Lieutenant General Bell had taken what the healers
politely called a heroic dose of laudanum, even by his own standards. He'd taken plenty to leave a unicorn flat on its back waving its hooves in the air, a silly smile on its face. For once, Bell felt no physical pain.
But Bell was sure all the laudanum in the world wouldn't have sufficed to take the edge off his towering inferno of wrath. Had he had two working arms and two legs, he would have done murder against his wing and brigade commanders. As things were, he could only scorch them with his leonine eyes, wishing each and every one of them into the most agonizing firepit of the hottest hell.
"You idiots!" he roared. "You bunglers! You fools! You knaves! How could you let the gods-damned southrons escape you? How? How?" The word came out as an agonized howl. "Are you cowards or are you traitors? Those are the only two choices I see."
His officers stirred. He didn't think any of them would have the effrontery to answer him, but Patrick the Cleaver did: "In that case, sir, you'd better get new fletching for your sight so it'll carry farther."
"Oh, unicorn shit!" Bell bellowed. "I watched you botching boobies there on the field. I watched you, and what did I see? Nothing! Nothing, gods damn it! You would not close with them. None of you would, you spineless squid! The best move in my career as a soldier I was thus destined to behold come to naught. To naught! You disgrace the uniforms you infest. A half-witted dog could have led an attack that would have swept the southrons away. Would I'd had one in an officer's uniform!"
The subordinate commanders stirred again, more angrily. A brigadier whose parents had given him the uncompromising name of Provincial Prerogative hissed, "You have no business to use us so . . . sir."
"You had no business to use me so!" Bell yelled, still in a perfect transport of fury. "Did I order you to attack the retreating southrons? I did. And did you attack them? You did not. They escaped. And whose fault is that? Mine? No, by the gods. Yours!"
A very red-faced young brigadier called Hiram the Cranberry said, "You have no business calling us cowards and dogs."
"You have no business acting like cowards and dogs," Bell raged. "You were supposed to act like soldiers. Did you? Did you?" He was screaming again. He half hoped he would have an apoplexy and die so he could escape this mortification.
"Sir, we did the best we could," said another brigadier, a short, squat fellow known as Otho the Troll.
"Then gods help King Geoffrey and his kingdom!" Bell said.
"You go too far, sir; you truly do," Patrick the Cleaver said. "Indeed and it's a sore trial to our honor."
"Have you any? It's news to me." Lieutenant General Bell wished he could simply turn his back on the wing and brigade commanders. Being a cripple brought with it all sorts of humiliations, some less obvious than others.
"For gods' sake, sir!" another brigadier burst out. That was his favorite expression; because of it, he was widely called For Gods' Sake John. Twirling one end of his fiercely outswept mustache, he went on, "You damage your own honor, sir, when you impugn ours."
"That's right. That is well said," agreed a brigadier known as Count John of Barsoom after the Peachtree Province estate where he'd grown goobers before the war. He thought very well of himself.
"I don't damage my honor. You—the lot of you—damaged my honor," Bell insisted. "If you'd only done what I told you to do, we would be celebrating an enormous victory right now. Instead, we have—this." He gestured in disgust. "You are dismissed, every single one of you. I wish I never had to see any of you ever again. The gods don't grant all wishes—I know that."
"Were you after calling us together for no better purpose than to be railing at us like your Excellency was a crazy man?" Patrick the Cleaver asked. "A bad business that is, a very bad business indeed."
Bell could at the moment think of no better purpose than the one Patrick had named. If the officer from the Sapphire Isle didn't agree with him—well, too bad for Patrick the Cleaver. "You are dismissed," Bell said again. "Get out of my sight, before I murder you all."
He couldn't make good on the threat. He knew that. His subordinate commanders had to know it, too. But if his look could have stretched them all dead on their pyres, it would have. They had to know that, too. By the way they hurried off, they feared his glare might strike them dead.
He took yet another swig of laudanum after they were gone. He hoped it would make him fall over. Again, no such luck. It didn't even quell his fury. All it did was make him a little woozy, a little sleepy. He heaved himself to his feet: no easy job, not with a missing leg and a useless arm. Laudanum or no laudanum, sticking a crutch in his left armpit brought a stab of pain. He welcomed it like an old friend; being without pain, these days, felt unnatural.
He pushed his way out through the tent flap. The sentries guarding the pavilion stiffened to attention. They saluted. General Bell nodded in reply; returning a salute while he was on his feet—on his foot, rather—wasn't easy.
The Army of Franklin was encamped not far from the road down which John the Lister's southrons had escaped. Healers still worked on some of the men who'd been wounded in the skirmishes of the day before. Bell growled something under his breath and ground his teeth. His army shouldn't have skirmished with the southrons. It should have crushed them.
One of the sentries pointed north. The motion swung Bell's eyes in that direction, too. The soldier said, "Looks like Ned of the Forest's unicorn-riders are coming in, sir."
"Yes, it does," Bell said. "I wish they'd been here yesterday. Say what you will about Ned, but he knows how to fight, which is more than most of the useless, worthless officers in this miserable, gods-forsaken army can do."
Prudently, the sentry didn't answer.
Before long, Ned's men were pitching their tents and building campfires next to those of the footsoldiers in the Army of Franklin. Ned of the Forest himself rode toward Lieutenant General Bell's pavilion. He swung down from his unicorn with an easy grace Bell remembered painfully—and that was indeed the way he remembered it—well. "By the gods, Bell," Ned cried, striding up to him, "what went wrong?"
"I don't know," Bell answered, his bitterness overflowing. "What I know is, I'm surrounded by idiots. I know that right down to the ground."
"We had 'em," Ned declared. "We had 'em. All we had to do was bite down on 'em and chew 'em up. Why didn't we?"
"I wish I could tell you," Bell said. "I gave the necessary commands. I gave them repeatedly. I gave them, and I saw them ignored. The attack I ordered did not take place. I wish it had."
"We won't get another chance like that," Ned warned.
Lieutenant General Bell nodded. "That, Lieutenant General, I do know. I wish I could cashier every brigade commander in my army, but I can't, gods damn it."
"There was a squabble like this here one after the battle by the River of Death," Ned of the Forest said.
"So I've heard," Bell said. "If I hadn't been wounded in that fight, I daresay I would have been a part of it."
"Reckon you're right," Ned said. "Thraxton the Braggart wanted to get rid of all of his officers, too, and we all wanted to kill him." By the way Ned's hands folded into fists, he meant that literally. Bell remembered stories he'd heard while recovering from his amputation, and what Ned had said not long ago. After a moment, the scowl fading from his face, Ned went on, "Thraxton got his way, on account of he's pals with King Geoffrey—you'll know about that, I expect. Thraxton got his way, all right—but the army was never the same again. Meaning no disrespect, sir, but it may be just as well you can't get rid of 'em all."
"I find that hard to believe—very hard, as a matter of fact," Bell said.
"I'm telling you what I think," Ned of the Forest answered. "If you don't care for what I think . . ." He didn't go on, but something nasty sparked in his eyes. If you don't care for what I think, to the hells with you, had to be what he meant.
Even full of anger as Bell was, he hesitated before provoking Ned. He shrugged a one-shouldered shrug instead. "Maybe," he said grudgingly.
"What are you going to do now?" Ned asked, adding, "Sir?" as an afterthought.
"We have to keep moving south," General Bell answered. "John the Lister got away this time. When I catch him, though, I'll make him pay."
"My bet is, he's heading toward Poor Richard," Ned said. "I know that part of Franklin—I know it right well." He spoke with great assurance. He'd fought all across Franklin and Cloviston and Dothan and Great River Province ever since the war began. Without a doubt, he knew them more intimately than most officers could hope to. He went on, "Some places around there, if the southrons dig in, they'll be mighty hard to dig out."
"Will John know those places?" Bell asked.
"If he doesn't, somebody in his force will," Ned said. "Plenty of traitors wearing southron gray." To a soldier who followed King Geoffrey, a northerner who stayed loyal to Avram was a traitor. A fair number of men from Franklin and even more from Cloviston had chosen Avram over Geoffrey. They fought their own small, bitter war with Geoffrey's backers in addition to and alongside of the larger struggle waged between the main armies of the two rival kings.
"Plenty of traitors to good King Geoffrey still in blue," Bell muttered. "If my commanders had done what they were supposed to—"
Ned of the Forest held up a hand. "Plenty of people—plenty of people with fancy uniforms on—are natural-born fools. I don't reckon anybody could quarrel with that. But you have to remember, there's a sight of difference between a natural-born fool and a traitor."
"Maybe," Bell said, even more grudgingly than before. "By the Lion God's claws, though, I wish you'd been at my van and not harassing the southrons' rear. You'd have blocked the road down to the Trumpeteth River and Poor Richard the way it should have been blocked."
"I hope I would," Ned said. "But it takes more than magic to let a man be two places at once. If I hadn't been harrying the southrons, they could've moved quicker, and they might've got out of your trap before you could spring it."
He was right. Bell knew as much. That didn't make his words any more palatable, though. "Bah!" Bell said: a reply that didn't require him to admit Ned was right. Realizing he needed something more, he continued, "I trust, Lieutenant General, you will lead the pursuit of the southrons now."
"Oh, yes, sir," Ned answered. "I'll send the boys after 'em. I'll do it right this minute, if you want me to."
"No, let it wait till the morning," Bell said. "Your unicorns are worn, and so are my pikemen and crossbowmen. No point to a strong pursuit unless we're fit to fight."
"My boys are always fit to fight," Ned of the Forest declared. "If yours aren't, too bad for them." Having had the last word, he got back onto his unicorn and rode away, the beast's hooves kicking up dirt at each stride.
Bell started to growl at him, to order him to come back and explain himself and apologize. He left the order unspoken. He was as brave a soldier as any who served King Geoffrey. No one without great courage would, or could, have stayed in the field after the wounds he'd taken. But even he didn't care to antagonize Ned of the Forest.
"We'll get them," Bell muttered. "If we don't catch up to them on the road, we'll get them in Poor Richard. John the Lister might have slid by me once, but he won't do it again."
Where railing at his subordinate commanders hadn't done a thing, that did help ease his wrath. All I need is another try, he thought. All the north needs is another try. We can still lick those southron sons of bitches. We can, and we have to. And so, of course, we will.
He went back into his pavilion. A folding chair waited for him. With a weary sigh, he sank into it and leaned his crutches against the iron-framed cot nearby. With his one good hand free, he fumbled for the laudanum bottle. He pulled it out, yanked the stopper free with his teeth, and took one more long swig.
Little by little, the latest dose of the drug washed through him. He sighed. At last, he had enough laudanum coursing through his veins to stop worrying quite so much about what might have been. He felt much more alive with the mixture of opium and brandy than he ever had without it. There were times when he felt his mutilations were almost worthwhile. Without them, he never would have made the acquaintance of the wonders of laudanum, and he couldn't imagine living apart from it, not any more he couldn't.
But not even laudanum's soothing influence altogether stifled his rage against the men who had let him down. How many times do I have to give the command to advance? he wondered. What can I do when they refuse to listen? I can't charge the gods-damned southrons myself, not on one leg. He had charged them, many times. The catapult stone that had smashed his thigh by the River of Death was the reason he went on one leg these days.
"Next time," he muttered. "We will get them next time." Then the huge doses of the drug he'd taken overwhelmed even his laudanum-accustomed frame. A wriggle and a scramble shifted him from the chair to the cot. He twisted into a position that put the least weight on his bad shoulder and his stump, closed his eyes, and slept, dreaming of blood and victory.
"Here you are, sir," the gray-robed scryer said, standing up from the stool in front of his crystal ball so Lieutenant General George could take his place.
"That's true. Here I am." Doubting George sat down. John the Lister's image, tiny and perfect, stared out of the crystal ball at him. George said, "So you're on your way to Poor Richard now, are you?"
"Yes, sir," John answered. "By the Thunderer's beard, I'm glad to be past the traitors, too. I thought they'd cooked our goose at Summer Mountain."
"Never give up," Doubting George said. "Till they kill you, you're still in the fight. And after that, make 'em worry about your ghost."
"Haven't seen any ghosts on the battlefield, sir," John the Lister said. "It's the live sons of bitches who worry me. If Bell pursues hard, I could still wind up in trouble."
"What can I do to help you?" Doubting George asked.
"Another ten thousand men would be nice," John replied. George chuckled. He'd made many such wry remarks himself.
But this one, unfortunately, he couldn't answer with more than a chuckle. He said, "I'd send them to you if I had them, but I don't. Do you know how much trouble I'm having pulling garrisons out of towns and off of glideway lines here and down in Cloviston?"
"I have some small idea." John sounded even drier than before. "You wouldn't have sent me up here to take a beating—I mean, to slow down Lieutenant General Bell, of course—if you thought it would be easy. Still, if you had them to spare, I could really use them right now."
"I haven't got them to spare. I haven't got them at all, as a matter of fact," George said. "You're commanding more men than I am right now. General Hesmucet did me no favors when he put me in charge of these provinces after he went and stripped most of the good soldiers out of them."
"Superiors don't usually do favors for subordinates they give hard, nasty jobs to," John the Lister said.
"Uh, yes." Doubting George felt skewered by the sort of dart he usually aimed at other officers. He'd given John a hard, nasty job, and was uncomfortably aware of it. "I am doing the best I can," he assured the man to whom he'd given it.
"I'm sure of that, sir." John didn't come right out and call him a liar, but he didn't miss by much. "If you can't give me reinforcements, can you send that hotshot mage of yours up to me?"
"Major Alva, you mean?"
"I forget his name. The one who actually knows what he's doing, even if he looks like an unmade bed and has no idea how an officer is supposed to behave."
"That's Major Alva, all right," George said. "I hate to lose him. He's far and away the best wizard around—gods only know why Hesmucet didn't take him along for the march across Peachtree."
John took a deep breath that was both visible and audible. "I wouldn't ask for him if he weren't good, sir. I'm trying to keep from getting slaughtered, you know. Anything you can do to help would be nice."
"You're right, of course," Doubting George said contritely. "I'll send him straight to you. Shall he wait for you in Poor Richard, or do you need him on the north bank of the Trumpeteth?"
"If you can get him all the way up here, I'll be glad to have him," John said. "The river's running high right now, what with all the rain we've had lately, and bridging it won't be easy. A good wizard would be a handy thing to have."
"Call Major Alva a thing to his face, and he'll make you sorry for it," George warned. "It's not just that he forgets he's supposed to be an officer. He'd be touchy even if he weren't one."
"Too smart for his own good, eh?" John the Lister asked.
"You might say so," George answered. "Yes, by the gods, you just might say so. Why I haven't wrung his scrawny neck . . . But I know why, as a matter of fact. I haven't wrung his neck because he is good."
"Well, fine. I can use somebody who's good," John said. "The mages I've got up here with me can't grab their backsides with both hands. They can't spell cat if you spot them the c and the a. They can't—"
"I get the idea," Doubting George said. "I'll send Alva to you as fast as I can, and I hope he does you some good."
"Thanks very much, sir," John said. "I am grateful for it. If we can get over the Trumpeteth and into Poor Richard, I think we'll give a good account of ourselves when Lieutenant General Bell comes to call."
"That's good. That's what I want to hear." Especially if it's true, George thought. He asked, "Anything else?" John the Lister shook his head. George gestured to the scryer in charge of the crystal ball. The man in the gray robe broke the mystical connection between this ball and the one John was using. John's image disappeared. The crystal ball went back to being nothing but a round lump of glass that twisted light oddly when you looked through it.
"Do you need to speak with anyone else, sir?" the scryer asked. "With Marshal Bart, maybe, or King Avram?"
"No, thanks," George said. "The only time they want to talk to me is when they think I've done something wrong. As long as they're happy leaving me alone, I'm happy being left. The less I do to remind them I'm around, the better off I am. This way, I get to run my own war."
Belatedly, he realized he might get in trouble if the scryer passed his sentiments on to Marshal Bart over in Pierreville, or to King Avram's henchmen in the Black Palace at Georgetown. Then he shrugged. Even if the marshal or the king did get wind of his sentiments, he'd probably escape without anything worse than teasing. What Detinan didn't think he could do almost anything? What Detinan didn't resent having superiors looking over his shoulder? George had the job here. He intended to take care of it.
He left the building where the scryers kept their crystals. As soon as he walked out onto the streets of Ramblerton, he flipped up his collar and stuck his hands in his pockets to protect them and his neck from the chilly wind blowing up from the south. He came from Parthenia himself, and had no use for the nasty weather that made winter so unpleasant through much of King Avram's realm.
Sentries came to attention and saluted when he returned to his headquarters. "Fetch me Major Alva, if you'd be so kind," he told one of them, adding, "and don't let him dawdle on the way any more than you can help."
"Yes, sir." The sentry saluted again and hurried off, crossbow slung on his shoulder, quiver full of bolts hanging at his hip next to his shortsword.
Alva arrived soon enough to keep Doubting George from getting too annoyed at him. He even remembered to salute, which warmed the cockles of the commanding general's heart. And when he said, "What can I do for you?" he tacked on, "Sir?" with a hesitation even George, who was looking for it, had trouble noticing.
"You can go to Poor Richard," George told him. "At once. Go pack. Be on the next northbound glideway caravan."
Major Alva gaped. "I beg your pardon?"
"Why? Did you fart?" Doubting George asked. Major Alva's jaw dropped. George ignored the histrionics. He went on, "I gave you an order. Please obey it, without fuss and without wasting time."
"Uh, yes, sir," Alva said dazedly. "But why?" The expression on his face said, What did I do to deserve this?
"You're not in trouble. It's even a compliment, if you like," George said. "John the Lister asked for you by name." That wasn't quite true, since John hadn't remembered Alva's name, but it came close enough. "He's having some difficulties with Lieutenant General Bell and his wizards, and he wanted a good mage on his side to make sure things don't go any wronger than they have already."
"Oh," Alva said, still a trifle stunned. "All right. I'll go."
"How generous of you," Doubting George said.
Alva needed a moment to notice the lurking sarcasm. When he did, his flush was unmistakable despite his swarthy skin. "I said I'd go," he muttered, voice petulant.
"You don't need to make it sound as if you deserve a decoration for doing what I tell you to do," George said. "I hope you do well enough to deserve a decoration." He paused, then shook his head. "No, I take that back."
"You hope I don't do well enough to deserve a decoration?" Alva asked. "Why?"
"I hope you don't need to do well enough to deserve a decoration," George answered. "I hope everything is simple and easy, and the traitors don't do a single thing to cause you any trouble. Wouldn't that be nice?"
"That would be lovely," the mage said in hollow tones. "That would be splendid. But I doubt it's going to happen. Don't you?"
"Me? Doubt? What a ridiculous notion," Doubting George said. "Why, I'm as full of positive thoughts as the inside of a daffodil is full of crossbow quarrels."
"Er, yes . . . sir." Major Alva looked like a man who wanted to leave. Rapidly. After a moment of very obvious thought, he found an excuse: "If I want to be on the next glideway carpet, I'd better get ready. May I be excused, sir?"
"Oh, yes. You're dismissed," the commanding general said. Alva had to remember to salute. He hurried out of the headquarters. Doubting George threw back his head and laughed. He'd put the fear of the gods into Alva, or at least done a good job of confusing him, which would serve every bit as well.
Now if I could only assemble an army that easily, he thought. Getting men to come to Ramblerton so they could actually do some fighting got harder by the day. News that General Bell had invaded Franklin should have made men rush together to defend their kingdom. Instead, it had made each little garrison want to stay exactly where it was, so it could defend its own little town or fortress.
If Bell wasn't altogether a fool—not the most obvious proposition George had ever thought of—he wouldn't want to fight at every little town and fortress. He'd bypass whatever he could so he could move south into Cloviston and head for the Highlow River, where he could do King Geoffrey some good and embarrass and perhaps even hurt King Avram. That seemed obvious to George. To his subordinates? No.
But Bell couldn't ignore a big army on his flank—or at least he would be a fool if he did. Maybe he would try to ignore it—Bell was the sort who would try to ignore whatever he could if ignoring it meant he could go after something else. George hoped Bell would ignore southron soldiers on his flank. That would make life easy for him personally, and for King Avram and the south in general.
Meanwhile, he still had an army to build up . . . if he could, if his own officers, men who were supposed to obey his commands, would let him. They were convinced they knew what was best for them, best for their own little forces. They didn't think about or didn't care what was best for the kingdom. If somebody tried to point out what was best for Detina as a whole, they didn't want to listen.
Colonel Andy came in and saluted. "What did you do to poor little Alva?" George's adjutant asked.
"Poor little Alva? I doubt that," Doubting George said. "After the war ends, he can get about as rich as he cares to. What did I do? I sent him up to Poor Richard, to give John the Lister a hand."
"Oh. That explains the kicked-puppy look I saw on his face," Andy said. "He has to pack his carpetbag and go somewhere else, and nobody will take care of him while he's traveling."
"He's not all that helpless," George said. "Gods know I've seen mages who were a hells of a lot worse."
"I know," Andy said. "But he thinks he's helpless when he has to deal with the ordinary world, and so he acts that way, which also gives him the chance to annoy everybody around him."
"My, you're sour today," George remarked. "Feel like insulting anyone else while you're here, or can I have a turn?"
"Go right ahead, sir. You're the commanding general, after all," Andy replied. "Rank hath its privileges."
Doubting George snorted and held his nose. "Rank is mostly just . . . rank. Look at what dear General Hesmucet left me, if you don't believe that. Some people had to make bricks without straw. I get to make bricks without clay. There's good reason most of these odds and sods in Franklin and Cloviston were garrison soldiers. The more I see it, the plainer it is, too: they aren't worth a counterfeit copper in a real fight."
"And you blame Hesmucet for that?" Andy asked.
"Of course I do. You don't expect me to blame myself, do you? Not fornicating likely. Besides, Hesmucet's marching through Peachtree, and he's up against nothing but the same kind of odds and sods, except in blue uniforms. He'll whale the living stuffing out of them, and he'll be a big hero. Meanwhile, I'm still fighting against a real army. Do you think I'll let him get away without a few insults flying around his ears? That's likely the worst opposition he'll see."
"You don't like him very well, do you?"
"He's a brave soldier. He's a good general. I wish I were doing what he really is. I'd get to be a famous hero, too. The way things are, I've got a hard, ugly job to do, and nobody gets famous taking care of those." Doubting George sighed. "That doesn't mean they don't need doing, though."
Corporal Rollant looked toward the Trumpeteth River, which lay between John the Lister's army and safety in Poor Richard. He'd crossed the river coming north, on his way to Summer Mountain. At the ford, it hadn't come up past his waist. He'd taken off his pantaloons, got the bottom of his shirt wet, and gone on about his business. Things wouldn't be so easy heading south.
What with all the rain that had fallen, the Trumpeteth came up a lot higher than Rollant's waist now. It would have been up over his head, even at the ford. It wasn't quite out of its banks, but it wasn't far from flooding, either. Any army falling back toward Poor Richard would have to bridge the stream before it could cross.
Normally, that would have been straightforward work for Joseph the Lister's artificers and mages. Things weren't normal now. Rollant wondered if things ever were really normal in wartime. When he said that out loud, Smitty snickered. "Of course they're normal," he said. "They're always buggered up."
"Well, yes," Rollant said. "But there's the usual kind of mess, and then there's this kind of mess." He scratched his head. "If there's a usual kind of mess, I suppose things can be normal during the war. But they're not normal now."
"Sure as hells aren't," Smitty agreed. "Not with the gods-damned traitors trying to sabotage everything we do."
"They always try to do that," Rollant said dolefully. "Trouble is, they're having too much luck at it right now."
Smitty shook his head. "That isn't luck. They're still better wizards than we are, even after all this time."
"I know," Rollant said, even more dolefully than before. "They wouldn't have dropped our latest try at a bridge into the Trumpeteth if they weren't."
"And the one before that, and the one before that, don't forget," Smitty said. "Something tells me they don't want us crossing over the Trumpeteth. They're sure trying like anything to keep us from doing it, anyhow."
"Lieutenant General Bell's probably still mad at us for sliding past him at Summer Mountain," Rollant said.
"I would be, if I wore his shoes—his shoe, I mean," Smitty said.
"I bet the traitors make that joke every day," Rollant said.
"I bet you've got a big mouth . . . Corporal," Smitty said. For a moment, he'd forgotten Rollant outranked him. Ordinary Detinans often had a hells of a time remembering blonds could outrank them. Hastily, Smitty went on, "And I bet General Bell's probably about ready to spit nails like a repeating crossbow on account of we did get by his bastards. Only goes to show the traitors can screw up a perfectly good position, too. Sort of reassuring, if you know what I mean."
"We already knew they could be as stupid as we are," Rollant said. "Remember Proselytizers' Rise."
"There is that," Smitty admitted. "Yes, there is that, by the Lion God's fangs. They should have slaughtered us."
Rollant laughed. "You sound like you're sorry they didn't."
"No, they're the ones who're sorry they didn't," Smitty said. "Only thing I'm sorry for right now is that I've got to stand in this miserable, muddy trench."
"They've got soldiers along with their wizards," Rollant said. "If they overrun us, we don't get another chance to build the bridge. Besides" —he touched his crossbow, which leaned against his leg, ready to grab and pull and shoot— "anybody who tries overrunning me'll have to kill me first."
That wasn't just bravado. He meant every word of it. Detinans had forced blonds in the north into serfdom because the blonds hadn't been able to fight enough, all those centuries ago, to keep their kingdoms from being overwhelmed. Ever since then, northern Detinans had figured blonds couldn't fight—and had taken elaborate precautions to make sure they never got the chance. The Detinans didn't notice the paradox. Blonds did—but who cared what blonds noticed?
If Lieutenant General Bell's men captured Smitty, he'd go into a prisoners' camp till he was exchanged for some northerner. If Bell's men captured Rollant, he'd go, in chains, back to the estate from whose lands he'd presumed to abscond with himself. He knew his old liege lord was dead. He'd shot Baron Ormerod himself, up at the top of Proselytizers' Rise. But whoever owned Ormerod's land these days still had a claim to the serfs tied to it. Whoever that was had a claim under the laws of Palmetto Province, anyhow. Rollant was rude enough to think himself entitled to the fruits of his own labor, and ready to fight to hold on to that freedom to work for himself.
Out beyond the trenches were holes in the ground sheltering the pickets who would slow down any northern attack. Out beyond the pickets were the scouts and sentries who would spot the attack before it rolled over the southrons. That was how things were supposed to work. Most of the time, they did. Every once in a while . . . Rollant didn't want to think about all the things that could go so gruesomely wrong.
For now, Bell's soldiers didn't care to close with John the Lister's men. Soldiers who followed both Avram and Geoffrey had, in this fourth year of the war, become very cautious about rushing earthworks. That wasn't to say they wouldn't, but it was to say they looked for the likelihood of reward before pressing an assault to the limit. Rollant had seen up in Peachtree Province how important entrenchments were. Bell's men had fought there, too. They were traitors, but they weren't morons.
An ass-drawn wagon driven by teamsters in King Avram's gray rattled past the sentries, past the pickets, and through a gap in the entrenchments not far from the position of Rollant's company. Another followed, and another, and another. They carried logs with one end sharpened to a point: pilings for the southrons' next effort at a bridge.
Smitty watched them go by with world-weary cynicism. "Wonder if they'll do any better than they did the last time," he said, and then, before Rollant could answer, "Don't suppose they could do much worse."
"We have to get over the Trumpeteth," Rollant said. "We have to. Once we're back in Poor Richard, Bell won't dare give us any trouble."
"Who knows what Bell will dare?" Smitty said.
"Well, he'd be an idiot if he did," Rollant said. "If he wants to be an idiot, that's fine with me."
"Me, too." Even the argumentative Smitty didn't seem inclined to disagree with that. "Now, if I were Bell, I'd dress some of my boys up in gray and let 'em sneak through our lines. They could have us trussed and tied before we even know what's going on."
"That's a dreadful idea!" Rollant exclaimed in horror.
Smitty bowed, as if at praise. "I like it, too."
For a heartbeat, Rollant thought the farmer's son had misheard him. Then he realized Smitty was just being his perverse self. Acknowledging him only made him worse. Rollant said, "One of these days, Smitty . . ."
"I know," Smitty said. "But I'll have fun till then."
At dawn the next morning, heavy stones and firepots started landing in and around the entrenchments. "The traitors must have brought their engines up during the night," Rollant said.
Smitty bowed again. "Thank you so much for that brilliant deduction, Marshal Rollant, your Grace, sir."
"Oh, to the hells with you," Rollant snapped. "Can't anybody say anything without getting it twisted around and shot back at him?"
At that moment, a stone slammed into the parapet in front of them, showering them both with dirt. Rollant rubbed at his face. Smitty spat—spat brown, in fact. "Wouldn't you sooner have me shooting words at you than the traitors shooting big rocks?" he said, and spat again. "My mouth's full of grit."
"So is mine," Rollant said, "but I got some in my eye, too."
About fifty yards down the trench line, another stone thudded home. Two men shrieked. Rollant and Smitty exchanged dismayed glances. Rollant wondered whether the stone had hit any other soldiers and killed them outright before maiming the two who cried out. It could have. He knew that altogether too well.
Lieutenant Griff said, "We are going forward, men, to capture those engines or destroy them or make the northerners pull them back."
No one grumbled, even though coming out of the trenches was risky. This way, they could hit back. Nothing was harder to bear than staying in place and taking a pounding without being able to repay the damage in kind. Even Rollant, who would carry the company standard and wouldn't do any actual fighting out in the open till he got close enough to the enemy to chop with his shortsword, only nodded.
Out of the trenches swarmed the men in gray. "Avram!" they shouted. "Avram and freedom! King Avram!"
Crossbow bolts hissed through the air at them. Bell had brought men forward to defend his engines, too. Rollant sighed. He'd known Bell would. "Geoffrey!" the northerners shouted, and, "Provincial prerogative forever!"
Provincial prerogative, as far as Rollant was concerned, meant nothing except the privilege of treating blonds like beasts of burden. He waved his standard, gold dragon on red, high above his head. False King Geoffrey's partisans flew the same flag with the colors reversed.
Pok! A crossbow bolt tore through the silk. The standard had already taken a number of such wounds. Another bolt hissed past Rollant's ear, this one not from in front of him but from behind. One of his own comrades was shooting carelessly at the traitors. Rollant hoped the fellow was shooting at them, anyhow.
Bell's men hadn't had time to entrench as well as Rollant was sure they would have liked. Some of them crouched behind stumps and rail fences. Others stood or knelt on one knee or lay on their bellies in the open. Seeing the men in blue—some of them in southron gray ineptly dyed blue—roused Rollant to fury, as it always did. These were the men who wanted to tie him to a little plot of land for the rest of his days. He whooped with glee when one of them crumpled to the ground, clutching at himself and kicking.
"Come on!" he shouted to his own comrades, waving the standard again. "Let's get rid of all these bastards!"
They didn't get the chance. Perhaps Bell hadn't expected John the Lister's men to sally so aggressively against his men. In this part of the field, southrons outnumbered northerners, though Lieutenant General Bell's army was a lot bigger than John's. The traitors hitched their catapults to asses and unicorns and hauled them away. The crossbowmen and pikemen protecting them fought a rear-guard action till the valuable engines had escaped. Then they too fell back.
Rollant was all for charging after them. His superiors weren't. The trumpeters blew withdraw. Reluctantly, he returned to the southrons' trench line. Litter bearers hauled back the wounded and the dead. Healers and surgeons would do what they could for the wounded. Soldiers and runaway serfs now laboring in Avram's army would have to chop wood for the pyres of the dead. Rollant likely would have drawn that duty before he got promoted. Not now, not as a corporal.
Both forces had lost a few men, seen a few men hurt. The little fight wouldn't change how the war turned out, not in the least. He wondered why either side had bothered making it. You could, if you had the right sort of mind, then wonder if even a big battle meant much in the grand scheme of things. Rollant didn't have that sort of mind. He knew what those battles meant—serfs escaping from bondage who would still labor for their liege lords if southron armies hadn't won and given them hope and protected them when they fled.
Axes were still thudding into lumber when a messenger came up to the trenches from the direction of the Trumpeteth. Lieutenant Griff called, "Men, we're to pull back from this line toward the river. The bridges are said to be ready to cross." By the way he spoke, he had trouble believing it. He was very young, and he'd been callow when he joined the company. He'd seen a lot since then, as had the men he commanded.
Rollant certainly had trouble believing it, too. Turning to Smitty, he said, "What do you want to bet the traitors' wizards will have sunk these so-called bridges by the time we get there?"
"You're a corporal. You already make more money than I do," Smitty said. "If you think I want to give you any of mine, you're mad."
"If you think I want to give you any of mine, you're mad, Corporal," Sergeant Joram growled. That Rollant was an underofficer counted for more with him than that he was a blond. Not all Detinans, even in the south, felt the same way.
When they got to the river, Smitty started to laugh. "I should have taken you up on that one, your Corporalship," he said.
"Yes." Rollant tried to hide his astonishment. The bridges—which, by their faint glow, seemed compounded more of magecraft than of mere material things—did indeed stand. Men were already tramping over them toward the south bank of the Trumpeteth.
A scrawny young mage in a gray robe stood on the north bank of the river. He looked weary unto death. Even as Rollant watched, the mage swayed—he supposed under yet another sorcerous assault from the northern wizards. But, though the mage swayed, the bridges held. They didn't suddenly vanish and pitch the burdened soldiers on them into the Trumpeteth, where those men would without a doubt have drowned.
Seeing others safely cross the river, Rollant didn't hesitate when his turn came. He held the company standard high as he set foot on the bridge. It felt solid under his shoes, even if it was mostly magical. How it felt was all that mattered. If he let out a sigh of relief when he got to the far bank of the river—well, if he did, maybe nobody noticed. And if anybody did, he wasn't the only one.
Ned of the Forest rode his unicorn up to the southern bank of the Trumpeteth River. He actually rode the great white beast into the river; muddy water swirled around its forelegs. Turning to Colonel Biffle, he said, "Well, Biff, they slid through our fingers. They might have been greased, the way they slipped by us."
"'Fraid you're right, sir," Biffle agreed mournfully.
"And look at what's left of this here bridge." Ned pointed. Only a few wooden pilings emerged from the Trumpeteth. "Look at it, I tell you."
"Not much to look at," his regimental commander said.
"Sure isn't," Ned said. "Sure as hells isn't. And it doesn't look like the stinking southrons burned their bridges once they'd used 'em, either. They couldn't have, by the Thunderer's lightning bolt—we'd've seen the flames. No way on earth they could've hidden those from us."
"You're right again, sir," Colonel Biffle said.
"And what does that mean? There's hardly a thing left here, but the southrons didn't burn what there was." Ned made a harsh, chopping gesture with his left hand. He couldn't have been more disgusted if he'd heard Thraxton the Braggart was returning to command in the Army of Franklin. He shook his head. No, on second thought, he could.
Biffle said, "It means they used magic to get over the river. It can't mean anything else."
"You're right. You're just exactly right. That's what it means." Ned of the Forest repeated that chopping gesture. "And how did they get away with using magic to build their miserable bridge when we're supposed to have the best wizards in Detina? How, Biff? Riddle me that."
"Either they've got themselves some good ones from somewhere, or else ours aren't as good as they've been telling folks they are," Biffle said. "Maybe both."
Both hadn't occurred to Ned. When Colonel Biffle suggested it, though, it made entirely too much sense to him. "Wouldn't be a bit surprised," he said. "But it's purely a shame and a disgrace, that's what it is. The southrons have got more men than we do. They've got more of just about everything than we do, except grit and wizards. If they start licking us when it comes to magecraft . . . Well, Lion God's tail tuft, Biff, why keep on fighting in that case? We're whipped, grit or no grit."
"Yes, sir," Biffle said. "But what can we do about it? Us unicorn-riders, I mean."
"Not much," Ned said morosely. "Still and all, I'm going to hash it out with Lieutenant General Bell. Maybe he knows something I don't. Or maybe he'll give me some laudanum. Then I won't care any more, either."
"Lieutenant General Bell's doing the best he can," Biffle said. "If he didn't have something to hold back the pain, he'd be hard up."
"Oh, I know that, Biff," Ned answered. "I really do. He's not like Thraxton the Braggart, that cowardly, conniving, shriveled-up little unicorn turd of a man. Bell does try hard, and he's a good fighter himself—or he was, before he got ruined. I don't reckon it was his fault this army didn't lay into the southrons at Summer Mountain. By the way he carried on, he gave the right orders, but the fellows under him didn't do what he told 'em to."
"By the way they carried on, his orders weren't as good as he said they were," Colonel Biffle replied.
That was also true, and worried Ned of the Forest. It reminded him much too much of how things had been during the unhappy command of Thraxton the Braggart. Ned tugged on the reins, jerking his unicorn's head around. He gave Biffle a few orders, then got the beast moving with the pressure of his knees and rode off toward the north, toward the main encampment of the Army of Franklin.
Lieutenant General Bell's pavilion was at least twice the size of any other officer's tent there, and dwarfed the miserable little shelters under which some of Bell's soldiers slept. The rest of Bell's men had no shelter at all. True, Bell was the commander of the army. True, his wound might have made him need more space—or be happy with more space—than a whole officer required. Even so . . .
Trying to hold in his unease, Ned announced himself to the sentries in front of the commanding general's pavilion. One of them ducked inside. He returned a moment later, saying, "Lieutenant General Bell will see you, sir."
"He'd better," Ned rumbled; the idea that Bell might not see him filled him with fury. He ducked through the tent flap and into the pavilion.
His eyes needed a moment to adjust to the gloom inside. Bell sat in a folding chair. As Ned came in, the general commanding put a small bottle back into a leather pouch at his belt. "Good day, Lieutenant General," Bell said, licking his lips. "And what can I do for you?"
Ned peered at him before answering. Once upon a time, people had spoken of Bell as the reincarnation of the Lion God on earth. These days, those leonine features might have been carved in cold butter that was then set in front of a fire. His face sagged. He had great dark bags under his eyes. His cheeks drooped. Even through Bell's thick beard, Ned could see how jowly he'd become. The commander of unicorn-riders shivered. Pain and forced inactivity did dreadful things to a man.
Bell had asked him a question. He needed a moment to remember that, and then to answer: "I want to know where we're going, sir, and what we're going to do about the southrons now that they've holed up in Poor Richard."
No matter how bad Bell looked, he hadn't lost the urge to fight. "We're going to hit them, that's what," he said. "We're going to hit them, and we're going to rout them, and then we're going on to take Ramblerton. It must be done, and so it will be done."
"Yes, sir," Ned said. Bell was right—taking Ramblerton was something the northern cause desperately needed. Ned went on, "I've ordered Colonel Biffle, one of my regimental commanders, to lead the unicorn-riders across the Trumpeteth so we'll be ready to hit the southrons that good hard lick you want just as soon as we can."
"Have you?" Bell raised an eyebrow in surprise, like a lion thinking it might have scented prey. "Without waiting for orders or permission from me?"
"Yes, sir," Ned of the Forest said again. His voice warned that he was another lion, not a lumbering buffalo. "They're my men. I reckon I can tell 'em what to do without a by-your-leave from anybody, especially when it comes to putting them closer to the enemy."
He waited to see how Lieutenant General Bell would take that. Bell started to cloud up, then checked himself and nodded. "All right. I will not complain of any man who wants to close with the southrons. That compares well with the miserable cowards commanding my crossbowmen and pikemen. They had a golden chance, a chance sent by the gods, to strike John the Lister a deadly blow, and did they take it? Did they? No! They sat inert, the spineless wretches, and let this magnificent opportunity dribble through their palsied fingers."
Carefully, Ned said, "Sir, there's a difference between things going wrong because somebody's a coward and things going wrong just on account of they go wrong, if you know what I mean."
"I know what you mean, which doesn't mean I think you're right," Bell replied. "Wouldn't you have attacked the gods-damned southrons if they were marching across your front? Of course you would have—you make a proper man. Those fools, poltroons, brigadiers . . . But I repeat myself."
"When we get to Poor Richard, sir, it won't be that bad," Ned predicted.
"By the Thunderer's holy foreskin, it had better not be." Bell sounded very much like an angry lion.
"You'll see." Ned of the Forest spoke with all the confidence he could muster. He would, in due course, be proved right, if not in precisely the way he meant when speaking to Lieutenant General Bell.
Bell waved the words aside with a motion of his good hand. "Anything further to report, Lieutenant General? The southrons continue to flee before us, having even less spirit than my own brigade and wing commanders, and your men are crossing the Trumpeteth, which is actually not bad news." By his scowl, he never expected to hear anything but bad news ever again. "Nothing more? Very well, then. You may rejoin your riders, and my congratulations for the spirit they—and you—have shown."
"Thank you, sir." Ned saluted and left the pavilion. His strides were lithe, pantherlike. He didn't care to think about the crutches leaning close by Bell's chair. Bell would never advance at anything but a caterpillar's hitching crawl. No, Ned didn't want to think about that. He'd already suffered several wounds. One instant of bad luck and he'd be no better off than the commanding general.
If everybody thought about those things, who'd go and mix it up? he wondered. How would you, how could you, fight a war?
He saw no answer, not at first. But as he swung up onto his unicorn—one more thing Bell would never do unless someone tied him to the saddle—he realized the answer was that most men didn't think about such things. He didn't want to think about them himself, as he'd just proved, and he was as far from a coward as any man breathing. He shrugged and scowled and went on riding.
When he got down to the Trumpeteth, he found only a rear guard of his unicorn-riders still on the northern bank. The rest had crossed over with their animals on a motley little fleet of rowboats and rafts. Ned piled into a boat with the ordinary riders he commanded. They chivvied his unicorn aboard a raft, although the great white shining beast didn't like the journey at all. Once on the southern bank of the Trumpeteth, Ned had to gentle the unicorn down again before it would deign to bear his weight.
"You know how to handle 'em, Lord Ned," a trooper said admiringly.
"I ought to." Ned of the Forest was not sentimental about unicorns, or about anything else that had to do with battle. "I've had enough of them killed out from under me."
"That's on account of you always head for where the fighting's hottest," the soldier said.
"I'm going to tell you a secret about how to be a general," Ned said. "Do you want to hear it?"
"Yes, sir!" The trooper leaned forward. If he could have pricked his ears ahead like a unicorn, he would have done that, too.
"All right, then. Here it is: if you want to be a general, you have to want to go where things are the hottest, and you have to make your men want to follow you. If you can manage that, you'll do all right."
"Lord Ned, sir, you make a hells of a general," the soldier said.
"Thank you kindly." Ned's smile was a little less carnivorous than usual. He liked praise, and being called Lord Ned. Unlike most of the officers who fought for King Geoffrey, he was no noble. He'd made a good living before the war as a serfcatcher. A lot of blond serfs ran away from the land and liege lord to whom they were bound, and Ned had more than a little genius for poking through the jungles and woods and swamps where they liked to hide and bringing them back. That was how he'd come to be known as Ned of the Forest.
But serfcatching, while it might bring money, didn't bring respect. Thraxton the Braggart wasn't the only officer who looked down his nose at Ned for his work and his low birth. Most of the scornful ones, though, had learned to keep their mouths shut. For one thing, Ned had proved an even better commander of unicorn-riders than he was a serfcatcher. And, for another, he'd made it plain he had no qualms about killing men supposedly on his own side who were rash enough to insult him.
He booted his unicorn into motion. It was a big, sturdy beast. It needed to be, to carry a man with his big, sturdy frame. He brought it up to a fast trot.
Unicorn-riders waved as he went past. He waved back, or sometimes lifted the broad-brimmed felt hat from his head for a moment to greet the troopers. That made them wave even more, and cheer, too.
Before too long, he caught up with Colonel Biffle at the head of the column. "What's the word, sir?" Biffle asked.
"Well, Biff, I'll tell you," Ned answered. "When the whole army gets down to Poor Richard, the stinking southrons had better look out for themselves."
"All right." But Biffle frowned. "That won't be an easy position to crack, not if John the Lister digs in like he can."
"Bell thinks we can lick 'em. Even more to the point, Bell thinks we should've licked 'em at Summer Mountain," Ned said. "Somebody's going to pay on account of we didn't."
"Somebody's going to pay, all right," Colonel Biffle agreed gloomily. "I tell you, Lord Ned, if we go at 'em at Poor Richard, it's liable to be us."
"We've got to do some fighting. Bell's dead right about that," Ned said. "John the Lister won't disappear if we don't. Neither will Doubting George, down in Ramblerton. We went into this war talking about what a bunch of cowards the stinking southrons were. Well, by now we know that isn't so. If we want to shift 'em, we'll have to shift 'em. You know what I mean?"
"I sure do," Biffle replied. "And don't I wish I didn't?"
"Can't be helped," Ned of the Forest said. "Everything'd be a lot easier if we only had to fight when we were sure of winning. But sometimes we have to stand up there and prove we are men. Don't you reckon that's right?"
Colonel Biffle gave him a reluctant, half shamefaced nod. They rode on together toward Poor Richard. It wasn't far.
John the Lister looked back toward the Trumpeteth from the position he'd chosen for his army, just outside the little town of Poor Richard. His men dug like moles at the high end of a long, bare stretch of ground that ran north for a couple of miles. Turning to his adjutant, he said, "If the traitors care to attack me here, I will give them a warmer greeting than they care for."
One of Major Strabo's wandering eyes looked towards one stretch of the lines the southrons were preparing, the other toward another. "The devils in the seven hells might give them a warmer greeting than we can. No one else, I think."
"They cannot flank us out here, as they did before," John said.
"No, indeed," Strabo said, looking around his superior. "They would be idiots to try, which may not stop them."
"We've got a glideway line straight back to Ramblerton," John the Lister said. "Doubting George can send us all the food and bolts and firepots and fodder we need, and the line's well fortified."
"Yes, sir." Major Strabo pointed toward the line of entrenchment; his finger, unlike his eyes, went straight. "As you say, they'll likely be through if they try to go through us."
"They'd be idiots to try to do that, too," John said. "In fact, if you ask me they were idiots to mount this whole invasion. Why isn't Bell fighting General Hesmucet? As far as I can see, none of the traitors is off fighting Hesmucet. How can they call themselves a kingdom if he marches across Peachtree Province to Veldt and the Western Ocean?"
"Simple, sir," Strabo answered. "They can lie."
"That's about what it comes down to, sure enough," John the Lister said. "As a matter of fact, that's just what it comes down to. Hesmucet was right: once you crack the shell, there's nothing but wind and air behind it."
"Some of that wind and air is coming this way," his adjutant pointed out.
"Let 'em come," John replied. "If they want to charge up that slope, in the face of everything we can throw at 'em, they're welcome to try. Have we got the engines lined up where they're supposed to be?"
"Yes, sir. Catapults and repeating crossbows both," Major Strabo said. "And we've got plenty of stones and firepots and bolts for them. If all the traitors in the world want to charge up that slope against us, I think we can murder the lot of them."
John eyed Strabo with more than a little surprise. His adjutant was no blithe optimist. Strabo, in fact, was inclined to see difficulties whether they were there or not. If he thought the southrons would have no trouble holding this position, he was likely to be right. John certainly hoped he was right.
At the same time, John wondered what Lieutenant General Bell would do when he saw what sort of position the southrons had at Poor Richard. He wouldn't have an easy time assailing it, even if his army was close to twice as big as John's. He couldn't ignore it and keep marching south, either.
What did that leave? Nothing John saw just then.
Maybe Bell will give up and go away. Maybe he'll throw his hand in the air and march back to Dothan. John the Lister laughed.
"What's funny, sir?" Major Strabo asked. John explained. Strabo laughed, too. "The likelihood of that is most unlikely," he said, a sentence obscure even by his standards.
"Uh, yes," John said.
"Bell's options are impenetrable in their opacity," Strabo added.
"Not only that, nobody has a real good notion of what the son of a bitch will do," John said.
"Indeed," Strabo said. "And in fact."
"That, too," John agreed gravely. "Now, in fact, I'm going to round up the famous Major Alva, see what more help he thinks he can give us here, and have another look at our works, make sure everything is sited just the way I want it."
"Yes, sir," Strabo said. "The one thing we haven't sighted is the traitors."
John thought about groaning at that, but decided not to bother. Strabo's plays on words were frequent enough—and bad enough—that acknowledging them only encouraged him to do worse. John sometimes thought he couldn't do worse, but his adjutant kept proving him wrong.
He waved for a runner. "Yes, sir?" the young man in gray asked.
"Tell Major Alva to meet me at the top of the slope there." John pointed. "Tell him I want to see him as soon as he can get there." Doubting George had warned him Alva was a free spirit. From everything John had seen so far, Doubting George had understated things.
But the wizard got to the field fortifications in good time, only a couple of minutes after John the Lister himself. And Alva did remember to salute. He looked as if he was reminding himself of something before he did it, but he did salute. Then he said, "Tell me, sir, what do you think of the Inward Hypothesis?"
Of all the questions John had expected to get on what might become a battlefield, that one might have been the very last. He blinked, wondering if he'd heard rightly. Deciding he had, he answered, "I don't really know, Major. It's not something a soldier needs to worry about, is it?"
He'd done his best to dodge the question. He learned trying to evade Alva wasn't a good idea. The wizard's eyebrows shot up, as if he couldn't believe his ears. He said, "Don't you think it's important for every Detinan—for everyone in the whole world—to wonder about how the gods fit into the scheme of things? If they say, 'Be,' and something is the very next heartbeat, then we look at them one way. But if they say, 'Be after you go about shaping yourselves and changing for thousands or maybe millions of years,' then we look at them another way altogether. Or I do, anyhow. What about you, sir?"
"When I need to worry about the gods, I'll worry about them," John the Lister said. "Till then, I'm going to worry about Lieutenant General Bell more, because I expect he'll be here sooner."
He waited to find out how the contentious wizard would take that. To his surprise, Alva beamed. "Well said, sir. I couldn't have put it better myself. Worrying about things of this world ahead of the gods is always a good idea—as far as I'm concerned, anyway."
"You must have some interesting talks with priests," John remarked.
"Oh, I do, sir," Alva said earnestly. "They can believe what they want, as far as I'm concerned. They're free Detinans, after all. But they don't seem to understand that I'm a free Detinan, too. They want me to stop thinking what I think. It doesn't seem fair."
"I can see how it wouldn't," John said. "But then, how often do they run into someone who doesn't believe in the gods?"
"I believe in the gods, sir." Alva sounded shocked that John should doubt him. "I just don't believe they're very important."
"Do you? Or do I mean, don't you?" John the Lister shook his head. "I can see how priests might have trouble drawing the distinction."
"Can you? Could you explain it to me, sir? I've never been able to figure out how anyone wouldn't want to draw the finest distinctions he could."
He's not joking, John realized. He does want me to explain it. Can I? Picking his words with care, he said, "To somebody who's a priest, to somebody who thinks about the gods all the time, not believing in the gods at all and not believing they're very important probably don't seem much different."
"Hmm." Alva thought it over. John had the odd feeling he was taking a test. When Alva suddenly smiled, he decided he'd passed it. "Oh. Perspective!" the mage said. "I should have figured that out for myself." He thumped his forehead with the heel of his hand to show how stupid he thought he was.
"It's nothing to worry about." John the Lister almost added, by the gods, but at the last instant checked himself. Given what the conversation was about, the phrase didn't fit.
"But I was wrong. I don't like being wrong." By the way Major Alva said it, he didn't like it at all. He gave a partial explanation: "A mage can't afford to be wrong very often."
"From everything I've heard and from everything I've seen, you're not wrong very often," John said.
"I don't dare," Alva replied. "Sir, I started with nothing. The only reason I've got anything at all is because I'm good at wizardry. I'll ride it as far as I can here in the army. When I get out, I'll go even further. This is what I can do. This is what I'm good at. I'm going to be as good at it as I can."
"All right, Major." John the Lister nodded. "You sound like a proper Detinan to me: out to paint your name on the wall with the biggest letters you can. This is a kingdom where men do things like that."
"This is the best kingdom in the world, sir—in the whole gods-damned world." Major Alva spoke with great conviction. "Anybody can be anything here, if he's good enough and works hard enough. That's why the northerners are such fools to want to leave. Do they think they'll be able to climb to the top with all their pigheaded nobles clogging the road up? Not likely!"
"I don't know whether they worry about getting to the top so much as keeping blonds on the bottom," John said.
"But that's stupid, too." Alva, plainly, had no patience with stupidity, his own or anyone else's. He pointed to a blond in the trenches, a blond with a corporal's emblem on the sleeve of his gray tunic. "Take a look at him. He's getting ahead because he's good at soldiering. If he were an ordinary Detinan, he'd probably be a lieutenant by now, but even blonds can get ahead here."
John the Lister had no enormous use for blonds. He wasn't thrilled at the idea of unbinding them from the land and making them citizens like proper Detinans. If it weren't for splitting the kingdom, he would have been happy to let the north take most of them out of Detina. "Next thing you know," he said, "you'll be talking about women the same way."
"Oh, don't be silly, sir," Alva said. "Some people do, but they're a bunch of crackpots."
"Well, we see eye-to-eye about something, anyhow," John said with a certain amount of relief. The wizard, plainly, was a radical freethinker, but even he had his limits. The general commanding went on, "Now, is there anything you notice in these works that could be stronger from a wizardly point of view?"
"Let's see." Alva didn't want to commit himself without looking things over, which made John think better of him. He paced along behind the rearmost of three lines of entrenchments, looking out over them toward and along the north-facing slope. At last, he said, "Would Lieutenant General Bell really be dumb enough to try to drive us out of this position?"
"I don't know," John said. "Only Bell knows how stupid he really is. But we'd be stupid not to give him the warmest reception we could, wouldn't we? How can we make sure of doing that?"
"Sir, I think you've done it," the mage replied. "I saw a few engines you might bring up closer so they'd throw farther. Other than that . . ." He shook his head. "I can feel the defenses you've set up against the traitor's battle magic. They should work."
"You're the one to say that. You put most of them up."
"I told you—I'm good." Alva had no false modesty—and probably little of any other sort.
"How soon do you think they'll attack?" John asked.
Now the wizard looked at him in some surprise. "I don't know, sir. I deal with enchantments. You're the fellow who's supposed to be a soldier."
I've just been given the glove, John the Lister thought. His voice dry, he said, "I do try to impersonate one every now and again, yes."
Alva looked at him in surprise of a different sort. "Have you been listening to Doubting George, sir?" he asked reproachfully.
"Not for a while now," John answered. "Why?"
"Because I don't run into a lot of men who are supposed to be soldiers" —Alva seemed to like that phrase, while John didn't, not at all— "who know what it is to be ridiculous."
"That only shows you haven't spent enough time paying attention to soldiers," John the Lister told him. "The only officers who don't know what it is to be ridiculous are the ones who've never led men into battle. Those sons of bitches on the other side will do their best to make a monkey out of you, and sometimes they'll bring it off."
"What have they got to say about you?" Major Alva asked.
"If I'm doing my job, they say I'm trying to make a monkey out of them, too," John replied. "Whichever one of us does best, the other fellow ends up swinging through the trees." He mimed scratching himself.
"Sounds like the Inward Hypothesis in action to me," Alva said. John glared at the wizard. Alva mimed scratching himself, too, carefully adding, "Sir," afterwards.