Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

"You must go back." The Princess's voice was snatched from her by a whining gust. "No cloak…"

"Refreshing!" Margaret had to almost shout, and the Princess smiled, so they might have been friends on an adventure.

They bent to the wind, the big sergeant trudging behind them, and passed great springals and catapults, all covered in waxed cotton canvas and squatting in their redoubts like patient beasts. It seemed to Margaret a hard wall to take, so massive and high above the river. Only Light Infantry, up from small boats on a dark night, would have any chance at all. And with the garrison alerted, might expect half those people lost, even winning, and with the rest of west-fortifications still to seize… Not that it couldn't be done. Not that the Kipchaks couldn't do it, once the river froze down to Island. But the doing would kill thousands of them.

Margaret began to think they'd come up for nothing but frozen fingers and toes, then saw Sam standing with another man by the wall's granite crenellations a bow-shot away, their cloaks billowing in the wind. Seeing Margaret's party, the men came to meet them, Sam in leather and mail, the other in blued-steel breast-and-back. Margaret saw the Boxcar was the West-bank general, Parker, tall, handsome, coldly adamant as the wall he walked on.

"Princess…" Both men bowed.

It seemed to Margaret that Sam was doing the bowing thing better, less stiff at it. But he was looking older. Grown older in just these last weeks.

Sam raised his voice; the freezing wind was buffeting them like the greeting of a large, friendly dog. "The general and I were judging drift ice."

"I see." The wind had struck Princess Rachel's face white and mottled red, drawn tears to her eyes. "The Queen… my mother has left Island!"

"This morning. Yes, I know." Sam glanced at Margaret. "Get under cover."

"I'm fine. Not frozen yet." They were all almost shouting over the wind's moan and whuffle.

"She's sailing north." Perhaps wind-tears in the Princess's eyes, perhaps not. "And for no good reason! No good reason at all."

"Well, perhaps to be with her people," Sam said, "when they fight."

"It's ridiculous! It's ridiculous… she's needed here."

"Rachel." Sam put his arm around her – the first time Margaret had seen him do that. "Rachel, I know you're afraid for her. And so am I. But she's doing what she must." He smiled. "I won't say she isn't also enjoying herself."

"That is what's so… stupid."

"No doubt." Sam held her a moment longer, then took his arm away.

Done perfectly, it seemed to Margaret… The cold was making the bones in her face ache.

" – And while we're here turning to iced cream, Rachel, I must tell you I'll be leaving soon also. For the west bank, and inland to my army. The Khan will know by now that something's wrong in North Map-Arkansas. He'll be bringing part of his army down to deal with it."

"You're going…"

"Yes." A harder gust shoved at them. "You'll rule at Island for your mother, Rachel. You'll rule as she would," – he smiled – "but perhaps with an easier temper."

"I'm… I can't."

"Tell me, General," Sam almost shouting over the wind, "can she rule – and the armies behind her?"

"On my honor," Parker said, handsome even with iced eyebrows.

"Sergeant?"

The big sergeant seemed surprised to be asked. "…, Yes, sir!"

"There, Rachel," Sam said. "What more could you ask? And in any case, both the Queen and I will be back very soon to embarrass you."

"You don't… embarrass me."

"Very kind… Captain Mosten, you'll be staying with the Princess. You'll be her right arm – do you understand?"

"But I should be with you."

"Every time, Margaret – except this time. I'll miss you, but your most important work is here, with Rachel. If more muscle should be needed in Island, you'll have Pedro, Noel Purse and the tower guards, and Mays, Carey, and Burke. I'll be taking Wilkey with me… And listen to Ansel Carey, Margaret; he has a nose for trouble."

Margaret was going to argue, but Sam seemed too tired to argue with.

"Yes, sir."

"But what… my lord, what do I need to do?"

"Rachel, do what seems sensible to help in this war – and to maintain your power so that you can help in this war. Do what seems sensible, do it quickly, and let no one stand in your way."

The wind had slackened so that 'no one… stand in your way' echoed a little from the stone.

… Warmer at last – at least not freezing – Margaret breathed on her fingers as the sergeant led them back down the battlement's covered steps… the narrow stairway winding down with a wall to its left, to leave invaders unshielded as they came.

"Your cloak," the Princess said.

" – Is where it belongs," Margaret said. "We don't need you chilled and sick."

The Princess said nothing down another flight of steps, until they reached a landing. "You would rather have gone with him."

"It's shocking, how little all armies care for 'rathers.' "

"A lesson for me?"

"I didn't intend that, Princess."

"No, but a lesson all the same. And since we will be together, please call me Rachel."

"Margaret," said Margaret.

Dearborn was regarded in the service as a soft captain. Was nicknamed 'Daisy' because of it. Daisy Dearborn.

But – rowers sent south – a day and night of sleepless effort by captain, officers, and crew to haul the skate-rigged Queen's ship Mischief up onto the river ice, had worn away Dearborn's softness. A man he'd noticed slacking at the forward winch, now lay manacled in the bilge, whipped, and discussing the matter with the rats.

A day and a night of brutal labor – all in a near-blizzard of wind and hard-driven snow. But at last this morning, with winches working block and tackle fore and aft, and men up on the ice with grapnels (thank Jesus-Floating for Bosun Hiram Cate), she was up and skating, sails slatting in quartering winds as the deck-crew stowed pulleys, winch bars, and two miles of ice-crusted cable, rope, and cord.

The cost had been the whipping, a broken arm, four various broken fingers, and a thumb pinched off. Sprains, aches, bruises, and fingernails torn away – uncounted.

Not for the first time – though more and more, lately – Captain Dearborn was considering himself old for active service. And while considering it, stepping down the narrow starboard ladder from a poop deck crowded by two big scorpions and their stacks of massive steel-tipped javelins, he found some confirmation in the lookout's yodel from a raven's-nest barely visible itself, high in swirling snow.

"Deck there! Somethin off to the southwest."

"Horse-riders?"

"… Sir?"

"Horse-riders?"

"A sled… sir."

A sled? Dearborn and Jim Neal, his first officer – who should have been trimming sail – both went to the starboard rail. Peering through ice-rimed boarder netting, they saw, sliding out of clouds of blowing snow, a sight that confirmed the Fleet's oldest tradition. Comes always something worse.

"Mother of God," said Neal, appealing to the most ancient Great.

It was a huge sled – gilded, painted blood-red, and drawn by a blanketed six-horse team shod with spiked iron. Furred and fur-hooded, a bulky groom rode postilion on the left lead. And a red banner, ranked with twelve gold dots, curled and spanked in the wind.

Captain Dearborn said, "Oh, no. Oh, no."

A trumpet spoke up from the sled as if the 'no' had been noted. Then a woman's voice, just as loud. "Is this the fucking Ill News!"

"No! No, ma'am!" Dearborn shouted in relief. "We're Mischief… Your Majesty?"