Kingdom River

Sam closed his eyes for a moment… saw Howell in camp, unrolling the bird's tiny message-paper and reading it. Then saying, 'Well, for Weather's sake. What the fuck's the matter with Sam?'

'Alright… Take the bird back, Ansel.'

There were two very hard knocks on the suite's heavy door. It opened partway, and Sergeant Mays leaned in. 'Her Majesty an' the ax-girl to see you, sir.'

Master Carey snatched up Louella's basket, and waddled swiftly back to his room as the Queen, in a long wolf- fur cloak, came in past Sergeant Mays, her armswoman behind her.

'Where's that fat man off to?'

Sam stood with Margaret and Darry, and bowed. 'Honored to welcome you, ma'am… Carey's our schemer, spy, and supply person. Secrecy's a custom with him, so he snatched our pigeon away.'

'One of your Master Lauder's people, I suppose?'

'I'm sure of it.'

'This habit,' – the Queen stood in the middle of the room – 'this habit you have of being so directly honest as to insult those you speak to, I find very unpleasant.'

'I apologize, Queen. I do it to unsettle those older and cleverer than I am.'

'And that's exactly what I mean – that sort of thing you just said.'

'Perhaps I should try a little lying. Will you sit, ma'am? Have wine… berry brandy?'

Queen Joan shook her head, then was silent, as if she'd forgotten why she'd come. Her ax-girl watched Sergeant Mays, since he stood closest to them.

'What is it, ma'am?' Sam said. 'What's happened?'

'… Nothing. Nothing's 'happened,' Monroe. I visit where I choose, when I choose.' Sam saw, by the hanging lanterns' warm light, that the Queen was pale as cotton sheeting.

'They're on the river?'

'Our difficulties,' the Queen said, 'our… difficulties are still our concern.'

'They've taken St. Louis.'

The Queen made a sound in her throat, and clawed her fingers as if she were about to fight. Then, spreading her arms wide, her long wolf cloak swinging open, she began a slow-stepping dance of fury. Her ropes of pearls swaying with her furs, she turned in drifts of flower scent, eyes rolled back, teeth bared to bite. She danced in paces her ax-girl mirrored to stay within reach. 'I'll kill… that fucking Kipchak. Every person, everything he loves, I'll kill. I'll skin his wife, his child – I hear there's to be a child. I'll skin that baby slowly, for him to see – and his horses, skin his horses alive before I skin him, roll him screaming in salt, and serve him roasted!'

It was a promise frightening to see danced and almost sung. Sam noticed Sergeant Mays stand back a step, and saw that Margaret had closed her eyes, as if the Queen were a fire burning too close.

When Queen Joan stood still and silent, Sam went to her and took her hands while the armswoman watched. 'Give me your warrant, dear.'

'… I am not your 'dear.' ' But she let him hold her hands.

'Give me your warrant to assist you in this war, to command, so our armies can fight together.'

'So you can prepare to take my throne – boy?' She pulled her hands away.

'I swear to uphold you on your throne, Queen – uphold your rule against any and all. I swear it on the memory of my Second-mother… And will hold to it,' – he smiled – 'no matter how inconvenient.'

'Never,' the Queen said. ' – Never.' She turned and walked out. Her ax-girl, following, glanced back to be certain of no surprise, then closed the door behind them.

'What do we do?' Margaret said into silence. 'Sam, what do we do, now?'

'What do we do…?' Sam took a deep breath. 'What I do is keep trying to persuade the generals and admirals here to cooperate with our army.'

'Won't do it, sir, without her.' Carey, out of his room like a mountain marmot, appearing in the hall. 'Boxcars think we're shit, sir.'

'Sad,' Pedro Darry said, 'but true.' An ancient phrase.

'Then fuck 'em,' said Sergeant Mays.

'No. We need these people.' Sam reached for the brandy, noticed Margaret Mosten's glance, and set the crystal jug aside. 'I'll go to the river lords, tomorrow – '

The chamber's door swung open again, and Queen Joan's ax-girl stepped in. 'Her Majesty,' she said.

The Queen stood in the doorway. 'I've… changed my mind.' She stared at them a few moments, then said, 'Dear God.' One of Warm-times' shortest sayings.

***

After an early breakfast delivered to their rooms – the roast pork, boiled eggs, oat pudding, and honey rolls all first nibbled for safety's sake by Master Carey – Sam, with Sergeant Wilkey pacing behind him, longbow down his back, coursed through Island's passages to East Tower's stairs, cubbies, and chambers, until a serving man nodded to 'General Lenihan' and pointed them to offices at the end of a lamp-lit hall. No guard was posted there.

Wilkey opened the oak door and stood aside as Sam walked in. Three soldiers, clerks, stood writing at stands beneath hanging five-flame oil lamps. They were wearing West-bank army's blue wool, but no weapons, no armor. They set their pens down as Sam and Wilkey came in.

'Brigadier Lenihan,' Sam said. 'I understand he's executive for plans and coordination – dealing with both bank armies?'

'And you are?' The tallest clerk, a sergeant.

'He's 'Milord Monroe' to you,' Wilkey said pleasantly. 'Now, see him in to your general.'

The clerk said, 'Sorry, sir – milord,' trotted to an inner office door, knocked, opened it, and said, 'Lord Monroe to see you, sir.'

There was a grumble from inside. Sam walked past the clerk into a smaller space that reminded him of Charles' cramped office at Better-Weather, though more brightly lit. A stocky man with cold gray eyes and several days' growth of beard, wearing West-bank army's blue, stood from behind a desk piled with maps and message sheets. He had three tattooed dots on his left cheek, four on the other.

'General Lenihan, I believe we have some business.'

'Sir – milord – I hardly think so.' Lenihan's voice was hoarse with fatigue. 'And, while I wouldn't wish to be rude, I must say I don't have the time for it.' The brigadier looked down at his desk-top. 'There are orders to be copied, orders to be sent. In short, sir, I have a war on my hands – at least portions of it.'

'I see you do. And how does your war go, General?'

'That, sir, with all respect, is something I couldn't discuss with you. Perhaps the chamberlain's office…' Lenihan, impatient, glanced down and shifted some papers.

Sam shoved a stack of documents aside, then sat on the edge of the desk, one booted foot on the floor. 'The Queen has allowed me to be what help I can in this war, Lenihan. So it's by her warrant and authority, as well as mine, that I suggest you drop this pose of 'responsible officer weary of interfering idiots' – and prepare to take my orders.'

The general's face flushed. 'I would need a written order, signed by the Queen, to do any such – '

Sam lunged across the desk, took Lenihan's throat in his right hand, and drove the man back against the wall. The brigadier was strong, struggled, and reached for his belted dagger. Sam covered that hand with his left to keep the blade sheathed – and heard Wilkey, behind him, draw his sword.

'Put up, Sergeant!' The sword whispered back into its scabbard.

Lenihan, who couldn't breathe, fought hard. His chair went over with a clatter; a fat folder slid from the desk. He struck with a heavy fist at Sam's head and belly, tried for his balls. Then plucked and tore at the strangling hand, to wrench it free.

The office door opened.

'Mind your own business,' Wilkey said behind Sam, and kicked the door shut.