"Mountain Jesus."
"Does seem wrong, doesn't it, Sam? Old man was meant to die fighting."
A dusting of new snow was falling. Nothing much. It barely sifted in Sam's sight, then vanished. "Jaime won't live long, now Elvin's gone."
"I suppose that's right," Ned said. "So there was that message, a while ago – then, last few days, three separate gallopers come all the way up from the Bravo – killed a couple of horses doing it."
"Saying?"
"First one was from Charles: 'All going to copybook hell-in-a-handbasket. Trouble with the provinces. Trouble with money. There isn't any money. Imperative you return soon as possible!'… Then, the second, from Eric: 'Enemy agents cropping up, possible rebellion planned in Sonora, paid for by the empire. Imperative you return as soon as possible!' "
"And the third?"
"Oh, the third – and last – was from the little librarian. Four words: 'Nothing important happening here.' "
Sam smiled, still thinking of Elvin. Remembering him throwing the dinner roll.
"A sensible old librarian," Ned said, "Neckless Peter."
"Yes. A sensible man."
As they climbed a steep slope through cold clear light – come far enough that the river, when it could be seen those miles behind them, was only patches of bright glitter in the rising sun – Sam heard bird calls, but calls from the birds of the Sierra. The tall savages trotting alongside laughed, imitated those calls perfectly… and Light Infantry – from Kearn's Company, by their bandannas – stepped out to meet them.
… Sam had said to the Princess, 'My farm will be the camps; my flock, soldiers.' Saying it, of course, as a measure of loss – which now was proved a lie, since he found himself truly happy in dark, wooded hill-country, deep-snowed and freezing. Happy that a ferocious arid brilliant war-lord had come south to oppose him. Happy in the warmth, the trust of more than ten thousand soldiers, men and women who greeted him now from regiment to regiment with stew-kettle drums and singing. They enclosed him like a warm cloak of fur… fur with fine steel mail woven through it. 'My flock… soldiers.' He prayed to the Lady, riding through them, for those who would die by his decisions.
… Most of the rest of the day was spent learning the ground – riding rounds down deep, snowed gullies, then up their wooded, steep reverses – and in greetings, embraces by officers and their scarred sergeants, shy as girls. Wilkey had gone back to his company, reluctant to leave Sam guarded by only a half-dozen.
From one height, Howell pointing, Sam could see over bare treetops to the Kipchak camp – sprawled, as his army was sprawled, across country too rough for regularity. An imperial far-looking glass cold against his eye, he thought he made out the Khan's yurt, bulky and bannered in a town of lesser shelters. By fire smokes, by men's movements across white snow, by horse lines that could be seen, the camp looked to hold perhaps twelve, perhaps fifteen thousand men.
"All Greats," Sam said, his breath frost-clouding, "bless the Boxcars and their Queen."
"Yes." Howell took the glass. He began, by old habit, to put it to his black-patched socket, then held it to his right eye and peered out across the hills. "Or we'd have thirty thousand of the fuckers to fight."
Sam had been… not startled, perhaps saddened to have noticed Howell, Ned, Phil Butler, and the others seeming older now than when he'd left them only weeks before. He supposed that he looked older, too, the price of large matters being dealt with.
Howell slid the glass shut into itself and handed it back. "How do you want to go about this, Sam?"
"To begin with, let's get warmer."
… Sitting on his locker, Sam envied Toghrul the big yurt. His canvas tent was cramped, packed with commanders sitting on his cot or camp-stools, with their silent second-in-commands: Carlo Petersen, Horacio Duran, Teddy Baker and Michael Elman, standing or kneeling behind them. And all smelling of sweat, leather, horse, and oiled steel. It was not a restful space, though warm enough now, with crowding.
"First, I want to thank Phil, and the army, for a brilliant march up through Map-Louisiana, Map-Arkansas."
"I had to hurry, Sam." Butler had brought only one dog on campaign; rat-sized, brown-spotted, it peered from his parka's pocket. " – That Boston girl was impossible. One more week, I'd have hanged her."
"No," Howell said, "I'd have hanged her."
"A wonderful march of infantry," Sam said, "and, Howell, a perfect move east. Not a trooper lost coming over from Map-Fort Stockton."
"Luck, Sam."
"No. Not luck. Charmian, how was the Bend border when you pulled your people out?"
"Busy." Charmian Loomis had a rich, sweet singer's voice, sounding oddly from someone so lean, dark, and grim. "They had a very good commander come down with them – not Cru-san; better than Crusan. If he'd had a couple of thousand more people, it would have been a problem."
"But as it was?"
Colonel Loomis considered. "As it was, it was… busy, but not a problem. We killed them at night, usually. And left… oh, perhaps eleven, twelve hundred still riding that whole territory, trampling farmers' starting-frames. Just good practice for our people down there."
" 'Good practice,' " Ned said. "You terrifying creature."
Colonel Loomis smiled at him – a rare event for her. She'd always seemed to like Ned, so much her opposite in every way but soldiering. Sam had wondered, as had others, if there might be a match there, someday. An odd match, to be sure. Lightness and darkness.
"This is my first day back. Tell me about the Khan."
"Sir, his dispositions – "
"I know how his army lies, Charmian; I've seen it, seen your map. I meant… what do your people feel about that army."
"They're careless," Charmian said.
"Careless?"
"Yes, sir – as if they have no doubt they'll win. Their patrolling is alert, but not aggressive."
"Right," Ned said. "They don't push. Just run regular patrols, keep in touch with our people."
"And on our flanks?"
"Nothing much. More… a little more activity at the base of our main ridge, Sam."
"Just a little more," Charmian said. "We've got high ground here, running up to all five ridges, though the west ridge is lowest. They seem interested in Main Ridge, and the rise to the left of it, but they're still willing to let my people hold those slopes. No contesting."
"No contesting… And nothing much on the flanks at all."
"That's right, Sam," Howell said. "And it's strange, because he brought those people south like a rock slide. Came down through Map-Missouri very fast."
"They overran two of my patrols." Ned tapped the curve of his steel hook against the tent's pole. "Killed them."
"So," Sam said, "in a hurry, then; but now… not in such a hurry."
"I'd say," – Butler had his little dog out on his lap, was stroking it – "I'd say he intends to move very decisively. Whatever feints he may or may not use, he'll drive his main attack all the way. Don't think he means to toy with us at all, no two or three days counter-marching for advantage."
Howell nodded. "I agree."
"Flanking," Sam said, "has always been their way."
"A good reason for him not to do it," Ned said. "Good reason for him to go for the center."
"He already lost," Butler scratching his little dog's belly, " – or his general lost, that battle in the north. First really serious defeat for them. Bound to take that into account, dealing with us."
"Yes," Sam said. "So, a decisive move, not a drawn-out piecemeal battle that might leave some of our army intact, even losing. It's a temptation to attack him – last thing he'd expect, an attack tonight."
Some apprehension in his officers' faces.
" – But this position is so perfect for defense." Sam smiled at their relief. "Now, if he goes for our flank, it will be a hook to our left. Attacking to our right, he takes a chance of being caught between us and a possible sortie by Kingdom troops from the river. So, if it's flanking, it will be to the west."