"Well, with no intent to offend… most of Middle Kingdom, Monroe, will not find you an impressive heir to the throne. You're pretty much a savage as far as the River's concerned, a no-dot nobody. But Bailey was a great fighting man – both armies loved him, though the Fleet did not. His support would be worth more than regiments to you."
"Sounds like good advice," Sam said. They'd come to the Keep's stairs. "And if the old man bites me, I'll let him know it was your idea of amusement, and I only an innocent and honorable young soldier."
"Ah… checkers." Sayre smiled, bowed, then strolled away.
"Your impressions, Sergeant."
"Good man at your side, sir. Risky, at your back."
"Fair enough," Sam said… And why not to East Tower, now, to see the old man? A long walk, then likely steep stairs. There was no place at Island reached without climbing many steps.
With Henry Burke slouching behind him like some great carnivorous stork in armor – and after two inquiries of the way-Sam climbed a last flight of stone stairs, went down an icy corridor, and found the door to Bailey's rooms.
He knocked… knocked harder, and wasn't answered.
Sergeant Burke eased past, and hit the door hard enough to shake it in the jamb.
Muffled curses from inside. A bolt slid back, and an old man with shaving soap on his face, looked out at them. He was barefoot, and wearing a deep-green belted robe, spotted here and there with grease.
"Oh… it's you." He stood back from the door.
"You expected me, sir?" Sam walked into the room, gestured for Burke to wait outside.
The general, bulky, but bent with age, went back to shaving at a enameled basin of hot water on a stand also holding a small, polished-metal mirror. There were suds and splashes on the stone floor by his meaty, white, bare feet.
The old man gripped a long razor in a knob-knuckled hand, peered into the small reflecter, and began to scrape his cheek. "Expected to be annoyed by some fool," he said, "since the Khan took Jeff City." He paused for delicate work along his upper lip. The razor's blade flashed in firelight. "Damn woman remarked my stubble this morning. Carping old bitch…"
A small iron stove didn't seem to warm the room. Perhaps couldn't; the stone ceiling looked to be three men high.
"This fool, sir, is Sam Monroe."
The old man held his razor away, and smiled. "I know which fool you are, milord." Bailey's eyes, sunk in wrinkles as some far-south lizard's, were an almost topaz yellow. He recommenced shaving. "I used to have a servant for this chore – you know Warm-time 'chore'?"
"Yes. Very apt, sir."
"Mmm… I used to have a servant, before spending every fucking piece of silver I have to settle with a land thief named Edgar Crosby!"
"I've heard of some court case." Sam noticed a faint odor of urine from the old man's chamber-pot.
"Not a 'case.' A crime. I'd intended Highbank for my granddaughter. Now, little Agnes will be a fucking pauper!"
"And if I promise to see to it, sir, that in the future, little Agnes doesn't become a pauper, can we talk about this war?" Sam swung his scabbarded sword off his back, and sat, without invitation, in the nearest of two fat, velveted armchairs facing the futile stove.
Bailey rinsed his razor. "And Crosby's head?"
"Your Master Crosby's head – and all our heads – may be used as buzkash balls by the Khan's horsemen, if this kingdom doesn't come fully awake."
General Bailey grunted, then concentrated on finishing shaving, flicking suds from his razor onto the floor's stone. He had four tattooed dots on one cheek, five on the other. "And from me – retired, aged, forgetful – you wish?"
"Some sensible advice."
"Oh, that. Do you intend to try to command this war for us?"
"The Queen, so far, allows only that I 'advise' Kingdom's forces."
"Ah… And you intend to press that small authority as far as it will go?"
"Yes, I do, sir, since my people also stand under threat. The Queen is a great lady, and a fighter, but not a war planner."
Bailey rinsed his razor, folded it, and set it on the basin's edge. He mopped his face with a white woven-cloth towel. "I found your campaigns very interesting. The Boston people at Map-McAllen, for reasons of their own, reported them to us in detail. I suspect that demonstrated competence is why you are not at the bottom of the river. Apparently it's thought you might prove useful." The old man sat in the other armchair, lifted his bare feet onto a worn ottoman, and settled with a grunt, staring into the Franklin's small fire. "Who suggested you come see me?"
"Sayre."
"Ah… that oh, so clever man. Too fucking clever."
"A soldier, though."
"Yes, a soldier, if you keep an eye on him." The old man shifted slightly in his chair. "Your campaigns. The night thing at – God-Help-Us'
"Yes."
"Really not bad. Better than not bad."
"I was lucky."
"Of course. And lucky in the men – and women, by Lady Weather! – that fought for you. Did seem to me… and of course I wasn't there. But hearing of it, it did seem to me you spent your people a little too freely. Might have substituted maneuver for slaughter – certainly in the initial assault. It can be more useful to confuse an enemy, than kill a few more of them."
"… Yes, you're right, sir. I thought of strong left-flanking, get them half-turned from me, but I was afraid the cavalry might just charge away into the night… turn up weeks later in Map-Guadalajara."
The old man's laugh ended with a liquid cough. "And by Jesus they might have, at that. I've found cavalry… not quite trustworthy."
"I've learned to trust them. And since I'm presently looking at a pair of flat, obviously-infantry feet, I'll dismiss an ignorant observation."
Bailey smiled and wiggled his toes. "Oh, no insult intended. All your people seem to know their business."
"Yes, they do."
The old man stroked his cheeks, evaluating his shave. "Stupid woman…" He turned from watching the fire to look at Sam, an examination as coolly interested as an elderly cat's. "And just what do you, as a young commander of rather limited experience – no experience on the river at all – just what do you think needs to be done?"
"Sir, I think what's left of the West-bank army should be behind fortifications – dug-ditch and palisade, if that's the best they can do – until the river freezes, and they join East-bank army. Your General Pomeroy needs to stop sticking his neck out for the Kipchaks to chop. No more half-assed marching and countermarching."
"Hmm. Miles Pomeroy has had the fever-malaria for years. It makes him short-tempered, restless. I doubt he'll take that 'advice' to heart. Though I also doubt that fortification will win the war."
"It will stop losing it, while East-bank army gets its thumb out of its ass and moves west across the ice. The Fleet should be sailing north right now, ready to rig its runners to join them. The river's already freezing at St. Louis – "
"It's freezing below Lemay. – And this combination of forces will, of course, terrify Toghrul."
"It will keep his generals and half his army busy in the north, sir."
"While…?"
"While my army marches up through Map-Arkansas, threatening his lines of supply… then waits in good defensive country."
Bailey pursed his lips and made soft kissing sounds. "Well, young man, my information is – and I still receive some information, some useful pigeons – my information is that the Khan has already reached his people in the north, taken command from Shapilov. Which means your army had better move fast, or they'll be too late."
"They'll move fast. They should be well into Map-Louisiana now, with the cavalry coming east from Map-Fort Stockton to join them."