Kingdom River

'Rachel, do what seems sensible to help in this war – and to maintain your power so that you can help in this war. Do what seems sensible, do it quickly, and let no one stand in your way.'

The wind had slackened so that 'no one… stand in your way' echoed a little from the stone.

… Warmer at last – at least not freezing – Margaret breathed on her fingers as the sergeant led them back down the battlement's covered steps… the narrow stairway winding down with a wall to its left, to leave invaders unshielded as they came.

'Your cloak,' the Princess said.

' – Is where it belongs,' Margaret said. 'We don't need you chilled and sick.'

The Princess said nothing down another flight of steps, until they reached a landing. 'You would rather have gone with him.'

'It's shocking, how little all armies care for 'rathers.' '

'A lesson for me?'

'I didn't intend that, Princess.'

'No, but a lesson all the same. And since we will be together, please call me Rachel.'

'Margaret,' said Margaret.

CHAPTER 23

Dearborn was regarded in the service as a soft captain. Was nicknamed 'Daisy' because of it. Daisy Dearborn.

But – rowers sent south – a day and night of sleepless effort by captain, officers, and crew to haul the skate- rigged Queen's ship Mischief up onto the river ice, had worn away Dearborn's softness. A man he'd noticed slacking at the forward winch, now lay manacled in the bilge, whipped, and discussing the matter with the rats.

A day and a night of brutal labor – all in a near-blizzard of wind and hard-driven snow. But at last this morning, with winches working block and tackle fore and aft, and men up on the ice with grapnels (thank Jesus-Floating for Bosun Hiram Cate), she was up and skating, sails slatting in quartering winds as the deck-crew stowed pulleys, winch bars, and two miles of ice-crusted cable, rope, and cord.

The cost had been the whipping, a broken arm, four various broken fingers, and a thumb pinched off. Sprains, aches, bruises, and fingernails torn away – uncounted.

Not for the first time – though more and more, lately – Captain Dearborn was considering himself old for active service. And while considering it, stepping down the narrow starboard ladder from a poop deck crowded by two big scorpions and their stacks of massive steel-tipped javelins, he found some confirmation in the lookout's yodel from a raven's-nest barely visible itself, high in swirling snow.

'Deck there! Somethin off to the southwest.'

'Horse-riders?'

'… Sir?'

'Horse-riders?'

'A sled… sir.'

A sled? Dearborn and Jim Neal, his first officer – who should have been trimming sail – both went to the starboard rail. Peering through ice-rimed boarder netting, they saw, sliding out of clouds of blowing snow, a sight that confirmed the Fleet's oldest tradition. Comes always something worse.

'Mother of God,' said Neal, appealing to the most ancient Great.

It was a huge sled – gilded, painted blood-red, and drawn by a blanketed six-horse team shod with spiked iron. Furred and fur-hooded, a bulky groom rode postilion on the left lead. And a red banner, ranked with twelve gold dots, curled and spanked in the wind.

Captain Dearborn said, 'Oh, no. Oh, no.'

A trumpet spoke up from the sled as if the 'no' had been noted. Then a woman's voice, just as loud. 'Is this the fucking Ill News!'

'No! No, ma'am!' Dearborn shouted in relief. 'We're Mischief… Your Majesty?'

There was conversation down on the sled, hard to hear over the wind. Then, something easy to hear.

'We'll board this one! You – you up there! Lower some fucking ladder or whatever. I'm coming up!'

'Oh, my God…' Lieutenant Neal's second prayer. Apparently too little, and too late.

***

At four glass-hours after the center of the night, the river below the Bronze Gate was black as running ground- oil, and brought a black wind with it.

Sam, with Sergeant Wilkey nimbler after him, managed from the dock-finger into a narrow sailing boat, then past a low cabin to the bow. He found it an advantage, in that sort of scramble, having his sword strapped down his back, rather than tangling and tripping him… The boat shifted, as even within a stone harbor, ice came nudging, scraping against its hull.

The two crewmen – both River-men – loosed the lines, came aboard neatly, and sheeted in the single sail.

General DeVane, standing beside Lenihan and two other officers high on the wharf – and seeming even plumper, cloak-wrapped in torchlight – called out softly, 'Good hunting, milord.'

Already seized by the current, the boat was swinging out into the harbor pool, rocking a little as a crewman took the tiller. It drifted… then, caught by the wind, its sail bellied taut, bucked into low waves and tapping ice- shards as it carved away west, out onto the river.

Island – a dark mountain except where specks of lamplight shone through granite casemates and arrow-slits – loomed behind them for nearly a glass-hour, till swallowed by the night.

For glass-hours after, Sam sat at the boat's bow, enjoying freezing spray and wind gusts. He would have been pleased by anything taking him from the Boxcars' palace. Taking him from inescapable scheming, persuading, and threatening. Taking him from admirals, generals, and river lords… He rode the river's sinuous courses, taking deep breaths of night air, no matter that it bit his lungs and made them ache. He yearned for his army like a lover – an army, and a home to him – and knew he would lose that simplicity, whether the coming battle was lost or won.

A secret, of course, that Queen Joan already knew. That the Khan already knew. 'Victories,' Sam said aloud, 'but triumph never.'

'Sir?' The sergeant barely visible by the small cabin behind him,

'I was talking to the river, Wilkey.'

'Sir.'

Behind them… dawn's first light.

* * *

Martha had always thought battles, however frightening, must at least be interesting. It was disappointing to discover that wasn't so, at least wasn't so yet.

Certainly not as interesting as Ralph-sergeant – after saying no special word to her since he'd come – suddenly stepping from his post on the tower stairs as Martha and the Queen were leaving, taking Martha by the arm, then hugging her as if she'd given him leave. His armor and her mail had been pressed hard between them when, though startled, she'd hugged him back.

Then he'd taken his helmet off, and kissed her.

The Queen, a few steps lower, had looked back and said, 'Martha, for Christ's sake,' – referring to the first Jesus – 'this is not the time for it!'

Though it had seemed to Martha the perfect time for it…

The battle had been going on – the Queen had been assured by Captain Dearborn – for a day and a night, as