Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

Going down tent lines to the third set-up, his boots scuffing through ice-skimmed puddles, Sam heard- another conversation – one-sided conversation, it sounded. He scratched at the canvas flap. "May I enter?"

"Oh, Weather…" Unbuttoning canvas. Then the Boston girl's sleek head, white face. "It's the leader of all!" It was difficult to find her pupils in eyes so dark. The wind spattered her face with tiny flecks of ice.

"A freezing 'leader of all.'"

"A moment." More unbuttoning, then the flap drawn aside.

"Ice-rain!"

For a moment, Sam saw no one who could have said it. Then the girl's little creature moved down the tent-pole, opened its mouth, and said again, "Ice-rain!"

It was the first time Sam had seen the thing – known to all the camp, of course, despite some effort to conceal it – as more than shadowy motion in its basket. More, proved unpleasant.

"Webster loves ice-rain," Patience said, closing the entrance flap behind them. "He loves what hawks hate."

"But you haven't sent him flying." Sam brushed meltwater off his cloak.

"Not yet." She stood, observing him. "Are you going to fight the Kipchaks now, or wait? Fight seriously, I mean, not these little scootings back and forth across the border."

"Well… I would prefer the little scootings back and forth."

"Please sit; my tent is your tent… So, you are going to fight him seriously – and would have to be allied with Middle Kingdom."

Sam lifted his sword's harness from his back, then shrugged his cloak off and laid it along the tent's canvas floor. He sat on the girl's cot, the sword upright before him, resting his folded hands on its pommel. "We're discussing the possibility, Ambassadress."

The girl clapped her hands together. "It's going to be a war!" Couldn't have seemed more pleased.

"I would appreciate it – the army would appreciate it – if you could delay a report of that possibility. Delay it… three weeks? Four?"

"And why should I do that, Captain-General?"

"Well, you've already delayed sending your…?"

"Mailman. Webster is a Mailman."

"Ah… well, you haven't yet sent him to report our cavalry's preparations to go north. And there was no disguising that from someone already in camp."

Patience stared at him, head slightly turned. Perfect pale little face. Perfect teeth. "I haven't sent him – for my own reasons."

"Then might you also… pause, before reporting the possibility of a larger movement to the Boston people in Map-McAllen? Again, for your own reasons."

The Boston girl smiled. It seemed to Sam to be a smile in layers, like a bridal cake – but one baked in sweet and bitter layers. "You believe that pride is my fault? Wishing to be ambassadress to greater and greater?"

"I hope so."

"But, milord, New England doesn't want you winning – you and that fierce Queen – against the so-brilliant and, I believe, very handsome young Khan." No smile now.

"I know. But New England – Boston – is going to be disappointed, and will have to await a later occasion. If I live, and the Kingdom fights with us, Toghrul will probably lose."

"And you say that – why?"

"Because he's certain of victory… and victory's never certain." Sam stood with his sword in his hand, bent to pick up his cloak, and swung it to his shoulders. "Also, the Khan enjoys war. I don't. His enjoyment is a weakness."

"I see."

"And, in exchange for three or four weeks of silence – your little friend not flying to Map-McAllen – you can come with our army to the River war, and see everything. You can come and hover above the dying, like Lady Weather."

"Mmmm…" Patience thrust out her lower lip like a child. "You are a bad man, to tempt me."

Her little monster toed the tent-pole where he clung, and called, "Weather."

… Outside, in darkness, Sam trudged a long diagonal of freezing mud behind the Boston girl's tent, over to the next setup's small, canvased toilet trench. A Light Infantry corporal, one of Margaret's Headquarters people, sat behind the screen, balanced on the poop-pole and peering through a little gap in the rigged canvas. A great horned owl, huge golden eyes furious under soaked feathers, shifted on his right wrist with a soft jingle of jess-bells.

The corporal stood up. "Sir."

"Sorry to stick you with this duty, Barney. She probably won't be sending her creature tonight. Probably won't be sending him at all."

"If she does, sir, Elliot'll hear it fly, and go kill it."

The owl, Elliot, hissed softly at its name, and fluffed its feathers.

"Who has the daytime, now?"

"Elmer Page, sir. Civilian. He's got a hunting red-tail."

"Okay. In the morning, tell Citizen Page that his help is much appreciated. – And Corporal, remind him politely to keep silent about it."

"Sir."

Sam walked down to the tent. Finding the entrance flap unbuttoned, he set it aside, said, "May I?" and ducked in.

"Milord." Neckless Peter, in a hooded brown robe too big for him, stood up from behind a small camp desk.

"Sit," Sam said, set his sword against the tent's wall, and let his cloak fold to the floor. "What are you reading?"

"Please…" The old man gestured to his cot. "I was writing, sir. A record… a memoir of our doings."

"Well…" Sam sat on Peter's cot, and stretched to ease his back. "Well, if you're troubling to do that, you may as well write the truth. No use wasting the work on inaccuracies."

"The truth, sir. Yes."

"Sit, Peter. Sit. And let me thank you for the use of your toilet trench. An inconvenience, but necessary."

"I understand. And the watchers have courteously stood aside for my necessities."

"Still, my thanks… We're going to have a dinner, Peter, at the fort. In… oh, about a glass. I'd like you to come over. Any guard will direct you to officers' mess – one of those all too appropriate Warm-time names."

"Yes, sir."

"Peter, smile for me. You're not on the menu."

The little man smiled. "But perhaps your officers would prefer I not come."

"My officers' preferences, I think, we can set aside in favor of good advice from you. And, by the way, I won't permit questions about Toghrul Khan that might offend your honor as his teacher."

The little man sat looking at Sam – a librarian's regard, as if Sam were a copybook that might prove interesting. "There are… there are two things that may prove useful, and that Toghrul would not mind my telling you."

"Yes…?"

"First, I've seen that you and your people – officers and soldiers – are friends."

"Not always, Peter. But usually, yes."

"Toghrul Khan has no friends."

"Mmm… A disadvantage, when friends might be needed. An advantage, when friends might be lost."

"That's so, of course, sir. And second, I believe you are sometimes afraid. The Khan, however, is afraid of nothing and no one."

"Now that's very useful. Very much worth knowing."

"Yes, so it seemed to me."

"Then…" Sam bent to pick up his cloak, stood to fasten its catch at his throat. "We'll see you at dinner?"

The old man got up from behind his desk. "Yes, milord."

"'Sir.' Or 'Sam,' if you prefer."

"Sir."

"And bring an appetite, Peter. It'll be army food, but plenty."

"I will."

"By the way" – Sam paused at the tent's entrance – "since you're now in our councils. I'm sending Howell Voss north, with all our cavalry assembled. North into Texas. First, as a counterblow to the Khan's harassment across the Bravo to the west… And second, for a more important reason."

"Heavens," Neckless Peter said – a perfect use of that wonderful old word. "A 'counterblow.' Toghrul will find that… interesting."