Mitchell Smith - Moonrise

"Still," Baj said, "she commands for Boston."

"And doing so," Richard stroked stone along a gleaming crescent, "- hones these companies to use against it."

Nancy sat up and stretched. "Do these near-Sunriser Persons mean to feed us?"

"Soon. Trumpet'll call Mess in about a glass-hour." Richard tested his edges with a thick brown thumb."… It's always an ax-fighter's question, whether to sharpen both edges keen as can be – or leave one very slightly duller, so as not to turn on armor, but drive through it."

"One keen edge," Baj said, "with a spike opposite, is the battle-ax favored on the river."

"Ah…" Richard set his weapon down, "- but your spike may become stuck in whomever, have to be levered and wrenched free. And while a Person is busy with that, what's an enemy at liberty to do?"

"Mischief, I suppose." Baj noticed his breath smoking with the cold.

"Mischief absolutely, Baj. Though, with a light ax, and long-handled… less of a problem."

"We had a heroine who fought with one."

"I know that story," Nancy said. "Many women know the story of that brave girl and your old queen – a reminder that females are not baby-squirters only, but can fight." She slid a length of her scimitar's steel from the scabbard by emphasis, then slid it back. "… I wish," she said to Baj, "sweetheart, I wish we'd practiced more."

"I couldn't have survived more practice." He leaned to kiss her ear, lying so nicely tucked in her soft red mane. "You're too fierce for me."

"I'm not."

"You are." Another kiss.

Errol, curled on a blanket, opened his eyes and tongue-clicked at them.

"Quite right," Richard said, "- ridiculous."

… As they waited the mess-call, with Patience and Errol both sitting against a feed-shelter's canvas wall – each looking out over distance past distance, and seeming to dream awake – Nancy sat under a sheltering blanket, and watched while Baj, his fingers stiff with cold, played fast, no-pausing chess with Richard. Fast and losing chess. Soon, his king was desperate, hobbling back and forth from one square to the only possible other.

"Give up," Richard said.

"Never."

"You've lost. Give up."

"No. Anything might happen." At which, a saving trumpet soared out three long notes. "See?"

Richard heaved to his feet. "I've won."

"Have not. My king still stands."

"Nonsense."

"My Baj," Nancy set her blanket shelter aside, "- is true-human, and not to be trusted."

"No question." Richard held out a massive hand, helped Patience lightly to her feet. "Nancy, keep the boy close. – We go; we stand in line at the kettles. We get our rations; we leave and come back here. No conversation."

"All right." Patience smoothed tundra grass from her blue coat. A ragged strip of its hem was missing.

"- And if some moose-rider insults you, bear it."

"Any insult, Richard?" Baj moved his king the one square to safety, and stood.

"Any insult. If the cavalry foots us out of their Lines, we're in trouble for a peaceful place to sleep."

"Okay," Baj said (a perfect WT usage). "This doesn't seem a good place for argument. But we leave our packs here, our goods?"

"Leave them," Richard said. "No one steals in the General's camp." And he led off toward the trumpet's repeat, as troopers came strolling past.

… Having waited their turns in a long line (with no conversation) – then, at the stoves, having one looped red string snapped off their wrists – they each were passed a big tin bowl of stew, and a fat dark round of barley bread.

"Spoons," Richard said, his only conversation at mess, speaking for all of them.

A tall, shambling cook made an exasperated face, rooted in a wicker chest, and handed over spoons. "Issued once," he said to them.

… Then, with spoons and bowls and bread, they retreated past a number of uninterested or unfriendly glances to their patch of tundra over moose-lines. And sitting on wool pallets, wrapped in cloaks or blankets – except for warmth-talented Patience – they began eating the food before it chilled.

"Dear Jesus." Baj hadn't intended to complain, was prepared for the expected military "chow." Or thought he was.

Nancy reached to pinch his cheek. "What's wrong, dear? – who was a prince, and pampered."

Richard smiled his toothy smile. "It's seal meat in the stew, Baj. Guards' main ration. People take them from the ocean ice… butcher out, and let the meat freeze for transporting."

"Better become used to it," Patience was dipping bread into her bowl, "- from here to the Wall, then up onto the ice, it will likely be frozen seal meat or herring."

"Unless an army moose dies," Richard said. "- or one of the Shrikes' caribou… Errol likes it."

And so it seemed, since Errol was crouched with his face in his bowl, making feeding-dog noises.

Baj held his nose with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, spooned with his right… and got some of the stew down. A rank and oily puddle, it lay in his belly restless. The bread, though, was quite decent… helped cleanse his palate. "And we have no mutton left at all?"

"No, we don't," Richard lifting a bit of stew meat on his knife. "You may find you grow quite fond of seal. Become a judge of its various qualities."

"I'm sure…"

"And my Baj is so brave," Nancy said, "holding his nose as he swallowed."

It hadn't occurred to Baj before to test whether a little fox blood made a girl more or less ticklish. And – after some spilled stew, wrestling, muffled shrieks, and attempts at biting – he had his answer.

The answer beyond that answer, of course, was soothing and stroking. Apology, and kisses.

"Prince," Patience said, "try for a little conduct."

And Baj did, straightened, and brushed grass and a spot of stew from his buckskin jerkin. "So, from here – sustained by seal meat – where?"

"To the Wall," Richard said, "if Sylvia Wolf-General keeps her promise."

"To the Wall," Patience said, "- then up onto the ice, and weeks of fast going with Shrikes, north and east to Boston town." She set her mess bowl aside, kept a piece of bread.

"And these companies of the Guard?"

"Will, I hope, follow."

"Too many and too heavy for the Shrike's fast sleighs," Richard said, and tucked his issue spoon down into his moccasin-boot. "The soldiers'll likely march forty miles up Apley Lead – it's called the Crease – then climb the ice from there to freighter-sleds. Shouldn't be more than five, six days behind us, coming to the Township."

"Shouldn't be," Nancy said.

"But if they are?" Baj said. "And come late?"

"Then, Baj," Richard sighed, "they will find us executed – and their loved ones still held alive and hostage."

"We need these people." Patience chewed some bread. "… First, and most important, we need their threat, to hold the Constables' attention to the south, while we go down North Gate and into the city. No units of the Guard have ever been allowed within Township limits, or even close. Senior Person officers, yes, for parades and honors. But their soldiers, their companies, never."

"All right." Baj's heart had certainly been listening. Thump thump thump. "First, you said, we need them for threat, and misdirection. And second…?"

"Second," Richard said, "we do need these companies for force. They'll have to at least skirmish, engage the Constables at South Gate, while we come in at the North. And an attack, an apparently determined attack, would be that much better."

"How many Constables?"

"More than three thousand, Baj." Patience buttoned her blue coat as the wind came stronger.

"More… than three thousand."

"Thirty-five hundred," Richard said, "more or less. All Sunrisers – but trained fighters. They wield pole-arms, halberds with heavy heads. Ax-edge, hook, and spear point."