Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

"Going up into Texas," Captain Franklin said to them. "All the cavalry."

An officer said, "Jumping Jesus!" – a Warm-time phrase that would have gotten his great-grandfather burned by his neighbors.

"Now…" Drawing his belt knife, Sam went to a knee and sketched with the blade's point the great southern angle of the Bravo's Bend. "The Bend."

Eric and the officers nodded.

"The Kipchaks, about two thousand of them, have come down a long ride, many from Map-Fort Stockton, and seem to intend raiding into Chihuahua, west of the Bend."

Someone was arguing with a woman down the road.

"Nailed Jesus," Major Petersen said, "it's that fucking Boston girl."

Sam stuck his knife in the dirt, stood, and turned in time to see the girl – very small on one of the captured imperial chargers – reach out and hit his trumpeter, Kenneth, with her sheathed saber. Kenneth took the blow on a raised arm as his horse shied away. The girl was yelling, "I go where I wish to go!" and seemed prepared to hit him again.

Sam walked through the officers and down the road, the troopers in his way reining their horses aside. The girl saw him coming, her small face white under the wide-brimmed blue hat.

"Get down," Sam said.

"What?"

"Get down, or I'll pull you down."

"Not so…" Patience slid a little steel out of her sword's scabbard.

"If you draw, I'll take you off that horse and whip you here in the road, before everyone." He slid his quirt's loop off his wrist… It was one of those odd moments, coming more and more frequently for him, when anger and laughter seemed to coil around each other to become one thing. Sam was careful not to smile.

A pale mask stared down, wrinkled in fury, the girl's small teeth showing like an angry grain-store cat's.

"- And you'd deserve it, Ambassadress, for such improper and unladylike behavior."

Slowly, slowly the small face relaxed to its usual smooth perfection. "And beating a True Emissary of Boston Town is a gentlemanly thing to do?"

"Only to recall her to her duty."

Patience sighed, swung a leg over the saddle, and slid down to the ground. "That man tried to stop me going where I wished to go. I wanted to come listen to your conference."

"No." Sam turned and walked back up the column. Grinning troopers watched him pass.

The girl called after him. "Unkind … ! "

"What did you say to her?" Howell was smiling.

"I said, 'No.'" Sam knelt, picked up his knife. "Now, these troops the Khan is sending south…" He drew their route with the point of the blade. "Sending about two thousand men west of the Bend to test us, so we'll let them test our militia bands, our deserted border villages, our empty pastures and fields. And while they're doing it, we're going to take all four thousand of our cavalry – plus militia horsemen and volunteers – east of the Bend" – he drew the curving line of march – "and north into Texas, to take and burn Map-Fort Stockton."

Silence. Then someone whistled two notes.

"That's at least three days, Sam, riding up into Texas." Carlo Petersen, an older man and sturdy as a tree trunk, had Ned Flores' command.

"That's right, Carlo."

"Leaving just local militia to hold them in the west?"

"Leaving local militia to trouble them in the west, with our Light Infantry reserved in the hills… Charmian, your people are not to engage unless absolutely necessary. The whole point is to keep them busy, give them work and wear, but not a battle. Should be good practice for our people, thanks to Toghrul Khan."

"Hard practice," Captain Wykeman said.

" – Jaime and Elvin will stay here with the Heavy Infantry, so the brothers will be in charge strategically. But Phil Butler will be in tactical command."

"Uh-oh." The previous whistler, a lieutenant named Carol Dunfey.

"- I'll inform Jaime and Elvin that the infantry only moves on Phil's orders."

"Sam," Petersen said, "are you saying the Old Men are out?"

"No. They're up. In overall command – but not battlefield."

Nods. Those close enough, were looking at the outline of the Bend cut into the ground.

"Howell," Sam said, "will command the cavalry campaigning into Texas – as their general."

The officers stared at Voss.

"And not you, Sam?" Petersen, bulky, rosy and round-faced, looked like a startled baby. An aggressive baby, saber-scarred.

"No. – Howell."

Voss stood at ease. Not surprised. Sam saw he'd expected the command might come to him.

"Well, in that case," Eric said, "I should go north with him."

"No, Eric. You'll be more useful here."

"Sam, I'll need to be up there."

"You need to do as you're told."

There was a moment of silence… silence enough that the wind could be heard, and the nickering of restless horses down the column.

"… As you order, sir. I stay in Better-Weather."

"Phil and the Brothers will have to know what's happening in Texas, Eric. Your people will pigeon down to you, and you will keep the Old Men and Colonel Butler informed. It shouldn't be necessary for you personally to go out in the kitchen to taste the soup."

"You're right, sir. I apologize."

Charmian Loomis leaned over to look at the drawing again, nodded, then straightened and walked to her horse… mounted, and rode away.

"It's clever, Sam." Howell stood staring down at the dirt drawing as if it might change. "But the Kipchak's clever, too, and we'll be raiding deep into his country. If he realizes, and sends more people across and south of us…"

"Then, Howell, you'll learn to like mare's milk."

Smiles at that. They seemed willing enough, even after This'll Do. Sam supposed there might come a time, after other losses, when they would no longer be willing.

Eric stood. "Good plan." His pinto backed a little, tugged at its rein.

Sam got to his feet with a small grunt of effort. "Good as long as it's only ours. I want you to ensure that, Eric. If there are any people you're uncertain of – bought agents, particularly east of the Bend – I don't want them sending pigeons to Caravanserai as Howell rides past."

"We know of five. I've left them because we know them."

"Don't leave them any longer."

"Yes, sir."

The others were up, gathering their horses' reins.

"And all you officers," Sam said, "keep in mind that your lives and your troopers' lives depend on these plans being held in silence." He bent, scored his diagram to nonsense with his dagger's point.

Murmurs of agreement.

"In silence, gentlemen and ladies. I'll hang the officer who makes this known by word or note or indication. Drunk or sober."

A perfect silence then, as if they were practicing.

What did it mean? Sam climbed into the saddle for the last stretch to Better-Weather. What did it mean that a man was most at ease, felt truly comfortable, only when planning battles? He spurred his horse – well-named Difficult – out in front of the column. Kenneth came trotting after him, the trumpeter seeming untroubled by having been struck by an angry ambassadress. And what did it mean that others were also more at ease, were also only truly comfortable with a man when he was planning battles? The younger officers' faces had only been pleased at the notion of war. Was the Captain-General becoming only a Captain-General, with nothing else left of him at all?

"More than likely," Sam said.

The trumpeter said, "Sir?"

An early-winter rain had followed the column for the last few Warm-time miles. Now, it caught them, dark, cold, and driving, seething in swift puddles under the black's hooves. What plans he'd made in dirt with his dagger, then erased, were gone now under mud and water.