Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

"Mother…" Princess Rachel, upset as Martha'd never seen her, reached out to touch the Queen's hand – and had hers impatiently batted away. "Mother, listen to me. You have men whose business is going to battles, and seeing, and reporting back. You are needed here, not up on the ice."

"Oh, the boy-Monroe is busy enough, here. And Brady, pompous old fool."

"You're going because you want to, Mother – and no thought to the Kingdom or anyone else!"

"And you care for the Kingdom?"

"I do, and I care for you."

"And showed it never!"

"Mother, that's not so… You are not easy to deal with."

"Then stop dealing with me. – Martha, what the fuck are you doing over there? Get us packed."

"Taking your old knife, Majesty?"

"I'm carrying my old knife, yes. That's Trapper steel – best steel. I only wish I could take my bow, but this draw-shoulder won't bear it anymore." The Queen struck her shoulder with her fist, as punishment.

"Mother – "

"Rachel, if you don't stop bothering me over this, I'll lose my temper."

"Then lose your fucking temper, you selfish old bitch!" Princess Rachel's face was flushed red. "You don't know who loves you, who cares for you!"

Martha stopped packing and stood still. She sensed, throughout the tower chambers, others standing still. There was silence enough for the wind to be heard very clearly, hissing round the tower's stone.

"Now…" the Queen said. "Now, Daughter, you begin to please me – and don't spoil it with crying. I'd better not see a single tear."

"You won't," the Princess said, though it sounded to Martha as if tears were waiting.

"Comb-honey," the Queen said, and set her spears aside, "you should know I loved your father, and mourn him every day. And love you the same… But this is no season for a queen to hide in her tower. Our people need to see me on the ice."

"But not fighting."

"Certainly won't, if I can help it. I don't care to make a spectacle of myself. A silly old woman, stiff in the joints."

"You are not." Princess Rachel went to her mother like a child. The Queen seemed startled, then opened her arms. A hand, strong and long-fingered, scarred from battles long ago, stroked her daughter's hair.

Martha left the packing and left the room. She was certainly allowed tears, if the Queen didn't see them.

"May I congratulate you, Great Lord?" General Shapilov – tall, a lean rack of bones – knelt on thick carpet in a camp yurt fairly large, and well-warmed by a folding stove. "After my fumbling, you plucked this St. Louis like a ripe blueberry."

Shapilov had a habit of admitting blame at once – apparently thought that protection. Toghrul found the habit was becoming tiresome.

"I plucked it by using my head, General, instead of wasting men and horses fighting through these unpleasantly crowded streets and structures. Surely… surely, Shapilov, it occurred to you that a river port would find survival difficult if its waterfront were taken and blockaded. All that was required was a thrust from the north down along the riverbank, then a single tuman dismounted to hold it."

"Now, I see it, lord."

"Hide your face from me." Toghrul said it pleasantly, with no bluster, no bullying. "I am not pleased with you."

General Shapilov fell forward and pressed his face to the blue carpet – a really fine many-knot imperial. He said something, a muffled something. A mumbled offer of suicide?

Toghrul sighed. "It's a notion. Perhaps another time."

Were those sobs? Certainly sounded like sobs. And perfectly, perfectly illustrative of the difficulties in absolute rule. Here was a fairly competent senior officer – but he could only be fairly competent, or he might become dangerous… well, troublesome. Yuri Chimuc's grandson, the so-brilliant young Manu Ek-Tam, would have had this dirty and unpleasant city in three days. He would have gone to their river-front at once, like a wolf leaping. More than competent. Too much so. Soon he would have to suffer a hero's death down in South Map-Texas, and be wasted.

General Shapilov now lay silent, slack as if fucked – which in a way, of course, he had been.

"Get up. And get out."

A sort of bony scurrying then, as he backed out on all fours. Surprising he hadn't backed into the stove. Amusing, of course, but also deadly serious. To be a khan meant that no else must be found also fit to be a khan – which left only limited servants, limited generals, so the ruler must do every truly important thing himself.

An odd and potentially disastrous structure, really. And, considering oddness – though not yet disaster – what in the Blue Sky's world was happening with the idiots of Supply? Surely it was simple enough to haul a very-important hundred sledded wagons east through the wilds of North Map-Arkansas and up into Map-Missouri to the army. Then what explanation for them not yet arriving? Unlikely they'd been attacked by crows or coyotes…

Pigeons from Chang-doctor say Ladu keeps the child safe in her belly, and is well, no damned complications. – What did it mean when a Kipchak khan, campaigning, found his wife's unremarkable face, her remarkable bright black eyes, in every inked map, every diagrammed plan of attack…?

Margaret had left General Lenihan's office – they dealt surprisingly well with each other, at least on the subject of possible supply runs to the west bank, if needed by North Map-Mexico's army. They'd dealt with each other on that subject by Lenihan saying, "Never." and "No chance." and Margaret saying, "Horseshit, sir." Then gone on from there.

The general, a widower, had seemed slightly bemused by a fighting officer with breasts. It was an advantage Margaret had been happy to take advantage of.

Sergeant Mays, massive and still, stood waiting for her in the corridor. "Princess," he said to her.

Fresh from Lenihan's ambivalence – wonderful Warm-time word – Margaret thought for an antic instant that the sergeant was declaring affection, then followed his glance down the hall to see Princess Rachel, an older Boxcar lady, and a large sergeant in green armor.

Margaret went to them, managed an awkward bow – looking, she thought, a little ridiculous with a long, sheathed rapier poking out behind her – and said, "May I be of help?"

Princess Rachel – ordinarily pale, very composed – was flushed and restless, her hands finding no place to be still. "I'm looking – Captain, I would like to speak with Lord Monroe."

"I believe he's on the wall, Princess. On the west wall, perhaps below the tower there."

"Very well. Very well." The Princess turned, hesitated – and Margaret lied and said, "I'm going to him now. May I escort you?"

"Yes, please. Lady Claire, I won't need you."

"But Rachel, you can't – you have no cloak, for one thing."

"She has mine," Margaret said, swung off her cloak, and draped it over the Princess's shoulders. A tall young woman – taller than Margaret by two or three inches.

"Still," the lady said, "you shouldn't – "

"I have – what's your name, Sergeant?"

"Ralph, ma'am."

"I have Ralph-sergeant here – and after all, Claire, I am engaged to the Captain-General; I think I'll be safe enough with him."

The older lady made a little clucking sound.

"Claire …"

It seemed to Margaret that that 'Claire' had sounded almost in the Queen's voice. Lady Claire, apparently feeling so as well, ducked into a curtsy and left them.

… The cold struck with ice-knives as they stepped from a stone embrasure onto the broad, paved crest of west wall. Its massive tower rose high above them as they went leaning into the river wind. Margaret's face and hands went quickly numb, so she unbuttoned her jerkin and tucked her sword-hand in against her belly to stay useful.