"My… my mother rules and wishes to rule. I don't."
"Your mother will soon be old, Rachel. She won't be able to shelter your people much longer from the river lords and the generals of East-bank and West. She won't be able to shelter you from men who would take you, or simply cut your throat, in consideration of the throne."
"And you have no consideration of the throne?"
"I don't want the fucking thing." Sam saw her wince at the word. Gently brought up… too gently brought up. "I don't have a choice! You and I have no choices. The thousands of men and women on your river, and down in my North Mexico – many of them better people than we are, Princess – depend on us to do what we're supposed to do. Their children depend on it."
"I will decide my duty." She stood; her white fists struck the top of the desk before her, hitting the wood hard. Three long sheets of paper sifted to the floor. "I will decide – not you."
Sam went to the door, so angry he felt his hands trembling. Angry at this stubborn girl, striking against a trap already closed upon her. Angry at himself… at this great pile of rocks filled with fools.
He turned at the door. "There is no 'I will' for you, Rachel – and none for me. The Queen sees to that. The Kipchak Khan sees to that. Boston, and the Emperor in Mexico City see to that. And the actions of some of our own people, fallen so far from Warm-times, also leave us no 'I will.' "
She stood staring at him as if he were some grim wizard, flown from New England on a storm. Sam saw tears in those dark eyes, saw the knowledge of her lost freedom in them – perhaps the same freedom her father was said to have regretted – and felt great pity for her.
"So, my dear," – and why not? Perhaps, in time, she might even become his 'dear' – "like it or not, you will have to replace that pen with a dagger. And as for me, my farm will be the camps… my flock, soldiers." He swung the oak door open, smiled at her, and hoped she saw affection in it. "Welcome, Princess, to our engagement – and almost certainly, endless troubles." He stepped out and closed the door behind him.
Sergeant Burke, lounging by the guards, spit tobacco juice out into the stairwell and came to a fine attention with a clank of his saber's scabbard. "Congratulations, sir!"
"Fuck off, Sergeant," Sam said, pleasing Burke – and, he supposed, the two Island men as well – since soldiers liked nothing better than fond curses.
CHAPTER 19
"I believe you're to be congratulated, Monroe." Lord Sayre stepped across West Keep's ground corridor, smiling at Sam like an old friend. "I say it, since you've come from the lady's solar without cat scratches." The wound at Sayre's mouth left lower teeth showing unpleasantly when he smiled, an effect apparently useful to the man.
Sam took the offered hand – a strong hand. "Since you're so… well informed and first with congratulations, except for my sergeant – I suppose I'd better be wary of you."
Lord Sayre laughed. "Always a good idea." He glanced over Sam's shoulder, where Sergeant Burke stood watching. " – And your sergeant, there, also a good idea."
Sam turned to Burke. "Henry, this is Lord William Sayre. Pass the word to the others. Lord Sayre can come to me at any time, his reasons his own."
"Sir."
"This… hasty engagement, with marriage possibly to follow, is going to be so interesting." Sayre walked beside Sam down the corridor, their boots silent on deep carpets, ringing on stretches of stone. "Too bad the war's confusing issues. You know, I'd thought I might have the throne myself, in time."
"You wouldn't have been suited to it, milord. Slightly too honorable, from what I've heard."
"'Slightly.' Mmm, that's possible… Do you play chess, Monroe?"
"No. My friend, Ned Flores, plays a strong game, but I've never really advanced past checkers."
"And I understand Colonel Flores will be playing one-handed, now?"
"Island seems always well-informed." They were walking through a huge room paneled with wood streaked rust and red. Its ceiling, worked in hammered copper and gold, was two stories high – so high that Sam could make out few details in an elaborately carved narrative, apparently of love and loss… By a polished granite fireplace, one of the few he'd seen without an iron Franklin fronting it, a group of men and women dressed in furs, and velvets in every color, were laughing at some notion or remark. The jewels down their weapon scabbards sparkled in the fire's light.
"Island well-informed? Informed about such as your Colonel Flores, you bet, since our strength is not in cavalry."
"Wonderful Warm-time phrase, 'You bet.' "
"Yes… and your checkers game, Monroe." Sayre opened the left of double doors, and ushered Sam through into a long hall he'd seen before. It was decorated with musical instruments of every different kind, hanging on the walls, or, if very large, resting on polished stands. " – A game fairly successful, it seems. You jump a few pieces, and are crowned." Sayre struck a light chord on an ivory banjar as they passed.
"A move isn't the game," Sam said.
Near the hallway's end, rested what seemed a fair copy of the ancient Warm-time piano, massive as a spotted bull, but gleaming black. "Meanwhile…" Sayre, who seemed musical, stepped over to strike a chord on the instrument's narrow keys with both his hands together – a loud crashing sound, but beautiful. "Meanwhile, the Queen still rules."
"A very long meanwhile, I hope. I've had enough of ruling to know the stink of its necessities. And, speaking of necessities, Sayre, I've noticed Island doesn't seem much alarmed at having lost Map-Jefferson City. Not much alarmed at the Khan's certain taking of all Map-Missouri soon – and the river, I'm told, already freezing north of Cairo."
"Ah, well… war." Sayre left the perhaps-piano, which, as they walked away, still sounded softly down the corridor as if reminding of times lost. "Monroe, we're always fighting wars. We have over thirty thousand veteran regulars, taking both bank armies together. Pikemen, crossbowmen. They've never been terribly impressed by horsemen. You know the Warm-time phrase, 'Whoever saw a dead cavalryman?' "
Behind them, Sergeant Burke cleared his throat, his boot-steps, spurs jingling, even more definite.
"I've seen them," Sam said. "And horseback raiders are one thing, the Khan's tumans are another. Thousands of light and heavy horse, under perfect discipline, with fast supply trains and bridging-and-siege engineers behind them."
"Mmm… Jefferson City making your point, I suppose."
"I hope so, for the Kingdom's sake. Once the Map-Texans were beaten at Cut'n Shoot? The old Khan had their bones collected and ground-up to enrich horse feed."
"Yes… A word of advice?"
"Of course." Ahead, polished dark wood, gleaming uncarpeted, ran to the West Keep steps.
"It occurs to me, Monroe, it might be useful for you to speak with Peter Bailey."
"Retired from East-bank army, isn't he?"
"Ah – done your informational! Yes, retired, but still our grand old man. Still the best general in either army, in my opinion. If the King had had him up in Map-Kentucky, the King would still be alive… Bailey's here at Island now, over in East Tower, come for a law-case on some leased estate land."
A small marble statue of a crouching cat was set on a greenstone stand along the corridor wall. Sayre paused and ran a forefinger along the carving before walking on. "Jemima Patch's work… As to General Bailey, the old man doesn't care for me, which you may consider a recommendation; he's not a man for the court. But if I were you – a provincial commander of note, and possibly soon to be a prince – I'd speak with him." Sayre hesitated, seemed to have more to say.
"Yes…?"