Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

"It would be a relief to be rid of him."

"… Umm. We'll say two thousand. Send some of Crusan's people down from Map-Fort Stockton to reinforce Manu. And remind your grandson, Yuri – pecks, harassment, not an invasion."

Yuri Chimuk got down on his hands and knees – something he'd been excused from doing years before, but persisted in as an odd independence. "What the Khan has ordered, I will perform."

When the old man stood and stomped away, Toghrul watched him go, absently switching the top of his right boot with the horse-whip. "Your thoughts, Michael Razumov."

"First, why wake a sleeping dog, my lord? And…"

" 'And'?"

"And, second, Yuri Chimuk loves his grandson even more than he loves you."

"Well… first, the North-Mexican dog must be wakened sometime. And I need to know whether, when kicked, he will run yelping south to the Empire, or east, to Middle Kingdom… Second, as to Yuri's love for his grandson, it is only required that he blame himself for that brilliant and ambitious young officer's death, when – as it must – that occurs. We have room, after all, for only one genius of war."

"Is this in my hands, lord?"

"Not yet." The Khan leaned over a pansy. "Look, Michael, look at this brave little face. A tiny golden roaring lion, pictured in a Warm-time book."

"It is charming."

"Do you love me, Michael? You loved me when I was a boy, I know. I used to watch you, watching me."

"I did love you, my lord, and still do. Being aware that that remains entirely beside the point."

The Khan laughed, and bent to stroke the little pansy flower. "You are full of good answers, today."

"And, I regret to say, a question, lord."

"Yes?" The Khan stood.

"Map – Los Angeles and Map-San Diego – "

"The Blue Sky damn them both. What now?"

"Complaints, Great Khan. Ships do not arrive from the Empire with goods we've already paid for. Buk Szerzinski complains particularly, saying he has a Map-Pacific supply depot with no supplies of lumber, rope, grain, barrels of citrus juice, slaves, steel, or horses. All things to be needed by your generals as Lord Winter comes, and fighting increases in Map-Missouri."

"The problem being silver money?"

"Absolutely, lord. Money is the cause. The Empire accepts our silver, but discounts it against their gold. Szerzinski, and Paul Klebb in Map-Los Angeles, both claim they pay the full price agreed upon, only to have the dirty lying bank of Mexico City discount its worth, so barely half of what was bought is delivered north."

The Khan ran his whip's slim lash through his fingers. "Those two are not lying, stealing from me?"

"They're not nearly brave enough for that, lord. And my men have examined the transactions."

"So, the Emperor comes to agreements; his orders are sent – but the dirty bank decides. A matter of civilization versus – wonderful Warm-time word, 'versus' – a crowd of savages galloping around in the chilly north."

"Precisely, Great Lord."

"Fucking clever currency exchanges and shifting values – gold up, silver down. How are we simple, honorable warriors to comprehend its principles?"

"Just so."

The Khan stooped to touch another surviving pansy, one black and gold. "Well, Michael, since we have the savage name, we might as well play the savage game. I will not be caught short at Middle Kingdom's river."

"Your command?"

"Arrest the… five most important members of the Imperial Order of Merchants and Factors in both Map-Los Angeles and Map-San Diego. Pour molten gold down their throats. Then ship the corpses to Mexico City, with the note, 'Herewith, lading payments in gold – as apparently preferred. Complete deliveries expected soonest.' "

"Perfect, lord."

"Sufficient, let us hope… Anything else this evening?"

"Only a last question, if permitted."

"Yes?"

"As to your intention, lord, of going east to Map-Missouri to command personally."

"Oh, I'll wait until Murad Dur and Andrei Shapilov begin to make mistakes, which will likely be soon enough."

"Then I have nothing further worth your attention, Great Khan." Michael Razumov went to his hands and knees, then touched his forehead to the gravel of the Cat's-Eye Path. He was a fat man, and it was awkward for him.

… Toghrul had often considered relieving his chancellor of the necessity, but each time, a voice – his father's, perhaps – had murmured caution. He liked Michael Razumov, and almost trusted him. Reason enough to keep him on all fours.

When Toghrul was alone – but for twenty troopers of the Guard's Regiment pacing here and there – he said his farewell to the dying flowers… which had wanted nothing from him but sheep shit and water. Then he walked the Turquoise Path to his great yurt of oiled yellow silk, spangled with silver… set its entrance cloth aside, and stepped into the smell and smoke of cooking sausage.

His wife, and the slave named Eleanor, were preparing dinner at the yurt's center stove. – The caravanserai cooked and served for hundreds… thousands, if need be. But Toghrul had learned to avoid those kettles of boiled mutton with southern rice and peppers, though he would poke and fork at the food on occasions of state. The old Khan had loved that sort of cooking.

His wife looked up from cluttered pots and pans, through smoke rising to the ceiling's small Sky's eye. "What today, sweet lord?"

"Oh, Ladu, the tedious usual – causing fear and giving orders." He tossed his horse-whip onto a divan, then sat while Eleanor wrestled his boots off. Eleanor was a handsome woman with braided hair the color of autumn grass. Once, she had looked into Toghrul's eyes in the way a woman might gaze at a man while offering, while considering possibilities, advantages.

Toghrul had then had Chang-doctor remove her left eye – it had been done under southern poppy syrup – with no explanation offered. But Eleanor had understood, and Toghrul's wife had understood. So now, the slave offered no more impudent glances of that sort, and seemed content.

"We have pig sausage and onions and shortbread cake. Will those help?" His wife smiled.

"They will certainly help."

Where the old Khan had mounted any pretty female oddment the armies found – enjoying the novelty, apparently – Toghrul, after some experiment, had decided on a traditional wife. Ladu, a Chukchi, somewhat squat and a little plump, had been chosen from the daughters of several senior officers – officers safely dead in battle, so dynastic entanglements were avoided.

Toghrul often considered that choice his best proof of good judgment, since Ladu had not found him frightening, then had come to care for him. One morning, waking beside her and watching that round, unremarkable face still soft in sleep, her short little ice-weather nose, the deep folds over slanted eyes closed in dreaming, he'd been startled to find that he loved her. This still surprised and amused him. It warmed him too, in a minor way, on winter rides, campaigning… Only sons were missing – or had been. Ladu's little belly had been swelling for months, and properly, according to Chang-doctor.

So now, of course, there were expectations of a son. The staff had expectations… the chiefs and generals, also. Toghrul could disappoint them, and they would bear it… Ladu could not. She, and old Chimuk, were the only ones who never stood before him without anticipating a possible dreadful blow. That fear, its wary distancing, was certainly tedious, certainly made ruling more difficult, but Toghrul had found no way to remove it, since it was what the clans, the troops, expected and had always expected. In that sense only, he was the ruled and they the rulers. They were certain to be afraid of him; and what they required, he must perform.