"Oh, I understand very well." Pacing away, the old man spoke that to a wall and glassed arrow-slit. "But what you must understand, young man," – limping back, now – "is that by being aggressive, the Kingdom's forces have been very effective at controlling the river and six Map-states. Dealing for the most part, of course, with savages, tribesmen and so forth. Now, they're being asked to meet a military at least as formidable as ours – and commanded, I regret to say, by a genius of war."
"And the division of the army into East and West-bank commands?"
The old man stopped pacing. "Oh, that began as a sensible precaution on the part of our kings. Did you know it used to be a death-penalty offense for an officer of one bank army ever to cross the river… ever to have a close relationship with an officer from the opposite bank?"
"I'd heard that."
"And heard correctly. It was all a matter of careful balances – and now, of course, has become a weakness. It had occurred to no one, myself included, that it might be wise for both bank armies to cooperate against the Kipchaks, moving back and forth across the river to threaten his forces' flanks."
"Must be done now, sir." Sam stood, buckled his sword harness… reached over his shoulder to touch the weapon's hilt.
"Yes. Now it must be done, milord. And the Fleet won't like it. They've always been pleased to deal with a divided army. But East-bank was my old command, and I believe Mark Aiken will at least prepare to move, if I convince him that a direct order will be coming. Then he'll be able to get his regiments out onto the ice with no delay."
"That is… better than I'd hoped for, sir. I owe you a great debt."
"You keep that in mind, young man. I believe you mentioned… pay?" Bailey stooped for a small piece of firewood at the stove's rack, tossed it into the flames.
"I'll see to it, General… And I think I've taken enough of your time."
"Oh, nothing but time, now. Time, and a little widow – quite old, of course – but enough of a bitch to be interesting."
"The suggester of shaving?"
"The very one." He walked Sam to the door. "Remember, milord, your people have to be in place – and soon."
"I know it."
"And the other matter – "
" – Is Kingdom's fleet."
"That's right. If our fleet doesn't get north, and onto the ice to slice through those tumans' formations…"
"Any influence with the admirals, sir?"
The old man smiled. "Why, yes. The admirals are very much like sea-whales – they snort and wallow, roll and blow. And they hate my guts. That's always influence of a sort, if properly applied."
Sam paused at the door. "My thanks again, sir, for your help."
"You haven't got anything to thank me for, yet." The old man put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "When you can do a little better than 'advise,' you might take it upon yourself to see Lenihan. He's supposed to be coordinating command, here."
"I will. And I wish you could be fighting with me."
Bailey shook his head. "You are young. I can't tell you how grateful I am that I won't be fighting beside you. What's the copybook phrase? 'Scared to death'? I was scared to death, every battle I fought."
"I doubt it," Sam said, and swung the door open. Sergeant Burke came to attention.
"What's your name, Sergeant?" Bailey bent a yellow eye on him.
A more rigid attention. "Burke, sir!"
"Well, Sergeant Burke, watch this boy's back."
"Sir!" Followed by a very snappy salute – now, it seemed to Sam, as much a part of his soldiers as their belly-buttons.
… There was no temptation as great as inaction. Sam stood weary in the corridor's cold, drafty gray stone, Sergeant Burke standing silent behind him, and wished for rest, solitude, an end to persuading strangers. An end to maneuvers of words, as wearing as a battle in this great smoky warren of wind and rock.
The sergeant cleared his throat. And as if that had been a signal to march, Sam marched.
It would be the chamberlain's office, next – undoubtedly a mile away through freezing granite halls and stairways – to attempt to persuade that clever fat man to, in turn, try to persuade the Queen to loosen her grip, only slightly, on power.
It seemed unlikely – as everything on the river seemed unlikely, dreams flowing down in the current's ice with their Floating Jesus, so Sam felt he might wander Island forever.
Rodney Sewell had come down-river from Cooper Estate just two days before. Sent for to come quickly, he'd landed still wearing the family's livery, but changed in the dock shed to brown smock and sack trousers.
A preparation under-cook had been willing enough, for a bare handful of copper, to provide a place for a tall, shabby, ginger-haired stranger to sleep, deep in the kitchen cellars. Willing enough, if chicken-birds were properly gutted, potatoes peeled, and onions sliced by the basketful.
The people called him Ginger, since Sewell never offered his name, and were impressed by his gutting chicken-birds like a wonder. But though he always washed that mess off at the pump before the scullions' meals were served, and was quiet and decently mannered, the pot girls avoided him. Perhaps he washed too well, as if his hands – large, and long-fingered – had more important things to do.
Also, his first day working, he'd responded in an unpleasant way to the teasing any new kitchener was bound to expect. He'd stared at them, and was so oddly silent – while the gutting knife worked on, worked faster, its greasy blade flashing through flesh – that the teasing stopped.
Lunchtime on his third day, Sewell had strolled past the serving trays for a suite of Tower rooms. Strolled so near that the meat cook, Mr. Harris – in conversation with a fat servant belonging to those rooms – had cursed him and waved him back to his work.
Hours later, after filleting a deep basketfull of fishes to rest in ice as dinner preparation, Sewell ambled by the trays again. One held sliced carrots, turnip crisps, and pickled mussels. Sewell hesitated there, saw the idiot scrubber watching him, and walked away. He went through the second kitchen and down the cellar corridor to the turning for barrel preserves, and the jakes.
The storage there, shadowy and damp, extended from the corridor on either side down long, narrow aisles, walled by high stacks of barrels with more barrels packed behind them. All smelling sour with tons of brined cabbage – Warm-times' 'sour kraut' – some of it five, six years old. Sewell had never had a taste for it.
Down each dark aisle, hacked cabbages and huge open barrels – some half-filled, some crusted with salt shipped up from the Gulf Entire – stood beside long, knife-scored work tables.
Sewell had come to the end of storage, had the door to the jakes in sight, when something very heavy draped itself across his back and shoulders. It staggered him, with surprise as much as anything, but Sewell was quick, had always been very quick and strong. He would have had his gutting knife out, except that two fat legs had wrapped themselves around him, so his arms were pinned to his sides.
The knotted cord that whipped around his neck was inevitable, though Sewell did everything that could and should be done. He tried to scream – just too late – so made only a soft croaking sound. He bent, and bucked into a somersault to smash the strangler to the stone floor. Then he got to his feet – a difficult thing to do – and drove backward with great strength into a side aisle and a work table's heavy, seasoned edge.
With luck, the oak might have broken the strangler's spine, but hadn't. Whoever, he was a sturdy man, and he'd shifted a little just in time. Even so, given only one good breath – only one – Sewell felt anything might be possible.