Mitchell Smith - Moonrise

It was the first time Baj had ever heard that so-common copybook word spoken, and not for a baby goat. Kid. Ancient slang for a child.

"Better not," Nancy said, and took a swallow of hers. "… Excellent."

"Always," the old man said. "Try pie. Friends of the Nearly-Lodge eat for almost free."

"Good pies," a cavalryman said, looking human except for his ears.

"This beer," Patience smacked her lips, "- is wonderful, Jack."

Richard and Baj hummed agreement.

"My problem," the old man said, "- is fuckin' freezin', so I got to beg a certain Person to be reasonable an' let me keep my beer kegs with the mooses, keep 'em just warm enough. – You know somethin' about pie? Pie can freeze. Don't hurt it. Give me a little fire to thaw 'em, an' I can serve pie the whole Lord Winter's season."

"Is that so?" Patience said.

"It is absolutely so," the old man said, and soldiers up and down the planks agreed.

"An' I got dried apple from down south, an' apple butter, an' vinegar jerk-meat – well, sometimes. That's a short-summer thing, mainly."

"Vodka?" Baj said.

"One cup," a soldier said.

"What he means," the old man made a face, "- is I can sell just one cup to each guardsman. One cup a day. More than that, Sylvia will cut my nuts off… not that I'd notice now."

Amusement along the plank.

"An' of course, no such rule for me. I drink what I fuckin' please."

"You were in the Army," Baj said, "- in the Arkansas fighting,"

"Yes I was, young man. Army of North Map-Mexico, servin' under Sam Monroe an' Fightin' Phil Butler – while the General lived – until there was a disagreement over a local young lady, that turned to a killin'. Not my fault at all, though I was chased up the river by cruel Provost-men like it was my fault… an' here I am after how many years wanderin', endin' among this bunch."

"… You saw the Kipchak tumans?"

"In that fight – yes indeed I did, came up the hill at 'em with poor fuckin' Oswald-cook an' his messmen, an' me pissin' my pants, you may be sure."

"You saw the Khan?"

"No, I did not, thank Jesus-in-the-Wall. An' that was battle enough for me. A fight's one thing, a battle's another – an' a sensible man knows the difference." He took a sip from his cup. "… An' speakin' of sensible, I see you're a proper Sunriser, young man, 'stead of havin' beastly portions beyond the traditional."

Good-natured fists drummed along the plank. "Listen to 'em – an' take a look at this." The old man stooped to a shelf and brought up a large pie, its scalloped crust singed along the edge. "Costs me a fortune of money – tradin' up true rendered pig-fat an' wheat flour an' beet sugar from so fuckin' far south, then payin' camp whores to pick them dwarf berries, then bribin' the mess-oven cook – so I charge accordin'."

"And that is?"

"One slice – one day's pay. Credit's good."

"Thief!" a Wolf-blood soldier said, and was agreed with down the planks.

"So? – Then fuckin' pick an' bake your own, Larry!" The old man set the pie down and leaned over his counter. "You an' me, young man – what is your slant-eye portion?"

"Kipchak," Baj said.

"Well… well, that's true-human, anyway."

Groans down the plank, but pleasant enough. The old man was liked.

"For you an' Lady Nearly-Lodge – an' your friends – a wedge-slice out of this particular pie for one half-day's pay each, collected at the count-out table on count-out day… But not the dummy."

"The boy, too," Baj said, Errol huddling close.

"No."

"All or none."

"Absolutely no."

"Then, none."

The old man smiled; three upper teeth were missing. "Loyalty? Kin'ness? Willin'ness to share? – How old are you?"

"Twenty."

Satirical hums along the planks.

The old man addressed his customers. "A fuckin' baby!… Listen, Twenty, you want this pretty girl here to think you're a clutcher what can't part with pay?"

"All of us," Baj said, "- or none." And was encouraged by a chorus along the planks, more thumping of odd fists.

"You're embarrassin' me here, Sunriser, among all these hairy Persons -"

More noise under the lean-to.

"… All right. All right! But jus' this one time, an' out of a generous heart."

Several cheers along the plank, and the pie was cut, the first big slice passed over to Baj to be hand-held, running blue juices.

Then, silence at his first bite through rich crust into sugared sweetness, crowded tart little blueberries crushing to syrup.

Baj swallowed… and said, "Wonderful."

Cheers again from the soldiers, pleased at his pleasure – and Sergeant Givens passed four more pieces of pie, then drew more beer.

"… That could have gone worse," Richard said – as, hands stained blue (and their mouths, even after second jacks drunk) – they walked down Cavalry Street to the Lines. "Could have gone worse, and might have gone worse if some hadn't already heard that Sylvia'd seen us… and sworn us. Camp news is faster than falcons."

"That old man," Patience said. "Sergeant Givens… As I recall, always busy with some scheme involving Supply. And usually mildly drunk."

"But delicious pie," Baj said. "Unless, after so long, any pie would be delicious."

"No. It was very good." Nancy licked her fingers. "Wasn't that good, Errol?"

A tongue-click and rare smile.

… The supply-sergeant's unpleasant corporal was waiting at their place past the Line, standing beside a bulky stack of blankets, woven cloth, hides, furs, muk-boots, mittens, and fur cloaks. "Listen up… While you people and so-forth were seen drinkin' beer – nothin' better to do – all this was finished-up an' delivered. Issue ordered for you by the Ma'am this mornin' – Guards goods, and you're responsible; they're slated out to you. Lose somethin', I'm not fuckin' payin' for it." And he walked away.

Nancy and Patience knelt to go through the clothing, though Patience said, "I won't need any of this."

"This is a good issue." Nancy held up immense caribou trousers, huge muk-overboots – their fur-side in – and a wolf-fur parky and mittens to match.

"Richard…" She handed them over.

"If anything fits," Richard said, "- it will be a first for the Guards."

… But everything did fit.

"The General's command is why," Richard said, posing even larger in furs. "And ordered this morning, just after she rode back to camp."

"So never a question," Baj said, too warm in a fisher-lined caribou parky, "- that what had been planned would be done, and that we were going with them. A settled thing, apparently."

"Generals," Patience said, "being chosen after all, for decision."

Dressed, they were all richly bundled, except for Patience. For her, after distribution to the rest of them – Errol's issue, cut roughly down for him, as complete as the others' – there was left only a pair of fine woolen mittens, a pair of small, furred muk-boots, and a long, hooded coat, thick-wooled and generous enough to wrap Patience double-breasted, before fastening with fat round horn buttons (apparently moved and reattached), and colored as the Wolf-blood soldiers' cloaks were colored, in pretty bands dyed red and black and yellow.

"That's an Infantry Colonel's change-of-season coat," Richard said, "- but cut shorter for you. Sylvia must have ordered it particularly."

"Took pity on my blue tatters, I suppose."

"No," Nancy said, "- she has no pity. Likely, she thought you weren't able to warm yourself as well as once you could. Wanted to be sure you'd be useful on the ice."

"Then," Patience said, "- the bitch can kiss my ass for being right. I'm not quite as capable as I was." She folded her ragged blue coat, stroked the stained cloth. "The best made by Boston…"