Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

The Queen made a sound in her throat, and clawed her fingers as if she were about to fight. Then, spreading her arms wide, her long wolf cloak swinging open, she began a slow-stepping dance of fury. Her ropes of pearls swaying with her furs, she turned in drifts of flower scent, eyes rolled back, teeth bared to bite. She danced in paces her ax-girl mirrored to stay within reach. "I'll kill… that fucking Kipchak. Every person, everything he loves, I'll kill. I'll skin his wife, his child – I hear there's to be a child. I'll skin that baby slowly, for him to see – and his horses, skin his horses alive before I skin him, roll him screaming in salt, and serve him roasted!"

It was a promise frightening to see danced and almost sung. Sam noticed Sergeant Mays stand back a step, and saw that Margaret had closed her eyes, as if the Queen were a fire burning too close.

When Queen Joan stood still and silent, Sam went to her and took her hands while the armswoman watched. "Give me your warrant, dear."

"… I am not your 'dear.' " But she let him hold her hands.

"Give me your warrant to assist you in this war, to command, so our armies can fight together."

"So you can prepare to take my throne – boy?" She pulled her hands away.

"I swear to uphold you on your throne, Queen – uphold your rule against any and all. I swear it on the memory of my Second-mother… And will hold to it," – he smiled – "no matter how inconvenient."

"Never," the Queen said. " – Never. " She turned and walked out. Her ax-girl, following, glanced back to be certain of no surprise, then closed the door behind them.

"What do we do?" Margaret said into silence. "Sam, what do we do, now?"

"What do we do…?" Sam took a deep breath. "What I do is keep trying to persuade the generals and admirals here to cooperate with our army."

"Won't do it, sir, without her." Carey, out of his room like a mountain marmot, appearing in the hall. "Boxcars think we're shit, sir."

"Sad," Pedro Darry said, "but true." An ancient phrase.

"Then fuck 'em," said Sergeant Mays.

"No. We need these people." Sam reached for the brandy, noticed Margaret Mosten's glance, and set the crystal jug aside. "I'll go to the river lords, tomorrow – "

The chamber's door swung open again, and Queen Joan's ax-girl stepped in. "Her Majesty," she said.

The Queen stood in the doorway. "I've… changed my mind." She stared at them a few moments, then said, "Dear God." One of Warm-times' shortest sayings.

After an early breakfast delivered to their rooms – the roast pork, boiled eggs, oat pudding, and honey rolls all first nibbled for safety's sake by Master Carey – Sam, with Sergeant Wilkey pacing behind him, longbow down his back, coursed through Island's passages to East Tower's stairs, cubbies, and chambers, until a serving man nodded to "General Lenihan" and pointed them to offices at the end of a lamp-lit hall. No guard was posted there.

Wilkey opened the oak door and stood aside as Sam walked in. Three soldiers, clerks, stood writing at stands beneath hanging five-flame oil lamps. They were wearing West-bank army's blue wool, but no weapons, no armor. They set their pens down as Sam and Wilkey came in.

"Brigadier Lenihan," Sam said. "I understand he's executive for plans and coordination – dealing with both bank armies?"

"And you are?" The tallest clerk, a sergeant.

"He's 'Milord Monroe' to you," Wilkey said pleasantly. "Now, see him in to your general."

The clerk said, "Sorry, sir – milord," trotted to an inner office door, knocked, opened it, and said, "Lord Monroe to see you, sir."

There was a grumble from inside. Sam walked past the clerk into a smaller space that reminded him of Charles' cramped office at Better-Weather, though more brightly lit. A stocky man with cold gray eyes and several days' growth of beard, wearing West-bank army's blue, stood from behind a desk piled with maps and message sheets. He had three tattooed dots on his left cheek, four on the other.

"General Lenihan, I believe we have some business."

"Sir – milord – I hardly think so." Lenihan's voice was hoarse with fatigue. "And, while I wouldn't wish to be rude, I must say I don't have the time for it." The brigadier looked down at his desk-top. "There are orders to be copied, orders to be sent. In short, sir, I have a war on my hands – at least portions of it."

"I see you do. And how does your war go, General?"

"That, sir, with all respect, is something I couldn't discuss with you. Perhaps the chamberlain's office…" Lenihan, impatient, glanced down and shifted some papers.

Sam shoved a stack of documents aside, then sat on the edge of the desk, one booted foot on the floor. "The Queen has allowed me to be what help I can in this war, Lenihan. So it's by her warrant and authority, as well as mine, that I suggest you drop this pose of 'responsible officer weary of interfering idiots' – and prepare to take my orders."

The general's face flushed. "I would need a written order, signed by the Queen, to do any such – "

Sam lunged across the desk, took Lenihan's throat in his right hand, and drove the man back against the wall. The brigadier was strong, struggled, and reached for his belted dagger. Sam covered that hand with his left to keep the blade sheathed – and heard Wilkey, behind him, draw his sword.

"Put up, Sergeant!" The sword whispered back into its scabbard.

Lenihan, who couldn't breathe, fought hard. His chair went over with a clatter; a fat folder slid from the desk. He struck with a heavy fist at Sam's head and belly, tried for his balls. Then plucked and tore at the strangling hand, to wrench it free.

The office door opened.

"Mind your own business," Wilkey said behind Sam, and kicked the door shut.

The general, though a tough man, was beginning to soften with lack of air. The punches and kicks slowly became random. Sam saw in the man's eyes the astounded realization this might be death – come so oddly, so suddenly, in an office of all things, and at the hand of a titled stranger young enough to be his son.

Sam let him go, and the general slid down the wall to one knee, took long, gasping breaths – then staggered up with his dagger drawn.

Sam, arms crossed, sat back on the desk edge, watching him… taking no notice of the knife.

"You… young dog!" A furious brigadier, and even hoarser now. There were tentative knocks on the office door.

"Get away from there!" Sergeant Wilkey said. There were no more knocks.

Sam was careful not to smile. "I apologize, Lenihan. I was hasty – but I needed to get your attention. We simply don't have time to waste with nonsense." He picked a paper off the desk-top, then another, and glanced over them. "Floating Jesus!" Pleased to have remembered the River's Great. "You people are moving units of East-bank army to cover these fucking towns!"

"That's right!" The general was still gripping his dagger. "The Kipchaks are raiding across the ice, up-river. They're burning East-bank towns. Killing everyone in them. Children… everyone!"

"Of course they are, General." Sam set the papers down. "Haven't you wondered why? – The Kipchaks like children. They have children of their own. So they must have a reason to be crossing the river up there, attacking those towns, and killing your people – including the little children."

"You… put your hands on me." Lenihan sheathed his dagger.

"Yes, I did. And if you don't begin to think, instead of sitting passing papers like turds, I'll put my hands on you again. Is that plain enough for you, General?"

Scowling silence.