But then, the bowman might follow, so that on a final field, the pack in battle with a furious great bull elk, arrows came whistling from behind.
These notions were confirmed for Sam as he walked the grand stone corridors of Island, whose high ceilings stirred and eddied with lantern smoke and the smoke of torches, which flowed to any outlet of air like a gray ghost of the great river sliding past them.
… During meals in an echoing dining-hall of granite and oak beams, huge as a roofed landscape, the Boxcars – Extraordinaries, of course, at the high tables – were courteous enough. They asked polite and apparently interested questions about North Mexico – its longer summers, its sources of labor, what beasts there were to hunt. Then chatted of hunting, of old campaigns against the tribes. Nothing was said about the Kipchaks.
Pleasant conversations, as by hosts to somewhat dubious guests, and all accompanied by very good food – cow roasts, stuffed geese, cabbage boiled or chopped cold – all meats spiced, carefully cooked, and sauced with gravies a little rich for Sam's stomach. And at every meal, even with breakfast's chicken eggs, fish, or pig-slices, various sorts of pickles and candied imperial fruits were served, with jellied berries from the river's thickets.
In that hall, only breakfast was eaten without music to listen to. Banjar men, a shaman-drummer from some backwoods tribe, and a blind woman with a harp were the orchestra – or more properly, a Warm-time 'band' that strummed and drummed and plucked to ease the later dining down.
Courteous and perhaps a little careful dealing with Sam and Margaret Mosten, the Boxcars seemed more than courteous to Pedro Darry, the lieutenant having become a favorite with the younger men – and possibly some older wives – so he laughed and joked with the Kingdom people as if born on the river.
Sam had been glanced at by a number of the Boxcar women, and found himself, a night or two, dreaming of jeweled and furred beauties… particularly one, smoothly plump, with fiery red hair. She was apparently of some notable tribal family allied to the Kingdom, since her small white teeth were filed to neat points.
Sam dreamed of her, but would have sought no introduction, even if there'd been the time, and this the occasion for it. None of the high-table ladies came to dine without cold-eyed husbands, brothers, or a hot-eyed lover, as escort.
At ease with Pedro, these richly dressed men and women – their cheeks dotted with blue tattooing – remained more guarded with Sam, though friendly enough, smiling as they suggested second helpings of this or that. They appeared to wait for their Queen's decision on him, not caring to be caught wrong-footed.
The great tables, so piled with food being busily served by Red-liveries, seemed to Sam a hint of the Queen's contempt for the courtiers' greed. He grew used to their soft, slurred speech – and sudden eruptions of temper down a table's polished hardwood when enough vodka or barley-whisk was drunk. They all, men and women, came to meals armed – their children also armed with ornate little daggers – but never drew in argument.
"Carey says the tables here are all the Queen's," Margaret had said when Sam mentioned it, "with everyone her guests. No one draws steel on her or hers."
Queen Joan had joined the diners only twice, for mid-meals, while Sam and his officers were eating there. She'd seemed to enjoy herself at the north table, and ate very well – particularly a pudding of preserved fruits – but paid no attention to the North Mexicans.
On one of those occasions, the more than three hundred Ordinaries lining the low tables had raised their beer jacks to her, swayed in place, and sung a song, 'Mammy, How I Love You.'
The high tables hadn't joined in the singing, and the Queen had stood to shout the Ordinaries to silence – "Stop that damned noise!" – which had seemed to please the singers very much. Sam saw they loved her, and were her strength against the generals, admirals, and lords of the river.
On the fifth morning, at a breakfast of imperial coffee, slice-cut barley bread, cheese, eggs, and a sort of sausage, a servant in the Queen's blood-red livery came easing along the wall, past the high tables' seated diners.
Margaret Mosten slid her bench-chair back a little as the man came, and hooked her little finger in her rapier's guard to loosen the blade in its scabbard.
"Oh, I'd say no trouble there." Darry, on Sam's other side, reached for another slice-cut of bread. "Some errand…"
The errand ended at Sam's place.
"Milord." The servant had a murmuring, messenger's voice. "Her Majesty is pleased to give you audience… If you'll follow me."
"About time," Margaret said, and stood.
"Only the Captain-General," the servant said.
Even so, when Sam walked after the man down the hall's long center aisle – watched, it seemed, by every eye – and Sergeant Wilkey left his place at a low table to come with him, the servant said nothing.
It was, as usual on Island, a long walk… The servant finally stood aside at a narrow door, opened it, and bowed Sam and the sergeant into a large, bare stone room. There were dark double-doors at its other side, and a single heavy, carved chair as furniture. The high ceiling, vaulted gray granite, echoed their bootsteps. There was no stove.
Sergeant Wilkey stayed standing by the narrow door, his longbow now strung. He'd taken three battle-arrows from his quiver and held them alongside the bow's grip with a curled finger, to be handy… Sam walked to the middle of the room and sat in the carved chair, stretching his legs. He breathed out a faint cloud of frost, and wished for another mug of coffee. What was expensive and rare at Better-Weather – though so much closer to the Empire – seemed lightly come-by on Kingdom's river. Goods and gold by water shipping, he supposed. How fine would made-roads have to be, to equal that ease…?
After a while, footsteps, a latch's turning, and the double doors swung open across the room. The Queen's armswoman, Martha, stepped through first. She was wearing a heavy, green-paneled woolen gown, the dress's hem reaching just to her low boots, not long enough to trip her. Sam saw the handle of her ax just over her right shoulder, and a gray glint of fine mail beneath a wrist's cuff. He'd seen bigger young women, but not many.
Queen Joan came behind her, almost as tall as her fighting girl, though slender. She was dressed like a copybook queen, with an ermine wrap over sky-blue velvet laced and looped with pearls. She wore blue-dyed deerskin slippers, and a narrow crown of leaves of gold.
Princess Rachel, behind her, was nearly as tall, but plainly dressed in a gown the color of stone. Her long dark hair was down, bound only once by a slender silver chain.
Sam stood, bowed to the Queen and her daughter, though not deeply, then stepped back.
Queen Joan sat, her armswoman standing behind her – and watching Sergeant Wilkey. Princess Rachel stood beside.
"It occurs to me…" The Queen had a voice that seemed younger than she was, a voice unlined, with no age in it. "It occurs to me… do you know the tale of the Gordian knot? It's a Warm-time tale."
"I know it," Sam said.
"Then tell me, Captain-General – who was Small-Sam and peed down my front on occasion – tell me why I shouldn't cut one of my Kingdom's possible knots, by cutting your throat? Pigeons informed me this morning that you're no longer a guest, but an invader, with your foot soldiers marching up through West Map-Louisiana… your cavalry come, or coming, east into Map-Arkansas to join them there."
Silence and stillness by the narrow door, where Sergeant Wilkey stood with his longbow.
"If I'd asked your permission," – Sam smiled – "you would have denied it. My army is crossing Kingdom territory, and intends to fight on it in North Map-Arkansas, South Map-Missouri – but fight the Khan Toghrul, not Boxcars."