Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

"Don't be angry."

"Sam, I'm not angry. What do you want me to pack? I don't give a damn how I look before those ladies."

"We pack as if for campaigning. New woolens, warm and clean. Good cloaks, ponchos. Best-quality leathers and good boots. Plain fine-steel weapons, plain fine-steel armor – showing signs of use."

"Going too far the other way…"

"Yes, it would be, so I'll take one set of rich cloak-and-clothes for ceremony, and each of us will also wear a ring from the treasury – one of the imperials' we took at God-Help-Us. Gold, with a considerable stone."

"So, at least something."

"And a matching bracelet for you."

Margaret gave Sam a wife-look. "And that's to bribe me to silence about appearing in Middle Kingdom looking like a file of lost troopers?"

"That's right. Margaret, it's our army standing behind us that they'll see. We dress to remind them of that army."

"Well, I'm not going to argue with you. I'm tired of arguing." She dropped the chest's lid closed with a thump.

"Good. Finish packing, then go to Charles' people and wrestle that treasury jewelry from their grip. They'll want a signed receipt."

"They'll want several receipts."

Margaret gone unsatisfied, Sam had lain on his cot, holding a vodka flask for company – and found, oddly, that even holding it helped.

He'd tried to sleep, but only planned dispositions in Map-Arkansas. On the border, really, between North Map-Arkansas and Map-Missouri. He'd seen, as he lay there, how quickly the Khan was certain to act when he realized what they'd done. Toghrul wouldn't hesitate, wouldn't consider – he'd turn back from Kingdom's river and attack. There would be no delay.

By then, Howell must have brought the army up into place. In proper country – steep, but not too steep, and wooded. There'd be barely time to prepare for the blow…

Sam had lain awake long glass-hours, the war's possible futures folding and unfolding like one of the decorated screens the Empire's ladies were said to love, colorful with signs, secrets, and portraits of their families and lovers intertwined with painted flowers.

He'd risen before dawn in cold and darkness, set his flask aside, draped his cloak, and strapped his sword on his back. Then walked icy ground to north stables and the brute imperial charger from Boca Chica – Difficult. The stableman, Corporal Brice, had tacked the big animal up – kneeing the horse's belly to burp air out of him for the cinch – stood aside while Sam mounted, then reached up to touch his knee. "Good luck, General."

"Jake – you people, the army, are my luck."

… Sam saw the camino from the ridge. Six people mounted, with four packhorses on lead, were waiting at the roadside, their cloaks blowing in a cold wind. The rising sun threw their shadows sideways. – As he'd seen the riders, they'd seen him, and watched as he spurred down the slope.

When he trotted up, Margaret heeled her horse to meet him… seemed troubled.

"Sir – "

"What is it?" Sam said, then looked past her at the others. A lieutenant of Light Cavalry, and three sergeants – one each, apparently, from Heavy Infantry, Light Infantry, Heavy Cavalry. The army's four divisions represented… There was also a grinning civilian, very fat in a stained red-wool cloak, holding the packhorses' lead. Undoubtedly one of Eric's dubious people, acting as cook, hostler, strangler on occasion…

Sam knew the lieutenant. And two of the sergeants.

"Margaret, what in the fuck did you think you were doing? I said, 'presentable'!"

"Sir, the brothers, and Eric, and Phil Butler – they all insisted."

"They ordered these men here?"

"Yes, sir, ordered them with you as escort."

"I gave you a different order, Margaret. And I want it obeyed."

"… Sam, I agree with them."

He reined Difficult past her. "You men get back to camp."

The young lieutenant of Light Cavalry saluted him. "Sir, wish we could, but we've been promised hanging if we don't travel with you." The lieutenant, Pedro Darry, was wearing a marten cloak as costly as a farm. Son of one of the richest merchants in North Map-Mexico, handsome and spoiled, he'd ornamented the Emperor's court in Mexico City while serving as a factor for his father, before destroying two marriages and running one of the husbands through in a duel.

"I see, promised hanging… Then go back and be hanged, Lieutenant. And take these other men with you."

"Please, sir – if we swear to be presentable?" Red-haired, green-eyed, and slender, with a pale and elegant face, Darry smiled winningly while managing a restless gray racer.

"No," Sam said. The lieutenant, sent back north in disgrace, had managed to fight three more duels in the last four years – while on leave, so permitted though not approved of – and had killed all three men, Pedro being not only a spoiled son of a bitch, but an accomplished swordsman… And, to do him justice, one of Ned Flores' favorite troop commanders.

"Sir, if we swear word-of-honor? Otherwise, well… I'll have to resign my commission, and these men desert, so we can follow after you."

"Might be useful, sir." Margaret, behind Sam – and meaning, of course, Darry's skills at court as well as with the sword. His looks… his manner. Not the sort of young man to be considered a back-country barbarian – as another young North Mexican surely would be, ruler or not.

And it was possible that the three sergeants – professionally expressionless, and sitting their saddles at attention – though not presentable, and obviously chosen for ferocity, might also prove useful as visible reminders of the army they represented… Sam knew David Mays, a silent, squatly massive Heavy Infantryman with a face like a fighting dog's, a man avoided even by those considered dangerous themselves. Sam knew him, and Sergeant Henry Burke, a tall, lank, hunch-shouldered Heavy Cavalryman. Burke was known for his savage temper – and the ability, on a sufficient bet, to bend his knees, reach both arms under a horse's belly, and lift the animal slightly off the ground… holding it there for a count of five.

Sam didn't recognize the third sergeant – a Light Infantryman, lean and boyish, so pale a blond his hair looked white, his eyes a very light gray. He carried a longbow on his back, a short-sword on his belt.

"Name?"

"Wilkey, sir. Company of Scouts."

He smiled at Sam, seemed perfectly relaxed and at ease, containing none of the fury the other two sergeants carried locked within them – and for that reason, was perhaps the most dangerous of the three.

Sam looked past him. " – And you?"

The fat man saluted badly, with a flourish. "Ansel Carey, milord. Cook, hostler, rough-medic, and… what you will."

'What you will' Sam supposed, included any necessary murders, though the man wore no weapons… Phil, Eric, and the others must have enjoyed choosing these guards and companions. A dandy and duelist, three dangerous sergeants, and a servant with certain skills. And, of course, Margaret Mosten. On consideration, a useful party… though not perfectly presentable.

"Darry…"

"Sir?"

"If you cause any trouble in the Kingdom – any problems with women, any embarrassment at all – you will wish to Lady Weather you hadn't."

"Understood, sir."

"And the same for you men! If trouble comes, it had better come to you, not from you."

"Sir."

"Sir."

"Sir."

"Master Carey?"

"Hear an' obey, milord."

" 'Sir' will do." Sam hauled Difficult's head around, and spurred the charger down the road and into its customary punishing trot. Four days, at least, to the Gulf Entire, with a boat pigeoned to wait for them. Then, a two-day crossing to the mouth of Kingdom River… and what welcome the Kingdom chose.