Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

The imperial charger, Difficult, night-black and looking big as a house, tried to bite Ned's shoulder.

"Behave yourself." Sam took the halter. "So Toghrul is coming down with only half an army, Ned – thanks to the Boxcars. Lady Weather bless Hopkins and Aiken!"

"Friends?"

"Well, a winning admiral, and a winning general – which makes them our friends."

"And Toghrul is not 'coming,' Sam. He's here. Arrived with his first elements yesterday. Man seems to be in a great hurry."

"But he hasn't attacked?" Sam went to Difficult's left side, tugged the stirrup strap down, hopped in the snow to get his boot up, and swung into the saddle. The charger sidled, began a buck, and blew noisy flatulent breaths.

"What a brute," Ned said, and was on his horse simply as taking a step. " – No. Still settling in just north of us when I rode out to meet you. Fourth day I've ridden up and down the bank, hoping to their Floating Jesus this was the place meant. No real notion when you'd be coming, only word sent over from a Kingdom ketch."

"Supposed to be a one-day sail here. Became more than two, with the ice."

"Yes. A possibility Toothy mentioned. Not much the Bluebirds don't follow on the river. Have to – the Boxcars hunt them, now and then… Sergeant, mount up."

… Then, a long morning's ride through deepening snow. They climbed slow-rising slopes west of the river, horses bucketing through deep drifts – the white lap of Lord Winter – as the Bluebirds paced them, drifting in and out of sight through bare-limb trees and snow-drifted bramble, jogging along, never seeming to tire.

"Good men," Sam said.

"Yes," – Ned smiled, riding beside him – "but risky at dinner."

"I see that. What news from home, Ned?"

"One piece of very bad news, Sam, pigeoned up a couple of weeks ago."

"Yes?"

"Elvin… The old brigadier's dead, back home. Died in his sleep of that fucking disease."

"Elvin dead…"

"Yes, sir. Jaime's still doing organizational work down there."

"Mountain Jesus."

"Does seem wrong, doesn't it, Sam? Old man was meant to die fighting."

A dusting of new snow was falling. Nothing much. It barely sifted in Sam's sight, then vanished. "Jaime won't live long, now Elvin's gone."

"I suppose that's right," Ned said. "So there was that message, a while ago – then, last few days, three separate gallopers come all the way up from the Bravo – killed a couple of horses doing it."

"Saying?"

"First one was from Charles: 'All going to copybook hell-in-a-handbasket. Trouble with the provinces. Trouble with money. There isn't any money. Imperative you return soon as possible!'… Then, the second, from Eric: 'Enemy agents cropping up, possible rebellion planned in Sonora, paid for by the empire. Imperative you return as soon as possible!' "

"And the third?"

"Oh, the third – and last – was from the little librarian. Four words: 'Nothing important happening here.' "

Sam smiled, still thinking of Elvin. Remembering him throwing the dinner roll.

"A sensible old librarian," Ned said, "Neckless Peter."

"Yes. A sensible man."

As they climbed a steep slope through cold clear light – come far enough that the river, when it could be seen those miles behind them, was only patches of bright glitter in the rising sun – Sam heard bird calls, but calls from the birds of the Sierra. The tall savages trotting alongside laughed, imitated those calls perfectly… and Light Infantry – from Kearn's Company, by their bandannas – stepped out to meet them.

… Sam had said to the Princess, 'My farm will be the camps; my flock, soldiers.' Saying it, of course, as a measure of loss – which now was proved a lie, since he found himself truly happy in dark, wooded hill-country, deep-snowed and freezing. Happy that a ferocious arid brilliant war-lord had come south to oppose him. Happy in the warmth, the trust of more than ten thousand soldiers, men and women who greeted him now from regiment to regiment with stew-kettle drums and singing. They enclosed him like a warm cloak of fur… fur with fine steel mail woven through it. 'My flock… soldiers.' He prayed to the Lady, riding through them, for those who would die by his decisions.

… Most of the rest of the day was spent learning the ground – riding rounds down deep, snowed gullies, then up their wooded, steep reverses – and in greetings, embraces by officers and their scarred sergeants, shy as girls. Wilkey had gone back to his company, reluctant to leave Sam guarded by only a half-dozen.

From one height, Howell pointing, Sam could see over bare treetops to the Kipchak camp – sprawled, as his army was sprawled, across country too rough for regularity. An imperial far-looking glass cold against his eye, he thought he made out the Khan's yurt, bulky and bannered in a town of lesser shelters. By fire smokes, by men's movements across white snow, by horse lines that could be seen, the camp looked to hold perhaps twelve, perhaps fifteen thousand men.

"All Greats," Sam said, his breath frost-clouding, "bless the Boxcars and their Queen."

"Yes." Howell took the glass. He began, by old habit, to put it to his black-patched socket, then held it to his right eye and peered out across the hills. "Or we'd have thirty thousand of the fuckers to fight."

Sam had been… not startled, perhaps saddened to have noticed Howell, Ned, Phil Butler, and the others seeming older now than when he'd left them only weeks before. He supposed that he looked older, too, the price of large matters being dealt with.

Howell slid the glass shut into itself and handed it back. "How do you want to go about this, Sam?"

"To begin with, let's get warmer."

… Sitting on his locker, Sam envied Toghrul the big yurt. His canvas tent was cramped, packed with commanders sitting on his cot or camp-stools, with their silent second-in-commands: Carlo Petersen, Horacio Duran, Teddy Baker and Michael Elman, standing or kneeling behind them. And all smelling of sweat, leather, horse, and oiled steel. It was not a restful space, though warm enough now, with crowding.

"First, I want to thank Phil, and the army, for a brilliant march up through Map-Louisiana, Map-Arkansas."

"I had to hurry, Sam." Butler had brought only one dog on campaign; rat-sized, brown-spotted, it peered from his parka's pocket. " – That Boston girl was impossible. One more week, I'd have hanged her."

"No," Howell said, "I'd have hanged her."

"A wonderful march of infantry," Sam said, "and, Howell, a perfect move east. Not a trooper lost coming over from Map-Fort Stockton."

"Luck, Sam."

"No. Not luck. Charmian, how was the Bend border when you pulled your people out?"

"Busy." Charmian Loomis had a rich, sweet singer's voice, sounding oddly from someone so lean, dark, and grim. "They had a very good commander come down with them – not Cru-san; better than Crusan. If he'd had a couple of thousand more people, it would have been a problem."

"But as it was?"

Colonel Loomis considered. "As it was, it was… busy, but not a problem. We killed them at night, usually. And left… oh, perhaps eleven, twelve hundred still riding that whole territory, trampling farmers' starting-frames. Just good practice for our people down there."

" 'Good practice,' " Ned said. "You terrifying creature."

Colonel Loomis smiled at him – a rare event for her. She'd always seemed to like Ned, so much her opposite in every way but soldiering. Sam had wondered, as had others, if there might be a match there, someday. An odd match, to be sure. Lightness and darkness.

"This is my first day back. Tell me about the Khan."

"Sir, his dispositions – "

"I know how his army lies, Charmian; I've seen it, seen your map. I meant… what do your people feel about that army."