"We're moving as fast as won't exhaust the men and break down the horses." Howell spit tobacco-juice hissing into the fire. "Won't do us any good, Ned, to ruin the army moving it."
"Speaking of which, we should be nearing the Kipchaks' supply lines soon."
"Yes."
"What do you want done when we hit them?"
"Take what we can use, give the rest to the local tribesmen."
"And the escort?"
"Kill them all." '
"Okay… My men have had no trouble with the savages – called Bluebirds, apparently. And they'll like any plunder we can give them. No trouble with the Bluebirds – but we got some cold looks from those West-bank scouts, couple of days ago."
"We're just passing through, Ned. We won't give them any trouble, and there aren't enough of them down here to give us any trouble. If the drum calls coming down the river are true, the Kipchaks pretty much wrecked West-bank army up at St. Louis." Howell kicked a brand back into the flames. "Also, I intend to look to those river people for food and fodder as we go north to the Map-Missouri line, in case Charles can't get supplies up to us fast enough. So, let's not kill any of the soldiers they have left."
"Right… It's really upsetting."
"What?"
"That you're actually thinking, Howell. It's difficult to get used to."
"You insubordinate asshole. You're lucky you're wearing that nasty thing."
Flores raised his hook and kissed it. "Don't insult my Alice."
"Alice?"
"Why not? Remember Alice Rodriguez? Cold, curved, and dangerous?"
"… Oh, Mountain Jesus. Hadn't thought of her for years. Well, take 'Alice' – and your regiment – and move off north. Smartly, Ned. We'll night-march six glass-hours."
"General," – Flores saluted with the middle finger of his good hand – "consider it done."
With Ned mounted and spurred off through falling snow, calling for his trumpeter, Howell stood warming his hands at the failing fire, watching down the hillside to the defile where Phil Butler's Heavy Infantry battalions were marching north in moonlight. Marching in good spirits, apparently, since they were singing "Gringo the Russians, Oh" as they swung along. Odd, how falling snow muffled sound.
"General?" Roberto Collins reining in his horse – and looking too young to be a captain on the staff. "Last units, sir, except for Colonel Loomis's rear guard."
"All right. Orders."
"Sir."
"Colonel Loomis to deploy three companies of Lights as tail-end charlies. Double-time the others up to flank us, deploying lightly to the east, heavily to the west. We'll be approaching the Kipchaks' lines of supply, coming from Map-Texas to north on the river. Tell her I want no surprises."
"Sir."
"And Roberto, make sure Charmian understands that her people are to stand no engagement. If there's a problem, they're to skirmish, then fall back on the main body."
"Yes, sir." And Collins was off at a gallop through deepening snow. Young, it seemed to Howell, young for a staff officer. And where had "tail-end charlies" come from? Some copybook…
"Big One-eye!" Blue-coated scimitar at her belt, Patience Nearly-Lodge Riley came to the fire's coals – small boots stomping through the snow – and tilted her hat's brim back from a face perfectly white, hair black as blindness. "I could send Webster to our Captain-General at their island. He would find him, if you have a message, or need his advice."
"I don't have a message, don't need Sam's advice, and would appreciate your staying with the baggage train where you belong. Colonel Butler put you there, Lady, and you're to stay."
"Only until fighting. I was promised to hover over a battle like Lady Weather, picking out this one or that one for best luck or bad."
"Right… Well, until that battle, please get your Boston butt back to baggage. We are responsible for you."
"And I so appreciate your protection." The girl smiled up at him, her small, white right hand resting on her sword's pommel. "The Captain-General – he'll be coming soon to fight the battle?"
"Can't be soon enough. Now, if you'll just get back where you belong. We have a night march – "
"You haven't visited dear Portia-doctor at all, One-eye, not a single time in this hasty travel north. Don't you think she would like a visit from you?" Another smile with that.
"Likely as much as I'm enjoying this one," Howell said. "Go back where you belong – or be tied and taken."
Patience made a comic grimace of terror… paused… seemed to drift a little up into the air, then swept away, long coat flapping softly as she sailed over hillside drifts of moonlit snow, and left the snow unblemished.
CHAPTER 21
The Queen's Room of Conference, a high-ceilinged stone box, had been arranged for discomfort. This to encourage short conferences, and little in the way of comment or advice to her from anyone. No attempt had been made to cushion that fact, or the straight-back wooden chairs ranged around a circular too-wide table, so everyone had to call their conversation. No refreshments were provided.
There was a small stove in a distant corner, with a small fire in it, and the thick, blurred glass of four arrow-slits down the room had been opened just enough for a steady, bitter little breeze to enter, and fans of powder snow.
Introductions had been made. Sam had noticed few friendly glances.
His chair had diagnosed his bad back at once, and was making it worse.
Only the Queen, bundled in lynx and wolverine, with her ax-girl standing behind her, sat in comfort on a minor throne plumped with pillows. Her daughter sat to her right, then Brady, the chamberlain. Then Generals Parker, DeVane, Lenihan – and Bailey, just arrived, his greenwool uniform as food-stained as his chamber-robe had been… Then Sam, at the foot, and on around to two admirals, Hopkins and Pearce, wearing storm-gray – both exactly the ocean whales Bailey had described, so Sam had had to be careful not to grin when introduced. Then, sitting side by side, though with careful space kept between them, Lords Sayre and Cooper. Cooper, almost elderly, and just returned to Island from up-river, sat tall, thin, and slightly bent in gray velvet and gray fur – looking, Sam thought, like a friendly grandfather, though perhaps a grandfather very close with money.
The last person around the table, sitting to the Queen's left, was a moneyman, Harvey Sloan, treasurer, looking more of a tavern tough than a book-keeper.
Each of these men had brought an officer or aide, and those – holding folios of fine paper, ink bottles, and steel-nib pens in narrow boxes – sat in more of the uncomfortable chairs, behind their principals and well back from the table. Margaret Mosten sat behind Sam, and Pedro Darry tended the cloakroom by the chamber entrance – though, since the room was near freezing, no coats or cloaks had been handed over.
Harvey Sloan had just spoken for peace – for discussions toward it, at least, with payments of silver promised for the Khan's withdrawal.
"Harvey," the Queen said, "the Khan Toghrul is not some nose-ringed savage down off the ice at Map-Illinois. We won't buy him with beads or banjars or silver pieces."
"How does it harm us, Majesty, to try? He can only say no. And if he should say yes, we have bought a year or more to become stronger."
"Harvey, for Jesus' sake use your head for more than a fucking abacus! He would say no, because he doesn't want us to have a year to grow stronger!"
"Sloan," General DeVane. "Sloan, this is not a money matter."
"Well, it will swiftly become so, General! Wars are fought with money as well as soldiers, and the financial affairs of the Kingdom remain uncertain, since I'm not allowed a central bank – which we sorely need to regulate the currency. Warm-times had one, I understand, and so should we! And also, land taxes have been in arrears four years running. So, how is this war to be paid for?"