But no breath was given, and Sewell thrashed and staggered this way and that down the narrow aisle, kicked and arched his back, writhed to work his arms, his hands, free of those fat legs locked around him. It was difficult to do with no breathing… Soon it became impossible, and he knelt on the stone – that great weight still clinging, bearing on him. The cord buried deep in Sewell's neck seemed now made of diamonds, it sparkled so in his mind. He felt little things breaking in the back of his eyes from brightness.
He was lying down, face pressed to cool stone, and had no idea how that had happened, where the time had gone. He could feel a thing in his chest trembling. He was warm in the seat of his pants…
Ansel Carey, whistling a song his father had taught him, went up the aisle to the corridor, looked left and right, then came back to haul the corpse onto the work table, and go through its pockets. He found a gutting knife, another little blade hiding strapped to the right ankle, twenty-seven coins – copper, silver, and gold – and a tiny blown-glass bottle with a string-wound stopper. There was a thimbleful of ashy powder in it, that smelled like toasted almonds.
He tossed everything but the money into a brine barrel at the end of the work table, then slid the corpse that way. With grunts of effort, he doubled it over, lifted it… and stuffed it down into the big barrel butt first, so the feet and black, swollen face came together at the top, awash in pickling.
"Unappetizing," Master Carey said, fitted the oak lid down tight, then used a mallet to set the top hoop… While he labored – rolling the barrel to the back of the narrow aisle, then, with the aid of a plank as lever, hoisting it level by level, deep into the storage stacks – he decided the matter had been, after all, too slight to have mentioned beforehand, orders or not. And too squalid to report now, to a young Captain-General with more important matters on his mind.
CHAPTER 20
"Sir, what is the matter with these fools? As you suggested, whenever I'm out of these damned rooms, I've been having 'casual' conversations with a number of civilians and middle-rank officials – and those older officers who'll speak to a woman soldier without smirking – and none seem very interested in the Kipchaks."
Sam saw a tired Margaret Mosten sitting across from him at their suite's great table – as she undoubtedly saw a weary Sam Monroe. "The matter, Margaret, is they simply don't believe the threat is great. This afternoon, Chamberlain Brady dismissed the Khan with a wave of his hand. These people are not convinced this war requires that they let some war-lord from nowhere – "
"A no-dot war-lord, sir." Lieutenant Darry, still eating at supper's end, paused in forking up a baked apple.
"That's right, Pedro. A no-dot war-lord."
The long table supported the remains of food brought up under covered silver salvers by four servants in the Queen's blood-red livery. Servants accompanied from the kitchens by an untrusting Master Carey… who'd then uncovered platters of salt ham, broccoli and fresh onions, a roasted duck, potatoes creamed to pudding in spotted-cattle milk, and spiced baked apples – tasting them at random while the food cooled, the meats congealed.
Now, supper over, Carey – who remained mysteriously fat, since he never sat to eat – was collecting Island's silverware. The Chief of Kitchens, a tyrant laired deep in Island's cellar warren, counted all returned silverware, even from the Queen's table.
"… But, do they think Toghrul Khan is just going to go away?"
"Margaret, except for some of the officers the Queen has just brought to Island, the Boxcars think he's basically only a more formidable tribesman. And they've dealt with tribesmen and tooth-filers many times."
"But they lost Map-Jefferson City!"
" 'A fluke,' is how the chamberlain described that. I got the impression he thought the Queen was making too much of it."
"The court tends to agree, sir." Darry poured himself more berry brandy. The lieutenant, though slender, seemed to have an extraordinary capacity – was always hungry, and never seemed drunk. "People I speak to, some of them officers of the better regiments, regard this war as… well, a career opportunity. Except for those like Stilwell or Brainard, who have estates to inherit."
"Fucking overdecorated roosters." Margaret made a face. It seemed to Sam she hadn't yet forgiven him for her boots, leathers, and mail, in a court where the women – and men – dressed like furred and velveted song-birds.
"Well, Captain, they're frivolous… and they aren't." Pedro twirled his silver goblet; those were counted in the kitchens, too. "Most of them have fought tribesmen. And if not, fought each other in duels. I feel… really, I feel quite at home. Though, of course, they are a little rough."
"A little rough?" Sam considered some brandy, then decided not.
"Well, sir, Jerry Brainard has killed a man who questioned his family recipe. A question of palms."
"Palms?" Margaret said.
"Yes, Captain. Palms. Girl's palms – of course hardly done at all, now. But the question was whether to cattle-butter them before broiling, or after."
"Lady Weather…"
"And which," Sam said, "did the Brainards favor?"
"Oh, Jerry said, 'Before.' Before, absolutely. Keeps 'em plump; keeps 'em from drying out on the grill."
"These people," Margaret said, "deserve the Kipchaks."
"But our people don't," Sam said, "and Toghrul will see to it that as the Kingdom goes, so will they."
"True."
"And speaking of deserving, I've seen no Jesus priests, no ladies of Lady Weather at Island."
"No, sir," Darry said. "I understand the Queen doesn't allow it, doesn't allow them to stay. She sends them back where they came from with silver pieces. Says to do good – and stay gone."
"Making enemies, Pedro?" Margaret said.
"Don't think so, Captain. I'm told she gives a lot of silver. And the winter festivals, very elaborate, supposed to be wonderful to see. Canceled this year, of course."
"Master Carey," Sam said, "do we have a healthy pigeon?"
"Two, sir. Only two since Hector died on the Naughty. Couldn' stand the motion." Ansel Carey kept the birds in his room, and expressed to them the only tenderness Sam had seen from him.
"Leave the silverware; let the Queen's people count it when they come for the platters."
"What message, Sam?"
"To Howell and Ned, Margaret, through Better-Weather. Howell's probably joined by now, and Eric can relay dispatch-riders up to them. I want them moving north fast as possible. Forward elements should already be out of West Louisiana."
"Sam, they know that." Margaret had carved the supper meat, and was cleaning ham juice from her long dagger's blade with a red woven-cloth napkin. "They don't need to be reminded… if a galloper could even catch up to them."
"Well, they may not need a reminder if they get it – but they might have needed it, if they don't."
"Sam, that doesn't make any sense at all."
"Does to me," Darry said, and pushed his dessert plate away. The lieutenant tilted his heavy chair back and sat at ease, gleaming boots crossed at the ankles. "Precious Miss Murphy's Law. What may be fucked up – your pardon, Captain Mosten – will be fucked up. So, better a pigeon, to be sure."
"My thinking," Sam said. "And it's possible that Howell… even that both of them have been killed."
"Nothing," Margaret said, and got up from the table. "Nothing could kill both of those men. I don't think Ned is killable."
"Did lose his hand," Darry said.
Master Carey's room was down the corridor. Sam could hear him murmuring to the pigeons, apparently making his selection.
"Speaking of hands, Pedro; you've had more than a week dealing them out at the card-tables at court. And, I understand, have been successful. What news?"