Kingdom River

'… But, do they think Toghrul Khan is just going to go away?'

'Margaret, except for some of the officers the Queen has just brought to Island, the Boxcars think he's basically only a more formidable tribesman. And they've dealt with tribesmen and tooth-filers many times.'

'But they lost Map-Jefferson City!'

' 'A fluke,' is how the chamberlain described that. I got the impression he thought the Queen was making too much of it.'

'The court tends to agree, sir.' Darry poured himself more berry brandy. The lieutenant, though slender, seemed to have an extraordinary capacity – was always hungry, and never seemed drunk. 'People I speak to, some of them officers of the better regiments, regard this war as… well, a career opportunity. Except for those like Stilwell or Brainard, who have estates to inherit.'

'Fucking overdecorated roosters.' Margaret made a face. It seemed to Sam she hadn't yet forgiven him for her boots, leathers, and mail, in a court where the women – and men – dressed like furred and velveted song- birds.

'Well, Captain, they're frivolous… and they aren't.' Pedro twirled his silver goblet; those were counted in the kitchens, too. 'Most of them have fought tribesmen. And if not, fought each other in duels. I feel… really, I feel quite at home. Though, of course, they are a little rough.'

'A little rough?' Sam considered some brandy, then decided not.

'Well, sir, Jerry Brainard has killed a man who questioned his family recipe. A question of palms.'

'Palms?' Margaret said.

'Yes, Captain. Palms. Girl's palms – of course hardly done at all, now. But the question was whether to cattle- butter them before broiling, or after.'

'Lady Weather…'

'And which,' Sam said, 'did the Brainards favor?'

'Oh, Jerry said, 'Before.' Before, absolutely. Keeps 'em plump; keeps 'em from drying out on the grill.'

'These people,' Margaret said, 'deserve the Kipchaks.'

'But our people don't,' Sam said, 'and Toghrul will see to it that as the Kingdom goes, so will they.'

'True.'

'And speaking of deserving, I've seen no Jesus priests, no ladies of Lady Weather at Island.'

'No, sir,' Darry said. 'I understand the Queen doesn't allow it, doesn't allow them to stay. She sends them back where they came from with silver pieces. Says to do good – and stay gone.'

'Making enemies, Pedro?' Margaret said.

'Don't think so, Captain. I'm told she gives a lot of silver. And the winter festivals, very elaborate, supposed to be wonderful to see. Canceled this year, of course.'

'Master Carey,' Sam said, 'do we have a healthy pigeon?'

'Two, sir. Only two since Hector died on the Naughty. Couldn' stand the motion.' Ansel Carey kept the birds in his room, and expressed to them the only tenderness Sam had seen from him.

'Leave the silverware; let the Queen's people count it when they come for the platters.'

'What message, Sam?'

'To Howell and Ned, Margaret, through Better-Weather. Howell's probably joined by now, and Eric can relay dispatch-riders up to them. I want them moving north fast as possible. Forward elements should already be out of West Louisiana.'

'Sam, they know that.' Margaret had carved the supper meat, and was cleaning ham juice from her long dagger's blade with a red woven-cloth napkin. 'They don't need to be reminded… if a galloper could even catch up to them.'

'Well, they may not need a reminder if they get it – but they might have needed it, if they don't.'

'Sam, that doesn't make any sense at all.'

'Does to me,' Darry said, and pushed his dessert plate away. The lieutenant tilted his heavy chair back and sat at ease, gleaming boots crossed at the ankles. 'Precious Miss Murphy's Law. What may be fucked up – your pardon, Captain Mosten – will be fucked up. So, better a pigeon, to be sure.'

'My thinking,' Sam said. 'And it's possible that Howell… even that both of them have been killed.'

'Nothing,' Margaret said, and got up from the table. 'Nothing could kill both of those men. I don't think Ned is killable.'

'Did lose his hand,' Darry said.

Master Carey's room was down the corridor. Sam could hear him murmuring to the pigeons, apparently making his selection.

'Speaking of hands, Pedro; you've had more than a week dealing them out at the card-tables at court. And, I understand, have been successful. What news?'

'Master Carey exaggerates, sir. Just fun cards, small stakes; never enough to make anyone angry. Also, no involvement with any lady having serious connections.'

'That's a comfort. Go on.'

'Well, sir…' Darry brought his chair forward, sat at attention. 'Well, sir – this is no court, in the sense of the Emperor's court at Map-Mexico City. It's… really more like chieftains gathering at a tribal longhouse in the mountains, or north, along the ice-wall. Though the longhouse in this case is stone, and miles each way.' Darry paused, considering. 'It isn't that there aren't manners here, sir, and decent precedence – there are. But it's all damn shallow.'

'Meaning,' Margaret Mosten said, 'keep a sergeant with you, Sam.'

'Yes,' Darry said. 'Absolutely. Not that murdering you would be undertaken lightly, sir.'

'Glad to hear it.'

'But it wouldn't be, well, regarded as… memorable.'

'And no fucking consideration as to what might happen then?' Margaret leaned over the table like a storm. 'With the Kingdom at war, and our army marching into Map-Arkansas?'

'Ah, but you see, Captain, the people who are the considering sort, wouldn't be the ones who killed our Captain-General.' He smiled at Sam in encouragement.

'One or more of the sergeants,' Margaret said, 'and either Pedro or me in any public gathering.'

Darry nodded. 'We have no dots on our faces, sir, is what it comes down to. We aren't Boxcars.'

'Neither was the Queen.' Sam reconsidered the berry brandy, poured the barest taste into his glass and drank it… breathed its stinging sweetness in and out.

'No, but she is now, sir. She was married to their king – and, I understand, murdered to hold her own once he was gone.'

'Watch your tongue, Pedro. Even stone walls can grow ears.'

'Oh – oh, nothing out of the way in that sort of killing, of course, sir!' Darry said. 'Admirable, really. An admirable lady… who having been a tribeswoman herself, knew what needed to be done.'

'I'd leave the subject, Pedro… Margaret, will you go and persuade Ansel to part with a fucking pigeon. I'd like to get that message sent. And Pedro, you might keep in mind that those people at Island who do 'consider' before they act, might consider it useful to put one of my people into the river, as an indication we're not wanted here, long-term.'

'I suppose that's true!' Darry seemed startled at the notion.

'So, if you find even your charm suddenly overvalued by new friends, a new lady, you might be careful what dark corner you're invited to.'

'I keep an eye on him, milord.' Master Carey carried in a bird basket, with Margaret marching behind him. 'I've been Sancho to his Panzo, or whatever… keep close to any fun, or lady.'

'Tediously so,' said Lieutenant Darry. 'It was a question, sir, but I chose our Louella.' Carey set the basket on the table. 'She's small, but swift. And spirited – flies so hawks can kiss her ass.'

Louella set a bright black eye to the basket weaving, examined them.

'Sir,' Margaret said, 'it would be a mistake. They'll think you have no confidence in them. They'll start looking over their shoulders for more messages.'

'Good point, sir,' Darry said. 'Still, there's Miss Murphy's Law…'

'Pedro,' Margaret said, 'be quiet.'