Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

"Yes."

Thinking, Bailey touched the stove-pipe again, left his fingers on it too long. "Ow! Damn thing. It seem cold in here to you?"

"It is cold." Sam demonstrated by blowing a faint cloud of breath. "You need a bigger stove."

"What I need," the old man said, "are twenty fewer years and two thousand pieces of silver. You'll meet him on the ridges?"

"Cavalry waits along the ridges, in reserve. His dismounted men will have to attack up snowy hillsides; the Light Infantry will fight them as they climb the slopes. The Heavy Infantry will be waiting when – if – they reach the crests."

"Umm. Of course, the Khan will soon know of your army, and approximately where it will stand. There'll be no surprises for him, then."

"Yes, but it seems to me, no choices either. He'll have to come to us."

"Alright." Bailey dusted ash off his hands. "I'll do what I can, milord. As you 'advise.' But everything depends on your people marching north from West Map-Louisiana. If that army doesn't move north, doesn't threaten the Kipchaks' line of supply, there'll be very little either you or I can do."

"Understood. And Howell Voss should join them with the cavalry at any time; possibly already has."

"Let's hope so. What I can do, now, is pigeon to suggest strictly defensive formations to West-bank army in the south. Pomeroy will listen; he's not an idiot. It seems to me that Cotton is already doing the best he can in the north, at St. Louis."

"I think so. I'd be very grateful for that pigeon, sir. And East-bank army?"

"Ah… my old command. Mark Aiken will do as he's ordered, and there's the rub. Know that phrase?"

"I believe I've heard it, sir. Very apt."

"Well, there is the rub. Aiken will require orders, since moving even toward West bank is contrary to founding regulations. 'Advice' won't do – not even from me. He will move only at the Queen's command, or by the Queen's warrant. Won't do more, won't do less… I'd say that up till now, no one has ordered him to do anything, other than local defense situations. Still, once he's told what to do, Aiken will move, and quickly, and be glad to." The old man began to pace back and forth in front of the stove. It was slow pacing, with a limp. "We're… you must understand, Monroe, that we're an aggressive military. Defense is a poor doctrine for us. You know the Warm-time 'doctrine'?"

"I do, yes. Sir, the Kipchaks want to be attacked. They hope for it, as a knife fighter wishes for a clumsy thrust to counter for his kill. What they don't want, is delay, and a mobile and determined defense."

"Oh, I understand very well." Pacing away, the old man spoke that to a wall and glassed arrow-slit. "But what you must understand, young man," – limping back, now – "is that by being aggressive, the Kingdom's forces have been very effective at controlling the river and six Map-states. Dealing for the most part, of course, with savages, tribesmen and so forth. Now, they're being asked to meet a military at least as formidable as ours – and commanded, I regret to say, by a genius of war."

"And the division of the army into East and West-bank commands?"

The old man stopped pacing. "Oh, that began as a sensible precaution on the part of our kings. Did you know it used to be a death-penalty offense for an officer of one bank army ever to cross the river… ever to have a close relationship with an officer from the opposite bank?"

"I'd heard that."

"And heard correctly. It was all a matter of careful balances – and now, of course, has become a weakness. It had occurred to no one, myself included, that it might be wise for both bank armies to cooperate against the Kipchaks, moving back and forth across the river to threaten his forces' flanks."

"Must be done now, sir." Sam stood, buckled his sword harness… reached over his shoulder to touch the weapon's hilt.

"Yes. Now it must be done, milord. And the Fleet won't like it. They've always been pleased to deal with a divided army. But East-bank was my old command, and I believe Mark Aiken will at least prepare to move, if I convince him that a direct order will be coming. Then he'll be able to get his regiments out onto the ice with no delay."

"That is… better than I'd hoped for, sir. I owe you a great debt."

"You keep that in mind, young man. I believe you mentioned… pay?" Bailey stooped for a small piece of firewood at the stove's rack, tossed it into the flames.

"I'll see to it, General… And I think I've taken enough of your time."

"Oh, nothing but time, now. Time, and a little widow – quite old, of course – but enough of a bitch to be interesting."

"The suggester of shaving?"

"The very one." He walked Sam to the door. "Remember, milord, your people have to be in place – and soon."

"I know it."

"And the other matter – "

" – Is Kingdom's fleet."

"That's right. If our fleet doesn't get north, and onto the ice to slice through those tumans' formations…"

"Any influence with the admirals, sir?"

The old man smiled. "Why, yes. The admirals are very much like sea-whales – they snort and wallow, roll and blow. And they hate my guts. That's always influence of a sort, if properly applied."

Sam paused at the door. "My thanks again, sir, for your help."

"You haven't got anything to thank me for, yet." The old man put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "When you can do a little better than 'advise,' you might take it upon yourself to see Lenihan. He's supposed to be coordinating command, here."

"I will. And I wish you could be fighting with me."

Bailey shook his head. "You are young. I can't tell you how grateful I am that I won't be fighting beside you. What's the copybook phrase? 'Scared to death'? I was scared to death, every battle I fought."

"I doubt it," Sam said, and swung the door open. Sergeant Burke came to attention.

"What's your name, Sergeant?" Bailey bent a yellow eye on him.

A more rigid attention. "Burke, sir!"

"Well, Sergeant Burke, watch this boy's back."

"Sir!" Followed by a very snappy salute – now, it seemed to Sam, as much a part of his soldiers as their belly-buttons.

… There was no temptation as great as inaction. Sam stood weary in the corridor's cold, drafty gray stone, Sergeant Burke standing silent behind him, and wished for rest, solitude, an end to persuading strangers. An end to maneuvers of words, as wearing as a battle in this great smoky warren of wind and rock.

The sergeant cleared his throat. And as if that had been a signal to march, Sam marched.

It would be the chamberlain's office, next – undoubtedly a mile away through freezing granite halls and stairways – to attempt to persuade that clever fat man to, in turn, try to persuade the Queen to loosen her grip, only slightly, on power.

It seemed unlikely – as everything on the river seemed unlikely, dreams flowing down in the current's ice with their Floating Jesus, so Sam felt he might wander Island forever.

Rodney Sewell had come down-river from Cooper Estate just two days before. Sent for to come quickly, he'd landed still wearing the family's livery, but changed in the dock shed to brown smock and sack trousers.

A preparation under-cook had been willing enough, for a bare handful of copper, to provide a place for a tall, shabby, ginger-haired stranger to sleep, deep in the kitchen cellars. Willing enough, if chicken-birds were properly gutted, potatoes peeled, and onions sliced by the basketful.

The people called him Ginger, since Sewell never offered his name, and were impressed by his gutting chicken-birds like a wonder. But though he always washed that mess off at the pump before the scullions' meals were served, and was quiet and decently mannered, the pot girls avoided him. Perhaps he washed too well, as if his hands – large, and long-fingered – had more important things to do.