm interested in going up into Texas with you. Map- Fort Stockton.'

'No.'

'No?'

'If you were four weeks better healed, Ned, you wouldn't have to ask. I'd have asked for you.'

'I can sit a horse.'

'Not for a three-day ride north, and then a fight. You're not going.'

'I'm not going…'

'No, you're not.'

'And if Sam says I am?'

'You're not going.'

'Well… play me a tune on that fucking thing, if you're going to sit there with it.'

Howell bent his head to the instrument, watched his large hands as if they were another's, and picked out a swift, soft, twanging melody.

'That's not… not terribly offensive.' Ned, grown paler, leaned back to spit the chewing tobacco out.

''Camp Ground Racers,' supposedly,' Howell said. 'But I doubt it.'

Ned sat back with his eyes closed, listening.

'Ned?'

'I'm not dead. Though I'm sure I look it.'

Howell stopped playing, set his instrument aside. 'Come use my cot. Lie down for a while.'

'Tell you something funny, Howell…'

'Come on, lie down.'

'Tell you something funny.' Eyes still closed. 'I have – had – always assumed I'd be next in line. Take command under Sam. Take command if anything happened to him. Always assumed it would be me.'

'Ned – '

'And of course, that very assumption demonstrated I would never be any such thing. But I didn't see it.'

'Stop the horseshit, and lie down.'

'I don't know how it happened.' Ned sat up, looked across the tent as if there were distance there. 'When Sam and I were kids, I led, more often than not. Then, when we got older – when the fighting started – I don't know how it happened. Just… after a while, people were coming to Sam and saying, 'What now?' '

'Ned – '

'They asked him. They didn't ask me. And that fucking This'll Do thing is beside the point. I've made damn few mistakes in seven, eight years fighting. I've been a hell of a commander. Better than you, Howell, Light Cavalry ranging.'

'That's true.'

'It wasn't that I made mistakes. It was just that people didn't come to me and say, 'What now?' '

'Come on.' Howell got up, took Ned's good arm. 'Come on. Lie down and get some rest.'

Ned stood, and staggered. 'Lie down, or fall down. Not ready for Map-Fort Stockton, after all…'

***

Coming back from john-trench in gusting sleet – and regretting he hadn't moved into his rooms at the fort, after all – Sam heard music, banjar playing from Howell Voss's tent on officers' row. Bright music; surprising how lightly those big fingers strummed… It was a temptation to walk over, sit laughing, listening to sleety rain and music, while talking army. Three years ago, even two years ago, he would have done it. But the distance of governing had grown between them, or seemed to have, which made the same difference.

Voices over there. Ned; certainly off his cot too soon after wagoning in. – Interesting that loneliness was never mentioned in the old tales of kings, presidents, generals and heroes. Those men and women somehow told as sufficient of themselves, and never, after crapping, walking alone under freezing rain.

Going down tent lines to the third set-up, his boots scuffing through ice-skimmed puddles, Sam heard- another conversation – one-sided conversation, it sounded. He scratched at the canvas flap. 'May I enter?'

'Oh, Weather…' Unbuttoning canvas. Then the Boston girl's sleek head, white face. 'It's the leader of all!' It was difficult to find her pupils in eyes so dark. The wind spattered her face with tiny flecks of ice.

'A freezing 'leader of all.''

'A moment.' More unbuttoning, then the flap drawn aside.

'Ice-rain!'

For a moment, Sam saw no one who could have said it. Then the girl's little creature moved down the tent- pole, opened its mouth, and said again, 'Ice-rain!'

It was the first time Sam had seen the thing – known to all the camp, of course, despite some effort to conceal it – as more than shadowy motion in its basket. More, proved unpleasant.

'Webster loves ice-rain,' Patience said, closing the entrance flap behind them. 'He loves what hawks hate.'

'But you haven't sent him flying.' Sam brushed meltwater off his cloak.

'Not yet.' She stood, observing him. 'Are you going to fight the Kipchaks now, or wait? Fight seriously, I mean, not these little scootings back and forth across the border.'

'Well… I would prefer the little scootings back and forth.'

'Please sit; my tent is your tent… So, you are going to fight him seriously – and would have to be allied with Middle Kingdom.'

Sam lifted his sword's harness from his back, then shrugged his cloak off and laid it along the tent's canvas floor. He sat on the girl's cot, the sword upright before him, resting his folded hands on its pommel. 'We're discussing the possibility, Ambassadress.'

The girl clapped her hands together. 'It's going to be a war!' Couldn't have seemed more pleased.

'I would appreciate it – the army would appreciate it – if you could delay a report of that possibility. Delay it… three weeks? Four?'

'And why should I do that, Captain-General?'

'Well, you've already delayed sending your…?'

'Mailman. Webster is a Mailman.'

'Ah… well, you haven't yet sent him to report our cavalry's preparations to go north. And there was no disguising that from someone already in camp.'

Patience stared at him, head slightly turned. Perfect pale little face. Perfect teeth. 'I haven't sent him – for my own reasons.'

'Then might you also… pause, before reporting the possibility of a larger movement to the Boston people in Map-McAllen? Again, for your own reasons.'

The Boston girl smiled. It seemed to Sam to be a smile in layers, like a bridal cake – but one baked in sweet and bitter layers. 'You believe that pride is my fault? Wishing to be ambassadress to greater and greater?'

'I hope so.'

'But, milord, New England doesn't want you winning – you and that fierce Queen – against the so-brilliant and, I believe, very handsome young Khan.' No smile now.

'I know. But New England – Boston – is going to be disappointed, and will have to await a later occasion. If I