Kingdom River

live, and the Kingdom fights with us, Toghrul will probably lose.'

'And you say that – why?'

'Because he's certain of victory… and victory's never certain.' Sam stood with his sword in his hand, bent to pick up his cloak, and swung it to his shoulders. 'Also, the Khan enjoys war. I don't. His enjoyment is a weakness.'

'I see.'

'And, in exchange for three or four weeks of silence – your little friend not flying to Map-McAllen – you can come with our army to the River war, and see everything. You can come and hover above the dying, like Lady Weather.'

'Mmmm…' Patience thrust out her lower lip like a child. 'You are a bad man, to tempt me.'

Her little monster toed the tent-pole where he clung, and called, 'Weather.'

… Outside, in darkness, Sam trudged a long diagonal of freezing mud behind the Boston girl's tent, over to the next setup's small, canvased toilet trench. A Light Infantry corporal, one of Margaret's Headquarters people, sat behind the screen, balanced on the poop-pole and peering through a little gap in the rigged canvas. A great horned owl, huge golden eyes furious under soaked feathers, shifted on his right wrist with a soft jingle of jess-bells.

The corporal stood up. 'Sir.'

'Sorry to stick you with this duty, Barney. She probably won't be sending her creature tonight. Probably won't be sending him at all.'

'If she does, sir, Elliot'll hear it fly, and go kill it.'

The owl, Elliot, hissed softly at its name, and fluffed its feathers.

'Who has the daytime, now?'

'Elmer Page, sir. Civilian. He's got a hunting red-tail.'

'Okay. In the morning, tell Citizen Page that his help is much appreciated. – And Corporal, remind him politely to keep silent about it.'

'Sir.'

Sam walked down to the tent. Finding the entrance flap unbuttoned, he set it aside, said, 'May I?' and ducked in.

'Milord.' Neckless Peter, in a hooded brown robe too big for him, stood up from behind a small camp desk.

'Sit,' Sam said, set his sword against the tent's wall, and let his cloak fold to the floor. 'What are you reading?'

'Please…' The old man gestured to his cot. 'I was writing, sir. A record… a memoir of our doings.'

'Well…' Sam sat on Peter's cot, and stretched to ease his back. 'Well, if you're troubling to do that, you may as well write the truth. No use wasting the work on inaccuracies.'

'The truth, sir. Yes.'

'Sit, Peter. Sit. And let me thank you for the use of your toilet trench. An inconvenience, but necessary.'

'I understand. And the watchers have courteously stood aside for my necessities.'

'Still, my thanks… We're going to have a dinner, Peter, at the fort. In… oh, about a glass. I'd like you to come over. Any guard will direct you to officers' mess – one of those all too appropriate Warm-time names.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Peter, smile for me. You're not on the menu.'

The little man smiled. 'But perhaps your officers would prefer I not come.'

'My officers' preferences, I think, we can set aside in favor of good advice from you. And, by the way, I won't permit questions about Toghrul Khan that might offend your honor as his teacher.'

The little man sat looking at Sam – a librarian's regard, as if Sam were a copybook that might prove interesting. 'There are… there are two things that may prove useful, and that Toghrul would not mind my telling you.'

'Yes…?'

'First, I've seen that you and your people – officers and soldiers – are friends.'

'Not always, Peter. But usually, yes.'

'Toghrul Khan has no friends.'

'Mmm… A disadvantage, when friends might be needed. An advantage, when friends might be lost.'

'That's so, of course, sir. And second, I believe you are sometimes afraid. The Khan, however, is afraid of nothing and no one.'

'Now that's very useful. Very much worth knowing.'

'Yes, so it seemed to me.'

'Then…' Sam bent to pick up his cloak, stood to fasten its catch at his throat. 'We'll see you at dinner?'

The old man got up from behind his desk. 'Yes, milord.'

''Sir.' Or 'Sam,' if you prefer.'

'Sir.'

'And bring an appetite, Peter. It'll be army food, but plenty.'

'I will.'

'By the way' – Sam paused at the tent's entrance – 'since you're now in our councils. I'm sending Howell Voss north, with all our cavalry assembled. North into Texas. First, as a counterblow to the Khan's harassment across the Bravo to the west… And second, for a more important reason.'

'Heavens,' Neckless Peter said – a perfect use of that wonderful old word. 'A 'counterblow.' Toghrul will find that… interesting.'

'So I hope,' Sam said, set the tent-flap aside with his scab-barded sword, and ducked out into sleet become snow.

***

An Entry – which, I suppose, must be only a footnote to my history of North Map- Mexico and its Captain-General. In his person, the young man represents his land and people so well that that alone may be his guarantee of command. Young, strong – certainly ferocious, but never, I think, wantonly, carelessly. A fierce shepherd of the mountain shepherds' country.

He sat on the edge of my cot, and the light of my lamp went to him so he seemed outlined, vibrating with energy to be released as, supposedly, did the internal engines of wheel-cars on Warm-times' hard black roads.

A sturdy, broad-shouldered young man, sandy hair cropped short and shaved at his neck – looking very much like a countryman come to a fair to wrestle for prizes. A prosperous young countryman though marked by harsh weather, dressed in good cloth, soft leathers, fine boots. His forearms thick as posts, his large hands as fat with muscle as most men's fists.

He sat, elbows on his knees, and spoke to me – welcomed me, really, into his close company. A closeness likely to cause me difficulties with Eric Lauder…

What marked him commander? The light that seemed to go to him was surely only my attention. So, his calm… yes. A readiness to act – certainly that; when he wears his long sword, its grip hovers over his right shoulder like an odd impatient demon, close enough to whisper in his ear.

It seems to me, considering, that the marker of his command lies in the great division, a canyon's space, between the young man as plainly seen – intelligent, forthright, absolutely capable – and the infinitely subtle expression in his eyes. Eyes the color of those semiprecious stones comprised of mixtures of light brown, light green, and light yellow, seen sometimes in streams run down from the mountains of Map-California.

In his eyes was nothing forthright or simple, but rather complication, inquiry, examination… and an odd affection – perhaps for me, perhaps for everyone.

When he left, I sat as one sits after reading an important copybook, of which only a portion has been understood.