Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

"A move isn't the game," Sam said.

Near the hallway's end, rested what seemed a fair copy of the ancient Warm-time piano, massive as a spotted bull, but gleaming black. "Meanwhile…" Sayre, who seemed musical, stepped over to strike a chord on the instrument's narrow keys with both his hands together – a loud crashing sound, but beautiful. "Meanwhile, the Queen still rules."

"A very long meanwhile, I hope. I've had enough of ruling to know the stink of its necessities. And, speaking of necessities, Sayre, I've noticed Island doesn't seem much alarmed at having lost Map-Jefferson City. Not much alarmed at the Khan's certain taking of all Map-Missouri soon – and the river, I'm told, already freezing north of Cairo."

"Ah, well… war." Sayre left the perhaps-piano, which, as they walked away, still sounded softly down the corridor as if reminding of times lost. "Monroe, we're always fighting wars. We have over thirty thousand veteran regulars, taking both bank armies together. Pikemen, crossbowmen. They've never been terribly impressed by horsemen. You know the Warm-time phrase, 'Whoever saw a dead cavalryman?' "

Behind them, Sergeant Burke cleared his throat, his boot-steps, spurs jingling, even more definite.

"I've seen them," Sam said. "And horseback raiders are one thing, the Khan's tumans are another. Thousands of light and heavy horse, under perfect discipline, with fast supply trains and bridging-and-siege engineers behind them."

"Mmm… Jefferson City making your point, I suppose."

"I hope so, for the Kingdom's sake. Once the Map-Texans were beaten at Cut'n Shoot? The old Khan had their bones collected and ground-up to enrich horse feed."

"Yes… A word of advice?"

"Of course." Ahead, polished dark wood, gleaming uncarpeted, ran to the West Keep steps.

"It occurs to me, Monroe, it might be useful for you to speak with Peter Bailey."

"Retired from East-bank army, isn't he?"

"Ah – done your informational! Yes, retired, but still our grand old man. Still the best general in either army, in my opinion. If the King had had him up in Map-Kentucky, the King would still be alive… Bailey's here at Island now, over in East Tower, come for a law-case on some leased estate land."

A small marble statue of a crouching cat was set on a greenstone stand along the corridor wall. Sayre paused and ran a forefinger along the carving before walking on. "Jemima Patch's work… As to General Bailey, the old man doesn't care for me, which you may consider a recommendation; he's not a man for the court. But if I were you – a provincial commander of note, and possibly soon to be a prince – I'd speak with him." Sayre hesitated, seemed to have more to say.

"Yes…?"

"Well, with no intent to offend… most of Middle Kingdom, Monroe, will not find you an impressive heir to the throne. You're pretty much a savage as far as the River's concerned, a no-dot nobody. But Bailey was a great fighting man – both armies loved him, though the Fleet did not. His support would be worth more than regiments to you."

"Sounds like good advice," Sam said. They'd come to the Keep's stairs. "And if the old man bites me, I'll let him know it was your idea of amusement, and I only an innocent and honorable young soldier."

"Ah… checkers." Sayre smiled, bowed, then strolled away.

"Your impressions, Sergeant."

"Good man at your side, sir. Risky, at your back."

"Fair enough," Sam said… And why not to East Tower, now, to see the old man? A long walk, then likely steep stairs. There was no place at Island reached without climbing many steps.

With Henry Burke slouching behind him like some great carnivorous stork in armor – and after two inquiries of the way-Sam climbed a last flight of stone stairs, went down an icy corridor, and found the door to Bailey's rooms.

He knocked… knocked harder, and wasn't answered.

Sergeant Burke eased past, and hit the door hard enough to shake it in the jamb.

Muffled curses from inside. A bolt slid back, and an old man with shaving soap on his face, looked out at them. He was barefoot, and wearing a deep-green belted robe, spotted here and there with grease.

"Oh… it's you." He stood back from the door.

"You expected me, sir?" Sam walked into the room, gestured for Burke to wait outside.

The general, bulky, but bent with age, went back to shaving at a enameled basin of hot water on a stand also holding a small, polished-metal mirror. There were suds and splashes on the stone floor by his meaty, white, bare feet.

The old man gripped a long razor in a knob-knuckled hand, peered into the small reflecter, and began to scrape his cheek. "Expected to be annoyed by some fool," he said, "since the Khan took Jeff City." He paused for delicate work along his upper lip. The razor's blade flashed in firelight. "Damn woman remarked my stubble this morning. Carping old bitch…"

A small iron stove didn't seem to warm the room. Perhaps couldn't; the stone ceiling looked to be three men high.

"This fool, sir, is Sam Monroe."

The old man held his razor away, and smiled. "I know which fool you are, milord." Bailey's eyes, sunk in wrinkles as some far-south lizard's, were an almost topaz yellow. He recommenced shaving. "I used to have a servant for this chore – you know Warm-time 'chore'?"

"Yes. Very apt, sir."

"Mmm… I used to have a servant, before spending every fucking piece of silver I have to settle with a land thief named Edgar Crosby!"

"I've heard of some court case." Sam noticed a faint odor of urine from the old man's chamber-pot.

"Not a 'case.' A crime. I'd intended Highbank for my granddaughter. Now, little Agnes will be a fucking pauper!"

"And if I promise to see to it, sir, that in the future, little Agnes doesn't become a pauper, can we talk about this war?" Sam swung his scabbarded sword off his back, and sat, without invitation, in the nearest of two fat, velveted armchairs facing the futile stove.

Bailey rinsed his razor. "And Crosby's head?"

"Your Master Crosby's head – and all our heads – may be used as buzkash balls by the Khan's horsemen, if this kingdom doesn't come fully awake."

General Bailey grunted, then concentrated on finishing shaving, flicking suds from his razor onto the floor's stone. He had four tattooed dots on one cheek, five on the other. "And from me – retired, aged, forgetful – you wish?"

"Some sensible advice."

"Oh, that. Do you intend to try to command this war for us?"

"The Queen, so far, allows only that I 'advise' Kingdom's forces."

"Ah… And you intend to press that small authority as far as it will go?"

"Yes, I do, sir, since my people also stand under threat. The Queen is a great lady, and a fighter, but not a war planner."

Bailey rinsed his razor, folded it, and set it on the basin's edge. He mopped his face with a white woven-cloth towel. "I found your campaigns very interesting. The Boston people at Map-McAllen, for reasons of their own, reported them to us in detail. I suspect that demonstrated competence is why you are not at the bottom of the river. Apparently it's thought you might prove useful." The old man sat in the other armchair, lifted his bare feet onto a worn ottoman, and settled with a grunt, staring into the Franklin's small fire. "Who suggested you come see me?"

"Sayre."

"Ah… that oh, so clever man. Too fucking clever."

"A soldier, though."

"Yes, a soldier, if you keep an eye on him." The old man shifted slightly in his chair. "Your campaigns. The night thing at – God-Help-Us'

"Yes."

"Really not bad. Better than not bad."

"I was lucky."

"Of course. And lucky in the men – and women, by Lady Weather! – that fought for you. Did seem to me… and of course I wasn't there. But hearing of it, it did seem to me you spent your people a little too freely. Might have substituted maneuver for slaughter – certainly in the initial assault. It can be more useful to confuse an enemy, than kill a few more of them."