After an early breakfast delivered to their rooms – the roast pork, boiled eggs, oat pudding, and honey rolls all first nibbled for safety's sake by Master Carey – Sam, with Sergeant Wilkey pacing behind him, longbow down his back, coursed through Island's passages to East Tower's stairs, cubbies, and chambers, until a serving man nodded to "General Lenihan" and pointed them to offices at the end of a lamp-lit hall. No guard was posted there.
Wilkey opened the oak door and stood aside as Sam walked in. Three soldiers, clerks, stood writing at stands beneath hanging five-flame oil lamps. They were wearing West-bank army's blue wool, but no weapons, no armor. They set their pens down as Sam and Wilkey came in.
"Brigadier Lenihan," Sam said. "I understand he's executive for plans and coordination – dealing with both bank armies?"
"And you are?" The tallest clerk, a sergeant.
"He's 'Milord Monroe' to you," Wilkey said pleasantly. "Now, see him in to your general."
The clerk said, "Sorry, sir – milord," trotted to an inner office door, knocked, opened it, and said, "Lord Monroe to see you, sir."
There was a grumble from inside. Sam walked past the clerk into a smaller space that reminded him of Charles' cramped office at Better-Weather, though more brightly lit. A stocky man with cold gray eyes and several days' growth of beard, wearing West-bank army's blue, stood from behind a desk piled with maps and message sheets. He had three tattooed dots on his left cheek, four on the other.
"General Lenihan, I believe we have some business."
"Sir – milord – I hardly think so." Lenihan's voice was hoarse with fatigue. "And, while I wouldn't wish to be rude, I must say I don't have the time for it." The brigadier looked down at his desk-top. "There are orders to be copied, orders to be sent. In short, sir, I have a war on my hands – at least portions of it."
"I see you do. And how does your war go, General?"
"That, sir, with all respect, is something I couldn't discuss with you. Perhaps the chamberlain's office…" Lenihan, impatient, glanced down and shifted some papers.
Sam shoved a stack of documents aside, then sat on the edge of the desk, one booted foot on the floor. "The Queen has allowed me to be what help I can in this war, Lenihan. So it's by her warrant and authority, as well as mine, that I suggest you drop this pose of 'responsible officer weary of interfering idiots' – and prepare to take my orders."
The general's face flushed. "I would need a written order, signed by the Queen, to do any such – "
Sam lunged across the desk, took Lenihan's throat in his right hand, and drove the man back against the wall. The brigadier was strong, struggled, and reached for his belted dagger. Sam covered that hand with his left to keep the blade sheathed – and heard Wilkey, behind him, draw his sword.
"Put up, Sergeant!" The sword whispered back into its scabbard.
Lenihan, who couldn't breathe, fought hard. His chair went over with a clatter; a fat folder slid from the desk. He struck with a heavy fist at Sam's head and belly, tried for his balls. Then plucked and tore at the strangling hand, to wrench it free.
The office door opened.
"Mind your own business," Wilkey said behind Sam, and kicked the door shut.
The general, though a tough man, was beginning to soften with lack of air. The punches and kicks slowly became random. Sam saw in the man's eyes the astounded realization this might be death – come so oddly, so suddenly, in an office of all things, and at the hand of a titled stranger young enough to be his son.
Sam let him go, and the general slid down the wall to one knee, took long, gasping breaths – then staggered up with his dagger drawn.
Sam, arms crossed, sat back on the desk edge, watching him… taking no notice of the knife.
"You… young dog!" A furious brigadier, and even hoarser now. There were tentative knocks on the office door.
"Get away from there!" Sergeant Wilkey said. There were no more knocks.
Sam was careful not to smile. "I apologize, Lenihan. I was hasty – but I needed to get your attention. We simply don't have time to waste with nonsense." He picked a paper off the desk-top, then another, and glanced over them. "Floating Jesus!" Pleased to have remembered the River's Great. "You people are moving units of East-bank army to cover these fucking towns!"
"That's right!" The general was still gripping his dagger. "The Kipchaks are raiding across the ice, up-river. They're burning East-bank towns. Killing everyone in them. Children… everyone!"
"Of course they are, General." Sam set the papers down. "Haven't you wondered why? – The Kipchaks like children. They have children of their own. So they must have a reason to be crossing the river up there, attacking those towns, and killing your people – including the little children."
"You… put your hands on me." Lenihan sheathed his dagger.
"Yes, I did. And if you don't begin to think, instead of sitting passing papers like turds, I'll put my hands on you again. Is that plain enough for you, General?"
Scowling silence.
"The Kipchaks want you people to break up your East-bank army. Shapilov, and now the Khan, want that army dissolved into little garrisons guarding civilians who should be moving back off the river into the forests. What the Khan doesn't want, is that army united into a single force that might cross the river ice against him!" Sam shook his head. "Lenihan, you and your people at Island have been doing the Kipchaks' work for them."
"We have not."
"Yes, you have. And it must stop. We don't have time for mistakes this serious. So far, you've been dealing with the Khan's generals. But now, Toghrul has taken command. Another blunder like this, he'll tear your throats out." Sam stood up off the desk. "You people are not dealing with tribesmen and savages any longer, warriors who don't know discipline. You're facing a great mechanical of war – do you understand? A veteran horse-army that can move fifty Warm-time miles a day, and fight a battle that evening. All commanded by a man more intelligent than both of us together."
Sam stood off the desk, and went to the door. "So, we do things right, General, and do them quickly and in cooperation – my people coming up into Map-Arkansas, and yours north, on the river ice. We do things right… or your head and my head and the Queen's head will end piled with thousands of others, here in your great courtyard."
"I… don't know."
"Yes, you do know, Lenihan… Now, by right of the Queen's warrant to me, you will inform General DeVane of East-bank army, General Parker of West-bank army, the two senior admirals at Island – Pearce and Hopkins – and the River Lords Sayre and Cooper, that their presence is commanded this afternoon in the Queen's council chamber at… two glasses. Each may bring one aide. And General Bailey may choose to attend, or not."
Lenihan looked even wearier than before. "I will… inform them, milord."
"'Sir,' will do; we don't have time for 'milord's. But you will do more than inform them, Lenihan. You will see to it that those officers and lords are present – if necessary, escorted and under arrest."
"… Yes, sir."
"What's your first name?"
"Patrick."
"Two more matters, Patrick. You're to post a guard at your corridor door. Also, put your clerks up on charges, for not supporting their officer with more than timid tapping while he was being assaulted."
A grudging first smile from the general. "Sir."
"See you at two, Pat," Sam said, and left the office, Wilkey following.
Ned Flores, weary, stood by a hasty nighttime fire, his steel hook reflecting the flames' red. "Howell, we're not moving fast enough."