Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

… Ladu and Eleanor set hammered brass platters on the green carpet, a campaign spoil, and one of the last of its kind, with wonderful figures of racing blue-gray dogs woven into it. Toghrul slid off the divan and sat cross-legged to eat. The women stood by the stove, watching him, his appetite their reward.

"Delicious!" The sausage was wonderful. Bless the pig herd, though many of his men – those still worshiping Old Maybe – wouldn't go near the animals, certainly wouldn't eat their flesh.

Both women had nodded, smiling at his 'Delicious!' The Great Khan, He Who Is Feared and Lord of Grass, had paid for his supper.

"They're inside, came down yesterday." Margaret Mosten, by torchlight, motioned to Sam's tent.

"Charles and Eric?"

"Yes, sir."

"No quarters of their own?"

"They wanted to speak with you."

"Nailed Jesus…" Sam swung down off his horse. Not his horse – Handsome was dead, left in the mountains, south. This was a nameless hard-mouthed brute, one of the imperials' big chargers… They'd ridden back north by slow marches – more than a Warm-time week – the last returning days hungry, and all but the wounded taking turns on foot.

"Sir" – Margaret's eyes shone in the pine-knot's flaring – "what a wonderful thing." She'd been left behind to mind the camp.

"Killing their people, did not bring ours back to life." Sam walked sore and stiff-legged to the tent's entrance, put back the flap, and stepped into lamplight.

Charles Ketch, tall, gray, seeming weary of the weight of administration, sat hunched on Sam's locker. Eric Lauder, livelier, alert, perched cross-legged on the cot. A checker-board was propped between them. In age, they might almost have been father and son, but in no other way.

"Make yourselves at home."

"Ah" – Eric jumped a piece and took it off the board – "the conquering hero comes."

Sam swung his scabbarded sword's harness from his back, set the weapon by the head of the cot, and shrugged off his cloak. "Get off my bed, Eric. I'm tired."

"Are you hurt?"

"No. I avoided the fighting." Sam waited while Lauder stood and lifted the checker-board away. "Been injured in my pride, of course." He sat on the cot, then lay down and stretched out, boots and all. It felt wonderful to be out of the saddle.

"You seem to have made the best of a bad blunder." Eric emptied the checkers into their narrow wooden box.

"I was winning that game," Charles, annoyed. "You owe me five pesos."

"Would have owed – had you won."

"I suppose the best of a bad blunder." Sam thought of sitting up to take his boots off. It seemed too great a task.

"Yes." Eric set the board against the tent wall. "But what sort of blunder was it?"

"A serious one – sending Ned Flores and a half-regiment to do a larger force's work." The tent's lamp smelled of New England's expensive whale oil, and seemed too bright. Sam closed his eyes for a moment.

"And what 'work' was that, Sam?"

"The work of winning a fight here, Eric."

"Winning a fight?" Eric sat on the locker beside Charles, nudged him to shift over. "You know, there is nothing more stupid than keeping a secret from your chief of intelligence."

"Except," Charles said, and winked at Sam, "telling him all of them."

"I made a mistake, Eric, doing something that was necessary. I was clumsy, and it cost us good people." Sam sat up to take off his boots. "What I could do to retrieve the situation has been done. Now change the subject."

"Fine," Eric said. "What subject shall we change to?" Smiling, his voice pleasant, softer than before, his dark eyes darker than his trimmed beard, he was very angry.

"Sleep."

"Before sleep, Sam" – Charles leaned forward – "there are questions in the army. Not complaints; more surprise than anything."

"Charles, the army is to be told this: We fought a battle, lost it – learned – then fought again and won. We will likely fight more battles, and may lose another, then fight again and win. Only children are allowed to win every time. That's what the army is to be told. Any officer with more questions, can come to me with them."

Charles sat on the locker, looking at him. "…Alright."

"A good answer," Eric said. "The fucking army thinks it's Mountain Jesus come down from his tree."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. Sam, there's serious fighting now, in the north. The Kipchak patrols are already in Map-Arkansas – and probably up into Map-Missouri as well; going to be trying for the river fairly soon. The major clans – Eagles, Foxes, Skies, and Spring Flowers – all gathered into tumans. It's to be winter war, no question… Merchants we talk to, say Middle Kingdom is spending gold in preparation, particularly on their fleet. Frontier companies of their West-bank army are already skirmishing."

"No surprises there. Anything else?"

"Yes."

"Eric," Charles said, "it can wait."

"No, it can't."

"Rumors, Sam."

"Not rumors, Charles," Eric said. "First informationals."

"Alright." Sam felt sick to his stomach – from being so tired, he supposed. "Let's hear it."

"Pigeon news from Texas, Twelve-mile," Eric said, almost whispering. "Our Secret-person there tells us a regiment, under Vladimir Crusan, rode out of Map-Fort Stockton yesterday. Riding south to Map-Alpine, then probably down to the Bravo. Also indications that another regiment is coming south to join him."

Sam sat up straighter, rubbed the back of his neck to stay alert. "That's interesting. You'd think they'd be too busy to trouble us. He has Seventh Tuman?"

"The Ninth," Eric said. "And I think the idea is to remind us to keep out of their business."

"What do we know of Crusan?"

"Only half-Kipchak," Charles said. "A good, steady commander, but not the independent type."

"Crusan is a good cavalryman." Eric frowned, considering. "But we don't think – my people don't think – he's up to commanding more than the Ninth."

"Coming down at full strength?"

"Apparently, Sam. One regiment… so, Warm-time's give-or-take, a thousand horse archers. And if, as seems likely, he joins with another detached regiment on the border, that would make about two thousand men."

'"Maneuvers? Blooding recruits for the campaign against Middle Kingdom?"

"That's possible, Sam." Charles stood, stooping slightly under the tent's canvas. "But more likely just to keep us out of it, since we flank them to the south."

"Which" – Eric smiled – "makes them a little nervous. Pigeons have been coming in from my people, Map-California on east. The Kipchaks are being careful to stay well north of our border while they move their supplies through Map-Texas, mule and wagon-freight from the coast… They're having some difficulty getting goods out of South Map-California – we don't know why – but they're still gathering remounts at Map-Fort Stockton, Map-Big Spring, Map-Abilene."

"Supplies for more than a year's campaigning, Eric?"

"No, Sam. Not for more than a year."

"So, the Khan expects to beat the Boxcars, take their whole river kingdom, in Lord Winter's season."

"That's right," Eric said. "And I'd say he can do it."

"Not easily." Charles shook his head. He looked tired as Sam felt. Looked his age, stooped, graying. "He'll have to whip their West-bank army, then campaign up and down the Map-Mississippi once it's frozen to easy going for cavalry. And even if he destroys their fleet, he still has to deal with the East-bank army."

"Alright, not easily," Eric said. "It's a big mouthful, but the Khan has a big appetite. And in any case, these regiments coming south are a different matter. They're just for us – a little reminder."