Kingdom River

'Go on.'

'The remounts were dispersed and lost, Great Khan. Herders were killed, and the Lord Chimuk was… also killed. An arrow struck his throat.'

It was surprising what a shock that was. For a moment, Toghrul couldn't catch his breath… Old Chimuk, killed by some Sky-cursed savage. Yuri had seemed one of those men who couldn't be killed by any enemy. In how many battles had that old man fought? From Siber Gate, across and down to Map-New Juneau… Map-Portland. Years of battles. And now, an arrow through his throat in this stupid wilderness.

'Were all the herd-guards killed?'

'Most, Great Lord.'

'Kill the rest of them,' Toghrul said. 'Their throats to be cut for the cowards they are.'

'As you order, lord.'

Not caring to be stared at after such news, Toghrul turned back to the brazier and stood holding his hands to the warmth, thinking. What was that wonderful copybook saying? It's an ill wind that blows no good. Yes, really a perfect old saying, since now, with his grandfather gone, there would be no powerful person troubled by the unfortunate death of that so-brilliant young commander Manu Ek-Tam – presently demonstrating his talent by chasing sheep in North Map-Mexico.

An ill wind… Certainly including the clever North Map-Mexican rabbit – that had run, jinking here and there as the hawk went stooping – but was now revealed to be a wolf. Wolf enough, at least, to have snarled some sense into the Kingdom's cannibals, so they'd actually concentrated for battle in the north…

Silence from the four commanders. It occurred to Toghrul that those silences – so usual, so proper – might occasionally have deprived him of useful information.

'Very well.' He went to his couch, sat, and settled amid cushions, booted legs crossed, his sheathed sword across his lap. 'Very well. As put so perfectly by the ancients: 'To business.' We have a lost battle in the north – but not a lost war. It requires only to finish the clever young Captain-General in these hills – I think of him as younger, though apparently we're close to the same age.' Toghrul considered having his generals sit, then decided not.

' – If this Lord Monroe is beaten quickly enough, then we have time left to march east to the cannibals' river, and campaign north up the ice – instead of south, down it. The result would be the same, and Shapilov's defeat only incidental.'

Murad Dur nodded, apparently understood. The other three generals – perhaps only careful to appear stupid – stood stolid as posts.

Toghrul paused, considered reviewing good news – beside the birth of his son – pigeoned from Caravanserai, then decided not. It might be considered weakness, an attempt to obscure the disaster below St. Louis. Good news from Map-Los Angeles; payments in silver now perfectly acceptable to the Empire… Good news from Map-Fort Stockton; herds being replaced through bitter snows. Good news, but not good enough.

'It's an interesting problem, really.' Toghrul smiled. 'An interesting problem. By day after tomorrow, Third Tuman will have joined us. And certainly by that time, the Captain-General will have joined his army. We will have a competent – say, very competent – commander, whose army has taken a defensive position just south of us, in broken hills. His intention will be to hold those draws, slopes, and wooded ridges against our tumans. Hold the slopes with his Light Infantry, of course, the crests with his Heavy Infantry, the ridges, with his cavalry. Short charges through deep snow, brush, and so forth, to keep us off the heights.'

'Great Lord…'

'Yes, Murad?'

'Isn't it possible that Monroe is already with his army?'

'Murad… Murad. Have your scouts reported yet that the soldiers of that army – usually proud of silence – have begun to sing, to strike their cooking kettles, to joke while performing sentry duties? Any such welcoming celebration?'

'Ah… of course,' said Murad Dur.

Toghrul waited for any additional comment, response. The three wooden generals seemed less worried, now, perhaps even interested… But was it, perhaps, not the best notion to have Manu Four-Horsetails killed? Should even dangerous talent be allowed for its usefulness? No question, that officer would have been valuable here, if his arrogance could have been borne…

' – So, certainly the enemy will have made those dispositions. Object? To bleed our people in country they don't care for, and in which it's difficult to maneuver to effect. Monroe will assume we're much too subtle to simply go slaughtering in direct attack at his center. He'll expect something of our steppe and prairie way – sudden sweeps, brisk flanking, and staggered assaults into the resultant confusion. I believe he'll expect those maneuvers – or at least as near them as this rough country allows.'

Nods. The wooden three were capable of nods, at least. Not entirely simple.

' – Since, however, I'm not inclined to do as an opponent expects, we will do the opposite. His object is to bleed us. My solution, since flanking would find the same country east and west, with no advantage… my solution is to bleed – and win, bleeding. The last thing this North Mexican will expect from us is a stupid and direct frontal assault on foot, heedless of losses.' Toghrul tried another smile. 'After all, long winters in warm yurts breed replacements soon enough.'

And, by the Sky, at last one smile in return. Murad, of course. Intelligent, and not afraid – sad to consider that these very virtues might, in time, make him dangerous.

'To continue. We dismount the tumans, so our clever Captain-General fights, not horse archers, but archers as woods' hunters first, then infantry in assault. And, of course, we'll have to mount a very convincing – though necessarily shallow – attack on… the western flank, to persuade Monroe to weaken his center to oppose it. This false attack is to be driven home as if all the army came behind it. Officers are to spend their men for that effect – and, if necessary, spend themselves.'

Toghrul clapped his hands. 'A solution certainly not perfect, but probably sufficient.'

And no general said otherwise.

At the handclap, a guard had come through the yurt's entrance. 'My lord wishes?'

'Your lord wishes roast lamb with the Empire's golden raisins, dishes of soft cheese and dried plums, kumiss and vodka for himself and his generals.'

The guard bowed.

'Oh, and music. Is Arpad in the camp?'

'His squadron's in, lord.' Murad Dur.

'Then we'll have the captain and his oud – and any decent drummer.'

The guard bowed and went away.

'Sit.' Toghrul gestured the generals to the carpet. 'I'll draw our dispositions in lamb gravy, while we enjoy an evening's pleasure – before tomorrow's pleasure.' And got smiles at last from all of them, properly, since they were being honored by his presence at a meal.

The commanders sat carefully cross-legged, their boots tucked under so no dirty sole was exposed as Toghrul joined them. They leaned a little back and away from him as he sat opposite, since no honor was without peril.

… A reminder that Bajazet would need to know more than how to frighten such fools. More than knowledge of horses and archery. There must be a tutor for the boy. But who? Would it be possible, once the North Mexicans were broken, would it be possible to forgive an old man his treachery? And if Neckless Peter Wilson were forgiven, and became the boy's teacher, what lessons would be taught? An aging man's cautious consideration of every point of view, so decisions came slowly, if at all? Bajazet – while certain to be a delight – might not be gifted with sight so perfectly clear that argument evolved swiftly into action…

The commanders were sitting silent until spoken to, as was proper, eyes lowered so as not to offend.

… So, a tutor for Bajazet, certainly. But an old man who'd insulted his master by refusing service? Worse, who'd taken service with an enemy. A dilemma. It was a tremendous responsibility, raising a boy. And all the more, raising him to be lord of everything he saw, everything his horse rode over…

The yurt's thick entrance-curtain was paged aside, and four servants filed in. They carried a tray of silver cups, a pitcher of warm kumiss, and polished brass bowls of dried fruit, scented herbs, and rose-water. Toghrul could only