Kingdom River

Smiles at that around the table. No soldier, no sailor, but knew that fine Warm-time phrase.

… Three hours later, a stack of written orders in various scribbles – dire and demanding news to executive officers, supply officers, field commanders, ships' captains, civilian sutlers, shipyard owners, and the accomplished of many guilds – stood before the Queen.

She put her hand on top of the stack, riffled through the pages with her thumb. 'Well-enough. Not too much nonsense here.' Then she stood, and everyone stood with her. 'But drive your people, drive them, gentlemen – otherwise the Kipchaks will use this paper to wipe their asses.'

The Queen turned to go, but the Princess stood waiting until Sam came to her and offered his arm.

'… Thank you, Rachel.'

'For yielding,' the Princess said, 'to necessity?' And they followed the Queen and her ax-girl out of the Room of Conference.

… Lord Cooper walked back to the small stove, stood warming his hands as Sayre came to join him while their people were at the table, making certain of hand-copies.

'Cold…'

'Yes. She won't have this chamber heated.'

'And your opinion, Cooper?'

'My opinion… My opinion is that we have no choice but to give our men and our goods, while giving is in fashion.'

'Obviously. I meant, your opinion.'

'Oh. Well, we certainly have a king in all but future's crowning. Then – unless he dies before – it will be… bend.'

'We're bending already,' said Lord Sayre.

* * *

'I'm sick of walls.'

'Mother – '

'Sick of them!' The Queen was examining short spears, two assags, peering close at the grain of their hickory shafts, flicking their gleaming heads' razor-edged steel to hear it ring.

Martha, on orders, was packing leather duffels with warm woolens and boots, harsh furs… and, in a separate case, two light, nasaled pot-helms – one with gold fluting at its crown – and two long, heavy, chain-mail burnies, both very fine, custom-fitted, and with each of their thousands of tiny rivets welded, not simply hammered home.

'Mother…' Princess Rachel, upset as Martha'd never seen her, reached out to touch the Queen's hand – and had hers impatiently batted away. 'Mother, listen to me. You have men whose business is going to battles, and seeing, and reporting back. You are needed here, not up on the ice.'

'Oh, the boy-Monroe is busy enough, here. And Brady, pompous old fool.'

'You're going because you want to, Mother – and no thought to the Kingdom or anyone else!'

'And you care for the Kingdom?'

'I do, and I care for you.'

'And showed it never!'

'Mother, that's not so… You are not easy to deal with.'

'Then stop dealing with me. – Martha, what the fuck are you doing over there? Get us packed.'

'Taking your old knife, Majesty?'

'I'm carrying my old knife, yes. That's Trapper steel – best steel. I only wish I could take my bow, but this draw-shoulder won't bear it anymore.' The Queen struck her shoulder with her fist, as punishment.

'Mother – '

'Rachel, if you don't stop bothering me over this, I'll lose my temper.'

'Then lose your fucking temper, you selfish old bitch!' Princess Rachel's face was flushed red. 'You don't know who loves you, who cares for you!'

Martha stopped packing and stood still. She sensed, throughout the tower chambers, others standing still. There was silence enough for the wind to be heard very clearly, hissing round the tower's stone.

'Now…' the Queen said. 'Now, Daughter, you begin to please me – and don't spoil it with crying. I'd better not see a single tear.'

'You won't,' the Princess said, though it sounded to Martha as if tears were waiting.

'Comb-honey,' the Queen said, and set her spears aside, 'you should know I loved your father, and mourn him every day. And love you the same… But this is no season for a queen to hide in her tower. Our people need to see me on the ice.'

'But not fighting.'

'Certainly won't, if I can help it. I don't care to make a spectacle of myself. A silly old woman, stiff in the joints.'

'You are not.' Princess Rachel went to her mother like a child. The Queen seemed startled, then opened her arms. A hand, strong and long-fingered, scarred from battles long ago, stroked her daughter's hair.

Martha left the packing and left the room. She was certainly allowed tears, if the Queen didn't see them.

CHAPTER 22

'May I congratulate you, Great Lord?' General Shapilov – tall, a lean rack of bones – knelt on thick carpet in a camp yurt fairly large, and well-warmed by a folding stove. 'After my fumbling, you plucked this St. Louis like a ripe blueberry.'

Shapilov had a habit of admitting blame at once – apparently thought that protection. Toghrul found the habit was becoming tiresome.

'I plucked it by using my head, General, instead of wasting men and horses fighting through these unpleasantly crowded streets and structures. Surely… surely, Shapilov, it occurred to you that a river port would find survival difficult if its waterfront were taken and blockaded. All that was required was a thrust from the north down along the riverbank, then a single tuman dismounted to hold it.'

'Now, I see it, lord.'

'Hide your face from me.' Toghrul said it pleasantly, with no bluster, no bullying. 'I am not pleased with you.'

General Shapilov fell forward and pressed his face to the blue carpet – a really fine many-knot imperial. He said something, a muffled something. A mumbled offer of suicide?

Toghrul sighed. 'It's a notion. Perhaps another time.'

Were those sobs? Certainly sounded like sobs. And perfectly, perfectly illustrative of the difficulties in absolute rule. Here was a fairly competent senior officer – but he could only be fairly competent, or he might become dangerous… well, troublesome. Yuri Chimuc's grandson, the so-brilliant young Manu Ek-Tam, would have had this dirty and unpleasant city in three days. He would have gone to their river-front at once, like a wolf leaping. More than competent. Too much so. Soon he would have to suffer a hero's death down in South Map- Texas, and be wasted.

General Shapilov now lay silent, slack as if fucked – which in a way, of course, he had been.

'Get up. And get out.'

A sort of bony scurrying then, as he backed out on all fours. Surprising he hadn't backed into the stove. Amusing, of course, but also deadly serious. To be a khan meant that no else must be found also fit to be a khan – which left only limited servants, limited generals, so the ruler must do every truly important thing himself.