Kingdom River

' 'Seems gaudy, ma'am'! Well, what then?'

'The dark blood-red.'

'Hmm. Worn several times before.'

'And worn well, Majesty.'

The Queen found the gown and hauled it out. 'Pressed, at least. I'm amazed it's cleaned and pressed. Lazy bitches…' She held it up to the light, then held the dress to her and went to stand before her long mirror's almost perfect silvered glass.

'That fucking stupid Merwin dog,' she said, examining her reflection. Martha had heard her say it before, referring to General Eli Merwin, dead with his men at Map-Jefferson City. The Queen had written and sent a letter to the Khan's general, Shapilov, thanking him for ridding her of a fool.

Queen Joan turned a little to the left, a little to the right. 'I suppose it might do.'

'Do nicely, ma'am,' Martha said, and with Fat Orrie, began to dress her.

'Well, this Small-Sam Monroe deserves no better. Get it on me. The black shoes – I'll freeze – and only jet for jewelry, as mourning for my poor dead soldiers.' Cascades of band music now drifted into the tower. 'Who in Lady Weather's name do those people think they're greeting? Jesus come rafting by?'

'We need to hurry, ma'am.'

'Don't rush me.' With both hands, the Queen lifted the Helmet of Joy from its silver stand and settled its weight carefully on her head. 'Terrible for my hair…'

Then the Queen was rushed, though apologetically, by Martha, her waiting women, and finally the chamberlain, Brady, come panting up the tower stairs in as much temper as he dared to show.

'For the -! Ma'am, we have a head of state now landing!'

'Calm yourself, old man.' The Queen made a last pass before her mirror. Then, satisfied with red and black, led out and down the flights of stairs, her soldiers saluting as she passed.

Princess Rachel, wearing a simple, long, white-wool gown, with a thick goat's-hair shawl paneled in blue and green – and with only one lady in company – was waiting for them at the tower door. Her dark-brown hair was ribboned down her back in thick braids.

'Dressing to be plain?' the Queen said. 'Fear rape, do you?'

The Princess didn't seem to hear, took her mother's hand and kissed it, then stepped back beside Martha as they walked down the long north staircase, past the glass Flower House. The Princess's lady – a blue-stocking named Erica DeVane – waved good fortune as they went.

Martha had seen Island's Silver Gate – had become familiar with almost all of Island, as Master Butter had advised her – but never with nine or ten thousand people, Ordinary and Extraordinary, packing its cut-stone landings and docks. Men, women, and children, all dressed for holiday, and so many that she saw stirs here and there where someone, shoved by crowding, had fallen into the harbor and had to be fished out before the icy water killed them.

The Queen's throne had been perched on the wide first-flight landing of the Gate's middle staircase. She settled into it, warmed by an ermine cape and lap robe, and crowned with the Helmet of Joy, its thirteen human hearts – shiveled knots bound in fine gold netting – dangling, swinging in the bitter wind.

Deep drums rumbled as a warship – Martha thought she saw the name Haughty as it turned – swung in to tie at Central Finger.

'Well-handled,' the Queen said. 'But certainly with more important duties… better things to do.' Martha could hardly hear her over the band music. One dull-voiced instrument in there sounded very like a plow-horse farting.

As she watched past the Queen's heavy helmet of hearts, gold, and yellow diamonds, Martha saw the warship put out a broad bow-gangway, as if a great sea beast had stuck out its tongue.

A little group of six appeared there, and the crowd cheered all together, a tremendous almost solid weight of sound, so even the bands seemed silenced. Martha thought the Queen said, 'My, such enthusiasm.' And she must have said something, because Martha saw Princess Rachel, now standing beside her mother, smile.

The little group came down the gangway, cloaks blowing in the river wind. They marched up the dock to the harbor steps with one man walking slightly ahead, then climbed the stairs between lines of soldiers, to shouts and tossed women's favors of bright kerchiefs and painted paper flowers.

In an almost-hush of cheering between one blared march and another, Martha heard the chamberlain say, 'Seem pleased to see the man.'

'Jefferson City,' the Queen said, 'has frightened them. So they look to even improbable friends.' She said something more, but the bands had struck up Warm-time's 'Semper Fidelis' – or its fair copy – and Martha couldn't hear her.

But the bands and crowd quieted as the group climbed closer to the Queen.

'For God's sake, Brady… he's a boy.'

'Twenty-seven years old, ma'am. And experienced.'

'Experienced, my ass.' The Queen ruffled her ermine cape and loops of jet beads. 'Experienced at hanging sheep thieves – which he was himself, once.'

'But is no longer, ma'am.' Martha noticed the chamberlain had kept his voice low, apparently to encourage the Queen to do the same.

'Is to me; I changed his shit rags. Very noisy baby…' The Queen was drowned out by a last blare of music with cymbals and rumbling drums, as North Map-Mexico came up the last steps.

Monroe – bare-headed, well dressed in dun velvet, with silver on his arm and a fine ring on his finger – seemed handsome to Martha, in a way. Broad-shouldered, a little shorter than she was, he looked tough and tired, like any young officer who'd seen fighting. He was wearing only a fine cloth cloak – dark brown as imperial chocolate – against the cold, and was armed with a long-sword down his back, even coming to greet the Queen. He looked strong to Martha. Long arms and big hands. I'd have to close with him. Short-grip the ax, stay inside the swing of his sword. And quickly, quickly.

He stood at the foot of the throne. His people had stopped well back. To Martha, almost all of them – the soldiers, the woman, too – looked Ordinary, but dire fighters. Only one, a tall young man in black velvet, and very handsome as the court judged handsomeness, seemed well-born though not dotted.

The music having crashed to a stop, the Queen raised her voice over crowd noise. 'How very welcome you are, Captain-General, to Middle Kingdom – and in time for our Lord Winter's Festival!'

'I look forward to it, Majesty.' A young man's light-baritone, raised to be clearly heard. He sounded a little hoarse, to Martha. Perhaps from shouting battle orders. 'Look forward to it… and with heartfelt thanks for your kind invitation to visit your great and beautiful river country.'

'Your pleasure, Lord Monroe, is our pleasure!'

Martha supposed the Queen was smiling, to show how pleased she was.

' – And we hope your visit with us will be the longest possible, so we may come to know one another… as our people and yours may come to know one another.'

Monroe bowed to the Queen, then turned a little to bow to Princess Rachel. Not, it seemed to Martha, really graceful bows. They were too… casual. She supposed he wasn't used to it. 'Your Majesty's welcome reflects your own graciousness, kindness.'

Martha thought Queen Joan must still be smiling, but heard her mutter, 'Is this shit-pup making fun of me?'

'No, no.' A murmur from Chamberlain Brady. 'All in form.'

The Queen stood up. 'Then come, welcome guest, and those you've brought with you, to rest in comfort from your journey!'

'Should say more, ma'am.' Brady's murmur.

'Fuck that,' said the Queen, stepped down from her throne, and offered Monroe her arm. He was smiling – Martha supposed he'd heard the 'Fuck that' – took her arm, and swung a slow half-circle with her as the crowd began a rhythmic clapping, loud, and with shouts.

Following the Queen close as they climbed the steps – the Princess had dropped back to walk beside the chamberlain – Martha glanced over her shoulder to be sure Monroe's five fighters were coming well behind. Then she set herself to watching those bowing as they went by, those clapping and cheering in the crowd, watching for