Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

"Oh, the little I know would only bore you, sir." Captain Owen held out the cookie platter. "Another?"

Sam woke to a change. The ship was moving differently… the rowers' rhythm slightly slower, as if even effort must drowse so near the morning. There was slower surging, a lower pitch to the groaning music of the ship's hull and fittings – and less of that wallowing side to side that had almost sickened him at supper.

He'd gone to bed in the first-officer's cubby – more closet than room – and somewhat stifled, had regretted the captain's cabin. Now, with the ship rolling only a little, he could still reach out from the narrow, swinging cot to touch each side wall, alternately. As he swayed one way, then the other, a hanging tin lantern sent shadows after him – its little wick burning as his night-light privilege, in a ship where any fire but the galley's was usually forbidden.

Sam lay awake for a while, then tossing aside his canvas cover – blankets apparently considered softening influences in Kingdom's Fleet – swung his legs out, managed a get-down rather than a fall-down, and staggered about the cubby, dressing. Finally, bracing himself to buckle his sword's scabbard down his back, he considered the unhandiness of long-swords in ships' close quarters.

The lamp blown out, the cubby's curtain – pulled open – brushed a heavy shoulder. Sergeant Mays, standing at ease in full armor, dagger, and short-sword as the ship shifted, turned his helmeted mastiff head and said, "Mornin', sir."

"Morning, Sergeant." Comforted by such formidable night-watch, Sam jostled down the swaying corridor and climbed a dark ladder-stair to the next, the big infantryman behind him. They managed down a slowly pitching passage to a hatchway – and out into near dawn, and a gentle freezing wind over a deck sheeted with ice.

"Footin', sir." Mays stepped close behind, hobnails crunching.

Sam, passing two sailors at the ship's great steering wheel, reached the right-side – starboard – rail, got a grip, and the sergeant stood away. There were serried small waves on the river – what North Mexico fishermen called 'chop' – and swirls of dark current here and there. Leaning over the rail's thick oak banister, Sam saw the two ranks of long yellow oar-looms rise all together… pause… then dip like birds' beaks into wind-roughened water. Dip… bow slightly with the strain of the stroke, then splash up and out together. Pause… then dip again.

He could hear what sounded like wooden blocks struck together to keep the rowers' time. A hollow, almost musical note.

"Morning, sir!"

Sam turned, looked up to the high stern deck – apparently, and rather comically, called the 'poop' – and saw Captain Owen, in a tarred canvas cloak too big for him. The captain stood with one of his officers behind a low railing that ran across that higher deck, with entries only for two narrow accommodation ladders.

"Morning, Captain…!" Sam's breath drifted in frost for a moment, then was whisked away on the wind.

He turned to the river again, and saw no shore, even with dawn streaking the eastern horizon pollen-yellow. No shore, no margin, only the odor of fresh water and ice coming on the wind. Only that, its smaller waves, and what seemed a tidal race, marked it different to a landsman from the Gulf Entire. Sam could see two distant lights – ship's lanterns, each far enough away to seem only glimmers, like dying sparks risen from a campfire.

Somewhere to the east, likely already passed in the night, the old New Orleans – of so many copybook tales – lay, as most ancient river cities, long drowned. Owen's first officer had claimed at supper that a church bell tolled in its sunken tower there, and could be heard as deep currents swung the bronze… The town now called New Orleans, seemed to be one of the Fleet's headquarters and harbors, so was barely spoken of.

"Sam…" Margaret came and stood by him, yawning, her cloak's hood drawn up against the cold, its dark wool pearled with mist-droplets.

"Others up?"

"Roused or rousing, sir. Short sleeping seems the rule on these ships."

"Hmm. Look at this river, Margaret. Big with summer melt off the ice. According to Neckless Peter, at least three times, maybe four times, what it was before the cold came down. So the cities on it now, all named for flooded Warm-time towns that had been near, aren't really the old Map-places. According to a ship's officer, aren't called 'Map' at all."

"Why not 'New' this or that?"

"I don't know. Perhaps concerned their Floating Jesus might object."

"It's a perfect prairie for the Khan's tumans, sir, once it freezes."

"A prairie for them from the north, as it freezes."

"Sam…" Margaret put her gloved hand over his bare hand on the rail, as if to warm it. An unusual touching, for her. "Sam, I know… we know what you intend to do. And you can do it, no matter how big the fucking river is."

Sam smiled. "Without my vodka?"

"With or without it, Sam." She took her hand away. "These Boxcars seem to be a formidable people, but they're like the Kipchaks, full of pride and horseshit. Both are ripe for a kick in the ass."

"And I'm the boot?"

"You're the boot, Sam. You, and the rest of us sheep-stealers." Margaret glanced behind them, saw only Sergeant Mays, standing weighty on the deck. "…We have interesting news. Master Carey shared beer with the cooks in the galley last night, and helped with pots and pans. Ship's gossip is that Jefferson City, Map-Missouri, has been taken by the Khan's general, Andrei Shapilov. And every man in the garrison there killed. Three… four thousand of the West-bank army."

"Weather… But I knew, knew there was something. There was more on the captain's mind than cookies."

"Jefferson City might wake them."

"Wake some, Margaret. And send others deeper to sleep." Sam lifted his hands from the rail, blew on them to warm his fingers. "- But I'd guess, not the Queen."

"My regiments…!"

Queen Joan had cried this out several times through three days and nights, but not as if requiring comfort. And even men and women who ordinarily weren't wary of her, hadn't dared offer it.

It seemed to Martha that the Queen's rage, like a lightning stroke near a bee tree, had set the hive of Island humming.

Officers of both bank armies – very senior and important men, usually seen allied at court – were suddenly absent. And very different officers, lower-ranked, harsh-faced, and grim, suddenly appeared to take up posts, positions, responsibilities… work they never seemed to rest from.

So, in only three days and three nights, Martha saw what queens were for.

"A poor time," the Queen said, holding a green velvet gown out at arm's length to see what window light did to it. "A poor time for that puppy Captain-General to decide to come calling."

"But you invited him…"

"Martha, don't use my past actions against me. I might have invited him – and I might not."

Distant trumpets and drums, preparing welcome at the Silver Gate, sang softly through the tower's stone.

"The young jackass." The green velvet was dropped to the floor. "I'd look like some pricey whore, rowing up to Celebration. Well" – she smiled at Martha – "perhaps more like the whore's mother, along for bargaining."

"No, ma'am. The whore herself, and beautiful."

The Queen, at the wardrobe, turned with a look. "So, I'm flattered and put in my place at once. I've come to suspect, girl, you've a brain along with your muscles." She rummaged, disturbing pressed gowns. "Probably should have you whipped… What about this?" A long dress striped black and silver.