He could hear what sounded like wooden blocks struck together to keep the rowers' time. A hollow, almost musical note.
"Morning, sir!"
Sam turned, looked up to the high stern deck – apparently, and rather comically, called the 'poop' – and saw Captain Owen, in a tarred canvas cloak too big for him. The captain stood with one of his officers behind a low railing that ran across that higher deck, with entries only for two narrow accommodation ladders.
"Morning, Captain…!" Sam's breath drifted in frost for a moment, then was whisked away on the wind.
He turned to the river again, and saw no shore, even with dawn streaking the eastern horizon pollen-yellow. No shore, no margin, only the odor of fresh water and ice coming on the wind. Only that, its smaller waves, and what seemed a tidal race, marked it different to a landsman from the Gulf Entire. Sam could see two distant lights – ship's lanterns, each far enough away to seem only glimmers, like dying sparks risen from a campfire.
Somewhere to the east, likely already passed in the night, the old New Orleans – of so many copybook tales – lay, as most ancient river cities, long drowned. Owen's first officer had claimed at supper that a church bell tolled in its sunken tower there, and could be heard as deep currents swung the bronze… The town now called New Orleans, seemed to be one of the Fleet's headquarters and harbors, so was barely spoken of.
"Sam…" Margaret came and stood by him, yawning, her cloak's hood drawn up against the cold, its dark wool pearled with mist-droplets.
"Others up?"
"Roused or rousing, sir. Short sleeping seems the rule on these ships."
"Hmm. Look at this river, Margaret. Big with summer melt off the ice. According to Neckless Peter, at least three times, maybe four times, what it was before the cold came down. So the cities on it now, all named for flooded Warm-time towns that had been near, aren't really the old Map-places. According to a ship's officer, aren't called 'Map' at all."
"Why not 'New' this or that?"
"I don't know. Perhaps concerned their Floating Jesus might object."
"It's a perfect prairie for the Khan's tumans, sir, once it freezes."
"A prairie for them from the north, as it freezes."
"Sam…" Margaret put her gloved hand over his bare hand on the rail, as if to warm it. An unusual touching, for her. "Sam, I know… we know what you intend to do. And you can do it, no matter how big the fucking river is."
Sam smiled. "Without my vodka?"
"With or without it, Sam." She took her hand away. "These Boxcars seem to be a formidable people, but they're like the Kipchaks, full of pride and horseshit. Both are ripe for a kick in the ass."
"And I'm the boot?"
"You're the boot, Sam. You, and the rest of us sheep-stealers." Margaret glanced behind them, saw only Sergeant Mays, standing weighty on the deck. "…We have interesting news. Master Carey shared beer with the cooks in the galley last night, and helped with pots and pans. Ship's gossip is that Jefferson City, Map-Missouri, has been taken by the Khan's general, Andrei Shapilov. And every man in the garrison there killed. Three… four thousand of the West-bank army."
"Weather… But I knew, knew there was something. There was more on the captain's mind than cookies."
"Jefferson City might wake them."
"Wake some, Margaret. And send others deeper to sleep." Sam lifted his hands from the rail, blew on them to warm his fingers. "- But I'd guess, not the Queen."
CHAPTER 16
"My regiments…!"
Queen Joan had cried this out several times through three days and nights, but not as if requiring comfort. And even men and women who ordinarily weren't wary of her, hadn't dared offer it.
It seemed to Martha that the Queen's rage, like a lightning stroke near a bee tree, had set the hive of Island humming.
Officers of both bank armies – very senior and important men, usually seen allied at court – were suddenly absent. And very different officers, lower-ranked, harsh-faced, and grim, suddenly appeared to take up posts, positions, responsibilities… work they never seemed to rest from.
So, in only three days and three nights, Martha saw what queens were for.
"A poor time," the Queen said, holding a green velvet gown out at arm's length to see what window light did to it. "A poor time for that puppy Captain-General to decide to come calling."
"But you invited him…"
"Martha, don't use my past actions against me. I might have invited him – and I might not."
Distant trumpets and drums, preparing welcome at the Silver Gate, sang softly through the tower's stone.
"The young jackass." The green velvet was dropped to the floor. "I'd look like some pricey whore, rowing up to Celebration. Well" – she smiled at Martha – "perhaps more like the whore's mother, along for bargaining."
"No, ma'am. The whore herself, and beautiful."
The Queen, at the wardrobe, turned with a look. "So, I'm flattered and put in my place at once. I've come to suspect, girl, you've a brain along with your muscles." She rummaged, disturbing pressed gowns. "Probably should have you whipped… What about this?" A long dress striped black and silver.
"Seems… gaudy, ma'am."
" 'Seems gaudy, ma'am'! Well, what then?"
"The dark blood-red."
"Hmm. Worn several times before."
"And worn well, Majesty."
The Queen found the gown and hauled it out. "Pressed, at least. I'm amazed it's cleaned and pressed. Lazy bitches…" She held it up to the light, then held the dress to her and went to stand before her long mirror's almost perfect silvered glass.
"That fucking stupid Merwin dog," she said, examining her reflection. Martha had heard her say it before, referring to General Eli Merwin, dead with his men at Map-Jefferson City. The Queen had written and sent a letter to the Khan's general, Shapilov, thanking him for ridding her of a fool.
Queen Joan turned a little to the left, a little to the right. "I suppose it might do."
"Do nicely, ma'am," Martha said, and with Fat Orrie, began to dress her.
"Well, this Small-Sam Monroe deserves no better. Get it on me. The black shoes – I'll freeze – and only jet for jewelry, as mourning for my poor dead soldiers." Cascades of band music now drifted into the tower. "Who in Lady Weather's name do those people think they're greeting? Jesus come rafting by?"
"We need to hurry, ma'am."
"Don't rush me." With both hands, the Queen lifted the Helmet of Joy from its silver stand and settled its weight carefully on her head. "Terrible for my hair…"
Then the Queen was rushed, though apologetically, by Martha, her waiting women, and finally the chamberlain, Brady, come panting up the tower stairs in as much temper as he dared to show.
"For the -! Ma'am, we have a head of state now landing!"
"Calm yourself, old man." The Queen made a last pass before her mirror. Then, satisfied with red and black, led out and down the flights of stairs, her soldiers saluting as she passed.
Princess Rachel, wearing a simple, long, white-wool gown, with a thick goat's-hair shawl paneled in blue and green – and with only one lady in company – was waiting for them at the tower door. Her dark-brown hair was ribboned down her back in thick braids.
"Dressing to be plain?" the Queen said. "Fear rape, do you?"
The Princess didn't seem to hear, took her mother's hand and kissed it, then stepped back beside Martha as they walked down the long north staircase, past the glass Flower House. The Princess's lady – a blue-stocking named Erica DeVane – waved good fortune as they went.