Marching Through Peachtree

XII

“What the hells is Bell playing at?” General Hesmucet demanded, going over the reports the scouts brought in about the Army of Franklin’s movements. “If he keeps going in this direction, he’ll be all the way down to Caesar by the time he’s through. That’s where this campaign started, near enough.”

Doubting George perched on a stool in the farmhouse Hesmucet was using for a headquarters. Hesmucet wondered how many farmhouses he’d used for temporary headquarters since the war began. He couldn’t have guessed, not even to the nearest dozen. When the war finally ended, if it ever did, he intended to stay away from farmhouses from then on.

George said, “One thing Bell’s doing: he’s making you dance to his tune instead of the other way round. You imposed your will on Joseph the Gamecock. You haven’t done that with Bell-if you leave Marthasville out of the bargain, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Hesmucet said dryly. “No one would want to talk about Marthasville at all. Bell didn’t care one way or the other what the devils happened to it.”

“That’s not what I meant, sir, or not exactly,” Doubting George said.

Whatever he’d meant, he had a point, or at least a good part of one. As long as the southrons kept chasing Lieutenant General Bell and the Army of Franklin all over southern Peachtree Province, Hesmucet couldn’t do what he really wanted to: make the north regret ever starting a war against King Avram. If I can march to theWesternOcean, that will prove Geoffrey’s king over nothing but air and brags, he thought. I can do it. I know I can.

He sighed. “Turning into a hero would be a lot easier if the bastards on the other side cooperated a little more.”

“I’m sure you’re right, sir,” Doubting George replied. “One thing, though: I’m reasonably sure they feel the same way about you.”

“That’s something,” Hesmucet agreed. “It’s less than I’d like, but you’re right: it is something.”

After his second-in-command left, he summoned Major Alva and asked him, “Can you divine what Bell has in mind trying next?”

“I can do my best,” the bright young mage said. “How good my best will prove depends on how well Bell is warded and how firm his plans are in his own mind. If he doesn’t know what he’s going to do, I can’t very well pick it out of his brain, now can I?… Uh, sir.”

“What brain?” Hesmucet said scornfully. “The next sign of having one in actual working order that Bell shows will be the first.”

Major Alva smiled. “That’s funny, sir. I like it. I like it a lot.”

“Glad to amuse you,” Hesmucet told him. “Now, can you manage this wizardry?”

“As I say, sir, I can certainly try the requisite spells,” Alva replied. “I don’t know how much I’ll learn from them till I do.”

“Get on with it, then,” Hesmucet said. “Report back to me after whatever happens, happens.”

“Yes, sir.” Alva saluted and hurried away.

Only after the mage had gone did Hesmucet realize he hadn’t had to correct him on military deportment even once. Little by little, Alva was learning. If he kept learning, he might eventually turn into a civilized human being, and perhaps even into a tolerable soldier. Hesmucet wouldn’t have imagined either one of those as the remotest possibility a few months before.

Alva came back late the following day. “Well?” Hesmucet barked.

“Well, sir, the wards weren’t so well established as I thought they might be, and Bell is sure about what he wants to do next,” the brash young mage said.

“I’m not surprised they didn’t bother warding him,” Hesmucet said. “They must have figured no one would want to look into such an empty head.” Alva’s laugh was deliciously scandalized. The general commanding went on, “All right-you were able to look around inside the emptiness. What did you find?”

“He intends to strike at Caesar, sir,” the wizard replied. He hesitated, then risked a question: “Uh, is that good news or bad?”

“Depends,” Hesmucet answered. “If we can get there with our whole force before he hits the place, it’s good news for us and bad news for him. If we can’t, it might be the other way round-and he’s ahead of us.”

Alva nodded. “Yes, that would seem to make sense. What do we do if we can’t get there ahead of him?”

“Tell the garrison commander to fight like a mad bastard till we can come up,” Hesmucet said. “Murray the Coarse did it, and he can, too. He’s got a good natural position to defend. Joseph the Gamecock used it to good advantage against us. Now it’s our turn.”

“Can we do it?”

“I aim to find out,” Hesmucet answered.

Commanding the southron garrison was a colonel named Clark the Seamster. When Hesmucet got in touch with him by crystal ball, he said, “Your news is no surprise to me, sir. I’ve just had one of Bell’s men come in under flag of truce demanding our surrender. I’ve seen notes I liked better.”

“Oh?” Hesmucet said. “What does it say?”

“Here, I’ll read it for you.” Colonel Clark paused to set spectacles on his nose, then took a sheet of paper from his breast pocket. “Here we go. Sir: I demand the immediate and unconditional surrender of the post and garrison under your command and, should this be acceded to, all Detinan officers and men will be paroled in a few days. If the place is carried by assault, no prisoners will be taken.” He looked up at Hesmucet over the tops of the spectacles. “Perhaps I should remind you, sir, that I have a couple of regiments of blond troops under my command.”

“You need to know we’re still a couple of days away,” Hesmucet said. “What did you tell him?”

“One moment, sir, and I’ll read you a copy of my answer.” Clark the Seamster found another paper. “Here. I wrote, Your communication of this date just received — which is true; I got it less than an hour ago. In reply, I have to state that I am somewhat surprised at the concluding sentence, to the effect that, if this place is carried by assault, no prisoners will be taken. In my opinion, I can hold this post. If you want it, come and take it.”

“You told Bell that?” Hesmucet said in astonished but delighted disbelief.

“I sure as hells did,” Colonel Clark answered. “I can hold the son of a bitch off, and I’m not about to put men under my command in danger of being murdered or seized and sent back to their old liege lords. They’ll fight like madmen to keep that from happening, and you can count on it.”

“Good for you, Colonel. I admire your spirit. Now I rely on you to make it good.” Hesmucet clapped his hands. He didn’t share Clark’s confidence in the fighting ability of blonds. He remained of the opinion that few of them made good soldiers. But he couldn’t help applauding the bravado the garrison commander had shown.

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Clark said. “I just wonder if the one-legged marvel will even have the nerve to put in a real attack on Caesar. When he tried one at Whole Mackerel, he got his nose bloodied for him.”

“Well, actually, Murray the Coarse was the one who came away from that fight with a bloody face, but I take your point,” Hesmucet said. “Hang on for two days, no matter what he does to you, and then we’ll be there. I swear it by all the gods.”

“I’ll do it, sir. You can count on me,” Clark the Seamster said.

“I do, Colonel.” Hesmucet nodded to the scryer. Colonel Clark’s image vanished from the crystal ball. Hesmucet left the scryers’ tent and shouted for a runner.

“Yes, sir?” one of his bright young men said.

“Go fetch me Marble Bill,” Hesmucet snapped.

“Yes, sir!” The runner saluted and hurried off to find the commander of unicorn-riders. He brought him back even sooner than General Hesmucet had hoped. Pride in his voice, he said, “Here you are, sir.”

“Thank you.” Hesmucet turned to Marble Bill. “Can you get a couple of regiments of riders into Caesar by tomorrow afternoon?”

Marble Bill frowned. “Without resistance from the enemy I could, obviously. It depends on how much we’d have to fight through on the way, so I can’t really give you a certain answer.”

Hesmucet drummed his fingers on the right thigh of his pantaloons. That wasn’t the sort of reply he’d wanted to hear. In a couple of sentences, Marble Bill had shown why he was an indifferent commander of unicorn-riders. Fortunately, Brigadier Spinner on the traitors’ side was no better, and Marble Bill seemed the best officer Hesmucet had. But best wasn’t the same as good, and Hesmucet knew that only too well.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Against what you’re likely to run into along the way, can you get there?”

“If you give the order, sir, I’ll do my best,” Marble Bill replied.

That wasn’t what Hesmucet wanted to hear, either. He wanted to hear, Yes, sir! That failing, he wanted to hear, If I can’t find a way, I’ll make a new one. Those gods-damned traitors can’t stop me.

But Marble Bill was what he had to work with. “Go try. Do everything you can,” Hesmucet told him.

“Yes, sir,” the commander of unicorn-riders answered.

“You’ll be doing the trapped garrison an enormous favor if you succeed,” Hesmucet said, hoping to build a fire under him.

It didn’t work. Marble Bill remained cool. “I told you, sir: I’ll do my best.” He saluted and took his leave.

Having given his orders, Hesmucet could only wait to see what became of them. He muttered in frustration. Here he was, in command of the greatest army in the east, but every bit as dependent on time to show what lay ahead as any other soldier. He wished it were otherwise, but in his years he’d wished for all sorts of things that hadn’t come true.

He got back in touch with Colonel Clark. “They’re prodding us, sir,” Clark said, “but they aren’t putting all their force into it, I don’t think. Either that or they’ve got less force to put than I thought they did.”

“Well, if they aren’t hitting you with all they’ve got, what in the hells are they doing?” Hesmucet demanded.

Clark the Seamster sent him an exasperated look. “Sir, I can hold Caesar, or else I can throw scouts out all over the landscape. To the hells with me if I see how I can do both at once with the little force I’ve got here.”

“I daresay you’re right,” Hesmucet admitted, “but I wish you were wrong.”

“Will I get help?” Clark asked.

“I’ve sent out unicorn-riders under Marble Bill,” Hesmucet said. “If everything goes well, they’ll be there tomorrow. I know I’ll have footsoldiers there the day after. I already told you that.”

“Yes, sir, you did,” Colonel Clark said. “I’m sure the footsoldiers will come. I’ll believe the unicorn-riders when I see ’em.”

Another man with confidence in Marble Bill, Hesmucet thought. But then, in one way or another, unicorn-riders had been disappointing King Avram’s armies ever since the war was new. Why should this campaign prove any different from so many of the earlier ones? Because I’ll scream and fuss till my commanders do it right, Hesmucet thought. He hadn’t quite managed that yet. He’d got to the point where the unicorn-riders-unless they had the misfortune to bump up against Ned of the Forest-didn’t go too egregiously wrong too often. But that still wasn’t the same as turning them into a weapon to match the one that had done the traitors so much good.

Before long, he found out what that part of the Army of Franklin not attacking Caesar was up to: wrecking more glideway line. Clark the Seamster did have some scouts out, and reported northern mages working as much destructive magic as they could. The news alarmed Hesmucet much less than it would have a couple of months before.

“Let them do what they want,” he said. “We’ll either repair it or we won’t worry about it. We’re more or less living off the country now.”

He did curse Lieutenant General Bell for pulling him down here to southern Peachtree Province again. His full mind, his full heart, weren’t on this pursuit. He had to remind himself to take it seriously. He kept looking away, looking away, looking away toward Veldt and the Western Ocean.

If I can get there, this war is as good as won.PeachtreeProvince helps feed Parthenia. If I burn my way across this province, Duke Edward and the Army ofSouthern Parthenia will get pretty hungry pretty fast. It’s not just a matter of doing things here-what I do here affects the whole gods-damned war.

Marshal Bart had been the first one to realize that. He’d brought King Avram with him, and Hesmucet as well. The sovereign and his two chief commanders saw the war as a single entity, with all the parts connected. Hesmucet didn’t think any northerner looked at it the same way. He was sure false King Geoffrey didn’t.

Duke Edward? After a little thought, Hesmucet shook his head. Duke Edward was a brilliant commander, but he fought battles, not campaigns. Being so embattled, he couldn’t afford to look at a wider canvas.

Turn me loose, then, Hesmucet thought. Let me move against the traitors. Let me march throughPeachtreeProvince. I’ll peel it right down to the ground, and let’s see the north keep fighting after that. They’ll remember my name here a hundred years from now. The rest of Detina may not remember so well, but that won’t matter, for it will be one Detina.

Roast-Beef William watched the Army of Franklin’s mages destroying the glideway line south of Caesar. He watched unicorn-riders posted around the mages to warn of any sudden southron onslaught. A good raid, he thought. This is what the Army ofFranklin has been reduced to. We’re raiders now, no more. We couldn’t have done worse with me in command. We might have done better.

He sighed. They hadn’t wanted him-neither Thraxton the Braggart nor King Geoffrey. I’m Old Reliable. I’m good enough to lead a wing, but not an army. They put a hero in to lead the army. And oh, hasn’t he done a splendid job? I wonder what he’ll try next.

Bitter? Roast-Beef William asked himself. Why shouldn’t I be bitter? If anybody’s earned the right, I’m the man.

The ironic thing was that, little by little, Lieutenant General Bell had started to learn. William had expected him to throw the whole army at Caesar, but he hadn’t. When the southron commanding the garrison cast defiance in his face, he’d skirmished against the soldiers there and then gone after the glideway. He’d got a rude surprise trying to overrun the little force up at Whole Mackerel, and he didn’t care to get two such surprises.

If he’d learned that lesson after his first failed attack outside Marthasville, the Army of Franklin might still hold the place. Roast-Beef William sighed. If pigs had wings, everyone would carry umbrellas.

A courier rode up and spoke with one of the unicorn-riders on guard duty. The rider pointed toward William. The courier came over to him at a trot. Reining in, the fellow said, “Lieutenant General Bell’s compliments, sir, and you are requested to report to his headquarters immediately.”

Bell hasn’t been in the habit of giving me compliments lately, even those of ordinary courtesy, William thought. But the man remained in command of the Army of Franklin, or of what was left of it. “I’ll come, of course,” he said.

His own unicorn was tethered not far away. He swung up into the saddle and followed the courier back to a farmhouse that offered no visible virtues past a roof and four walls. Those modest attributes were not to be despised, not in a countryside that had seen as much fighting as this one.

Dismounting, Roast-Beef William strode into the farmhouse. There sat Lieutenant General Bell, putting away the little bottle of laudanum that let him deal with the pain of his wounds-and that might have robbed him of some of the rather poor wits he owned. No help for that, either, though. William saluted and said, “Reporting as ordered, sir.”

“Ah, yes, Lieutenant General.” Bell straightened, grimacing as he did so, and returned the salute. “I’ve just received a despatch from Nonesuch concerning you.” He glowered at William from under bushy brows. “You did not tell me you had sent a request to be detached from service to this army.”

I’ve been delighted serving here, Roast-Beef William thought. It’s a rare privilege, taking orders from a man junior to me in time served in rank… and watching him butcher what was a fine fighting force. If he said any of that aloud, he would be screaming before he was through. At least I have the sense to know as much. What he did say were two perfectly safe words: “Yes, sir.”

“Well, whether you told me or not, your request has been approved,” Bell said. “You will be transferred out of the command of the Army of Franklin.”

Oh, gods be praised, Roast-Beef William thought. Saying that to the man who held the command in the Army of Franklin could only cause trouble. He didn’t want trouble, not when he was escaping. He asked, “Where is my new assignment, sir?” Anywhere but here! Oh, gods be praised indeed!

“Here is the order.” Bell found a sheet of paper and thrust it at him. “I wish you the best of luck in your new post.”

Roast-Beef William took the sheet. “Let me see that, sir, if I may.” The script was as ornate as one would expect from the royal chancery. The prose style was ornate, too. William waded through flowery compliments and endless subordinate clauses till he got to the meat. You are requested and required to repair immediately to the vicinity of Veldt, the scribe wrote, there to organize defenses against General Hesmucet’s anticipated westward movement. You are to oppose him as far forward as you can, and to continue to oppose him with all resources at your disposal. William looked up at Bell. “You’ve read this?”

“Oh, yes,” the general commanding replied.

“It says I’m supposed to oppose the southrons with all the resources at my disposal,” William said. “When I get to Veldt, what sort of resources will I have at my disposal?”

Lieutenant General Bell started to shrug, winced, and cursed softly under his breath. “I haven’t the slightest idea. Whatever garrison’s in the citadel there, I suppose, and however many militiamen you can persuade Satrap Brown to turn loose and arm.”

That was what Roast-Beef William had been afraid of. “I’m supposed to take up a collection of miserable odds and sods, then, and stop Hesmucet with them?”

“Seems to be what the order says, wouldn’t you agree?”

“So it is,” William said heavily. “But how in the hells am I supposed to do that when the whole Army of Franklin couldn’t manage it?”

“Not my responsibility,” Bell said. Roast-Beef William wanted to kick him. He went on, “I’m sure you’ll do your best.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” William said in a hollow voice. “But what will you and the Army of Franklin be doing in the meantime? You’re the best protection Peachtree Province has.”

“These past several weeks, I’ve done my best to drive General Hesmucet mad,” Bell replied. “If he’s chasing the Army of Franklin all over the landscape, he can’t very well march west against you, can he?”

“Well… no, sir,” William admitted. “But suppose he stops chasing you and goes on his merry way?”

Bell looked mysterious, which inclined Roast-Beef William toward violence against his person once more. Then he said, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, since you’re going away, but they do call you Old Reliable, and I think you’ve earned the name.” After that sort of buildup, William expected to be disappointed by whatever he said, but he turned out to have made a mistake there, for Bell declared, “Ned of the Forest is bringing his unicorn-riders west to rejoin the Army of Franklin.”

“Is he?” William exclaimed. Bell’s leonine head solemnly nodded. William said, “That is good news, sir. Ned’s a fine officer, even if he can be a bit… touchy.”

“He couldn’t get along with Thraxton the Braggart, is what you mean,” Bell said. “Of course, nobody gets along with Thraxton.”

You didn’t think that when he put you in command here, William thought-which didn’t mean Bell was wrong. With a sigh, the departing officer said, “I wish things here would have turned out better.”

“So do I,” Bell replied. “If anyone is mad enough to believe I wanted to leave Marthasville to the tender mercies of the southrons… Do you know, Lieutenant General, when they paraded through the city, they had the gods-damned gall to use a blond as one of their standard-bearers-and not just a blond, mind you, but a blond underofficer, of all the impossible things!”

“Blonds in King Avram’s army have fought better than Detinans ever imagined they could,” Roast-Beef William said. “It’s no wonder some officers in this kingdom-in this army-have begun to wonder if we shouldn’t put crossbows in their hands and see what they can do for us.”

Bell sneered. “I heard about Brigadier Patrick the Cleaver’s memorial to King Geoffrey. I couldn’t very well keep from hearing about it, when I was flat on my back after I lost my leg. Look what happened to Patrick: he was ordered not to talk about it, and he’s been passed over for promotion every time a new command came open. No, thanks, Lieutenant General-I want no part of arming blonds.”

“If we can get enough Detinan soldiers, well and good, sir,” William said. “If not, and if blonds can fight-shouldn’t we get some use out of them, seeing that our enemies do?”

“Arming blonds destroys everything being a Detinan means,” Bell said.

“Yes, sir,” Roast-Beef William agreed. He had no great love for blonds-except, perhaps, for some of their prettier women. But he couldn’t help adding, “Losing the war destroys everything being a Detinan means, too. If arming blonds would keep that from happening now, we could worry about everything else later.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. King Geoffrey doesn’t think it’s a good idea, either,” Bell said. “You may not care about my views, Lieutenant General, but those of the king will prevail.”

He was right, of course. He was right about Geoffrey’s suppression of Patrick the Cleaver’s memorial. He was right about Patrick’s failure to get promoted. Of course, Patrick the Cleaver probably didn’t altogether understand what being a Detinan meant. He wasn’t a northerner born, but had crossed the Western Ocean from the Sapphire Isle himself as a young man. To him, blonds might seem like people, not like natural-born serfs.

If a few brigades of well-armed blond crossbowmen and pikemen were waiting for me at Veldt, I’d be a lot happier going there-I could do something against Hesmucet in that case, William thought. But then he frowned. Or could I? Could I trust them not to shoot me in the back and go over to the southrons?

“If we did use them, we’d have to promise to treat them like Detinans once they left the army,” he mused.

“Cows will fly before we arm blonds,” Bell said. “Don’t waste your time thinking about it.”

And he was bound to be right about that, too. Roast-Beef William saluted. “If you will excuse me, sir? I have a lot to think about before I take over my new command.”

“Of course. You’re dismissed, Lieutenant General,” Bell said. “And I wish you the best of fortune in the west.”

“Thank you, sir,” William said. “The best fortune I can think of would be for the southrons not to come west at me. If tearing up the glideway line will keep that from happening, I’m all for it.”

“I think it will,” Bell said. “After all, the Grand Marshal’s army was nothing but a starving band of fugitives on the retreat from Pahzbull fifty years ago. They got in, but most of them didn’t come out again. I don’t see any reason why the same thing can’t happen to General Hesmucet and his men.”

“Yes, sir,” Roast-Beef William said. What went through his mind while he got out the polite words was, Oh, if I weren’t leaving, I’d tell him to his face what an idiot he is. The Sorbian army didn’t ruin the Grand Marshal and his host when he marched west. The Sorbian winter did. TheKingdom ofSorb has the worst winters in the world.PeachtreeProvince has some of the mildest winters in the world. Where are the blizzards to wreck Hesmucet’s army? If you have one up your sleeve, you’d better pull it out pretty gods-damned soon.

“Again, good luck to you, and I hope the southrons stay far away,” Bell said.

“Thank you, sir,” William replied. “So do I. May I ask you something?” He waited for the general commanding to nod, then put his question: “Now that I’m leaving, are you going to name Patrick the Cleaver wing commander in my place?”

Bell didn’t hesitate for a moment. “No. He’s a good fighting soldier, and brave as they come, but I don’t think he makes a suitable wing commander. Besides, even if I thought he did, even if I proposed it, King Geoffrey would never approve the appointment. We’ve already talked about the Cleaver’s memorial. The king doesn’t forget something like that.”

He was bound to be right. He didn’t have much of a sense for politics in the broader meaning of the word, but a shrewd understanding of the way the king’s mind worked went a long way toward making up for the lack. Roast-Beef William also noticed one other irony: Bell’s description of Patrick the Cleaver might have been a description of himself. Of course, Bell had been given command of not just a wing but an army. And, having got high command, he’d proceeded to prove he wasn’t suitable for it.

Well, that’s King Geoffrey’s worry now, William thought. He wantedBell in command, and he got him, and everything that went with him. I wonder when he’ll take Joseph the Gamecock off the shelf again and see if he can repair the damage.

William left the farmhouse. He swung up into the saddle of his unicorn to ride away from the Army of Franklin. As he booted the beast into motion, he felt as if he were escaping a sinking ship. But he shook his head a moment later. The only way to escape the sinking ship, he feared, would be to flee King Geoffrey’s kingdom altogether. The clouds gathering over the north looked very black indeed.

I can’t run away, Roast-Beef William thought. I’m a soldier. My duty is to fight for my king and my kingdom, to fight as long as I can and as hard as I can. I may lose-I likely will lose-but I have to try. He rode off to the west to do what he could to hold back the building storm.

Captain Gremio sipped from a tin cup of what the cooks called tea. He made a horrible face. Even with plenty of honey slopped into it, it was bitter enough to pucker his mouth. “Gods, that’s vile,” he said.

Sergeant Thisbe, sitting cross-legged on the ground beside him, took a cautious sip of his own. He nodded. “Couldn’t be much worse. Whatever roots they’re using, they’d better use some different ones the next time… Why are you drinking more of it, sir?”

The company commander put his free hand on the left side of his chest. “Why? Because no matter how foul it tastes, it’s making my heart beat faster and my eyes open up, that’s why. Maybe the cooks know something after all.”

Thisbe took another, more experimental, sip, then nodded again. “I suppose you’re right. It’s still nasty, though.”

“If it wakes me up and gets me going, I don’t much care how nasty it is.” Gremio drained the cup. “I suppose the blonds drank tea from roots like these all the time back in the old days.”

“I’m sorry for them if they did,” Thisbe said. “The gods really must have hated them.”

“Ha!” Gremio said. “If only you were joking. After all, what did the gods bring them? The gods brought them us, that’s what. And, since the gods love us, they must have hated the blonds. Stands to reason, eh?”

“Makes sense to me, sir.” Thisbe finished his own cup of tea and then made as if to retch. Gremio laughed, though that really wasn’t funny, either. Thisbe asked, “What do we do today?”

“March along aimlessly. Forage as much as we can. Skirmish with the southrons if we happen to bump into them,” Gremio answered. “I can’t imagine anything more exciting. Can you?”

Thisbe gave back an uncertain smile. “If you don’t like what we are doing, what do you think we should be up to?”

“Defending Marthasville,” Gremio said at once. “If we’d kept on trying to defend the place instead of attacking an army twice our size, we might still hold it.”

“Well… yes, sir,” the sergeant said. “But it’s a little too late to worry about that now, isn’t it?”

“No, indeed,” Gremio answered. Thisbe looked puzzled. The company commander explained: “It’s much too late to worry about that now.”

“Er, yes.” Thisbe’s grin was uncertain, too. Somewhere not far away, a sergeant from another company started shouting at his men, getting them up and ready for another day’s march, no matter how aimless. Thisbe also climbed to his feet. “Form up, you lugs!” he shouted. “If you think you’re going to be lazy all day, you can gods-damned well think again.”

Gremio’s bones creaked when he rose. When he walked off behind a bush, his left foot felt cold. Examination showed the sole of his left shoe was staring to separate from the upper. He muttered something nasty under his breath as he buttoned his fly. He couldn’t even complain about something like that, not out loud, not when a fair number of the men he led had no shoes at all.

Geese mournfully honked overhead as the Army of Franklin got on the road again. Pointing to them, Gremio said, “I wish I could fly north for the winter, too. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about a lot of things.”

Thisbe gave him a quizzical look. A couple of soldiers started honking. As such things had a way of doing, the raucous noise spread through the whole company. “What in the damnation is wrong with your men, Captain?” Colonel Florizel demanded.

“Why, nothing, sir,” Gremio replied. “They aren’t down at all, and they still have plenty of pluck.”

“Oh. Good. Glad to hear it,” Florizel said vaguely. Thisbe sent Gremio a horrible look. He tipped his hat to the sergeant. Thisbe snorted. That tea must be rotting my brains, Gremio thought.

He tramped along the back roads of southern Peachtree Province. When he went through a muddy stretch, he had no doubt that his shoe was starting to come apart. Again, he kept his curses quiet and private.

“Where exactly are we going, sir?” Sergeant Thisbe asked as Gremio squelched along with mud between his toes.

“Good question, Sergeant. Excellent question, in fact,” Gremio replied. “At the moment, though, I don’t even know where approximately we’re going, let alone exactly. This isn’t the first time you’ve exposed my ignorance, either. Shall we consult with Colonel Florizel, or shall we try to retain our touching, simple faith that the general commanding has some idea of what we’re doing?”

“Er-whatever you like, sir,” Thisbe said.

“In my dreams, Sergeant, but nowhere else,” Gremio said. “So”-he bowed-“what is your pleasure?”

“Well… never mind, sir,” the sergeant answered. “I suppose we’ll both find out.”

“I suppose we will.” Gremio bowed again, as if impersonating a very punctilious nobleman. “Now I do hope you won’t ask any awkward questions about what we’re going to do when we get there.”

Thisbe gave him an odd look. “I wouldn’t think of it, sir. Are you feeling all right?”

“But for one sloppy foot and that touching, simple faith I was telling you about, I’m fine, Sergeant, though I do thank you for asking.” Gremio bowed yet again.

The look Sergeant Thisbe sent him this time was a good deal more than odd. But, before the sergeant could say anything, horns blared from off to one side. Colonel Florizel bellowed, “Shift from column into line of battle! Move, move, move!”

“Hello!” Gremio exclaimed. “I still don’t know where we’re going, but now, at least, I’ve got some idea of what we’re doing: we’re going to fight.” He raised his voice to a shout: “My company, shift from column into line! Move!”

They performed their evolutions with the automatic speed and precision endless hours on the practice field had drilled into them. As they moved, Thisbe asked, “What are we going to fight, sir? General Hesmucet’s whole army?”

“To the hells with me if I know,” Gremio answered. “One more thing we’ll find out, I’m sure.” If they were going up against Hesmucet’s whole army, not many of them would come back from the encounter. He knew as much, as Thisbe was bound to. Neither of them dwelt on it.

Horns blared again. Colonel Florizel shouted, “Forward!” Did he know what he was advancing against? Gremio was inclined to doubt it. The regimental commander ordered the men forward nonetheless.

When Gremio tramped past a stand of trees that had obscured his view, he discovered the Army of Franklin wasn’t the only one that made mistakes. A couple of regiments of soldiers in gray had also formed line of battle, and were trying to scrape up breastworks and dig holes in the ground for themselves. “They must have been coming up from the south to reinforce Caesar,” Gremio said.

“Why don’t they surrender?” Thisbe said. “They haven’t got a chance, not against so many men.”

“I don’t know,” Gremio answered. Then, as he came closer to the embattled foe, he understood: “Oh. They’re full of blonds.”

“They’re going to be full of dead blonds if they don’t give up,” Thisbe said.

“I don’t think they think they can surrender,” Gremio said. “They may be right, too. I haven’t got much stomach for a massacre, but…” Plenty of soldiers in the Army of Franklin would-he was sure of that.

“King Avram!” the men in gray shouted. “King Avram and freedom!” No, they showed no sign of wanting to surrender. Some of them started singing “The Battle Psalm of the Kingdom.”

How much fighting had they seen? How many men would they kill, could they kill, before they went down to death themselves? They seemed big and strong and ready to fight. Gremio knew perfectly well that the Army of Franklin couldn’t afford the losses it would take subduing them. He also knew perfectly well his comrades couldn’t walk away from the blonds. He sighed. He hated quandaries like that.

“Be careful,” he called to his company. “Those bastards up ahead have nothing to lose. Don’t throw yourselves away if you can help it. King Geoffrey needs every single one of us.”

They weren’t going to listen to him. He could tell at once, by the way they leaned forward, how eager they were to get into this skirmish. Some of them were liege lords themselves. Others aspired to estates with serfs. Blonds who bore arms against Detinans contradicted everything they held dear and conjured up pictures of peasant revolts. Now the northerners had a chance to make the blonds pay, and they were going to take it.

As usual, soldiers from both sides started shooting too soon. Coming into crossbow range of each other, though, didn’t take long. Gremio hated the sound of quarrels humming past his ear. He hated even more the flat, unemphatic smack they made when they slapped into flesh. And the sounds that came from a man who’d been shot… He hated those most of all.

Blonds ahead began falling. Gremio wondered how many of them came from the southron provinces and how many were runaway serfs. He couldn’t very well pause and ask. All he could do was run toward them waving an officer’s sword that wouldn’t do him a bit of good till he got close enough for them to have a fine chance of killing him, too. The more he thought about it, the stupider a way to pass his time this seemed.

However much he wanted to, though, he couldn’t go back. Even if his superiors didn’t crucify him for cowardice, he’d never again be able to hold up his head among men. That mattered to him more than the possibility of getting shot. Not for the first time, he wondered why it should.

Beside him, Thisbe said, “It’s a good thing they’re all crossbowmen. We couldn’t charge them like this if they had pikemen with them.”

“Oh, yes, a very good thing-a bloody wonderful thing,” Gremio said in tones of something less than complete enthusiasm.

Sergeant Thisbe’s laugh abruptly turned into a yelp of pain. Instead of running, the underofficer took a couple of staggering steps and crashed to the ground, clutching at his left leg.

Gremio skidded to a stop just beyond him. “Go on, sir,” Thisbe said. “Go on. I’ll be all right.” He tried to get to his feet, tried and failed. The left leg of his pantaloons started to turn red. He began crawling away from the fight ahead.

“Here, I’ll help you.” Gremio knelt beside him. “Give me your arm. I’ll heave you upright, and you can use your good leg for a little ways. We’ve got to get you back to the healers, get that wound seen to.”

Thisbe waved him away, repeating, “Go on, sir. I’ll be all right.”

“Sergeant, give me your arm,” Gremio said in a voice harsher than he’d ever used with Thisbe. “That is an order.”

Thisbe looked as if he wanted to argue further, but then the wound must have twinged again, for he winced and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s better.” Gremio put the underofficer’s arm over his shoulder. “Let me have some help from your good leg if you can, Sergeant.” He straightened. Thisbe wasn’t a big man. Gremio had less trouble getting him up than he’d expected. “Come on,” he said.

“Sir, I don’t want to go to the healers,” Thisbe said.

“What you want doesn’t matter very much right now, Sergeant,” Gremio said. “What you need matters, and what you need is healing. I’ll get you there, never fear.”

“Sir, could you bandage me yourself?” Thisbe asked desperately. “By all the gods, sir, I’ll give you anything you like, anything at all, if only you don’t take me to the healers.”

“Why are you so afraid of them?” Gremio asked. “Is it for the same reason you never wanted to be promoted, no matter how much you deserve it?”

He was talking only to distract Thisbe from his pain, but the underofficer seized on his words and gave him a quick, urgent nod. “Yes, for just the same reason, sir! Don’t take me there, I beg you!”

Gremio used his free hand to scratch his head. If ever a man seemed in earnest, Thisbe was the one. “What is this precious reason of yours, sergeant?” the company commander asked.

Something more like fear than pain twisted Thisbe’s face. “I can’t tell you, sir. I don’t dare tell you. I don’t dare tell anybody.”

What was that supposed to mean? Gremio started to come out and ask the question, then stopped with the words unspoken. He’d had an arm around Thisbe for some little while now, while Thisbe had had one around him. The sergeant didn’t usually care to be touched. This time, there’d been no choice. Gremio thought he understood now why Thisbe had fought shy of it before. What he thought was madness, but there were times when madness made more sense than anything else. What he saw, what he heard-he could be wrong about all of that. What he felt? No. Madness or not, he thought it was true.

“Sergeant, I’ll look at your wound,” he said. “If I think I can just bandage it, I’ll do that. If I think it has to go to the healers to save your life, I’ll take you there. That’s the best I can offer, because I don’t-I especially don’t-want to lose you.”

“I suppose it’ll have to do, sir.” Despite pain, the underofficer picked up nuance. “Especially?” How much dismay was in that voice?

“Especially,” Gremio said firmly. He eased Thisbe down to the ground. “I’m going to look at the wound now. And then, Sergeant, I think you have a lot-a lot — of explaining to do.”

Thisbe let out a long, long sigh and then nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Lieutenant General Bell nodded happily to his aide-de-camp. “By the gods, Major, I know where I’m going again.”

“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” Major Zibeon answered. “Where are you going? Is the Army of Franklin going with you?”

“It certainly is,” Bell answered. “The time has come for the Army of Franklin to return to the province from which it takes its name. Franklin has groaned under the southron yoke since the war was young. High time it should be liberated from the hated, hateful foe.”

“Er-yes, sir,” Zibeon said. “How do you propose to arrange that, sir?”

“How? I’ll tell you how. By marching straight to Ramblerton and taking it away from the enemy, that’s how,” Bell answered. “We can do it. We’re ahead of Hesmucet. What have the southrons got in Franklin? A few piddling garrisons, that’s all. Ned of the Forest’s riders have driven them mad. When a real army erupts in their midst, they’ll run like rabbits.”

Major Zibeon didn’t say anything. He didn’t say anything at all. He looked from one map to another in Bell’s farmhouse headquarters, then turned away. He walked out into the cold rain, still without a word. He didn’t even shake his head. He simply walked away.

Bell started to call back his dour aide-de-camp. He didn’t. He let Zibeon leave. Calling him back would have meant wrangling with him, and Bell had had all the wrangling he could stand for a while. He felt as weary as a man bowed under the burden of twice his years. And his leg-or rather, the phantom still haunting the place where his leg had formerly dwelt-began to burn like fire.

The pain wasn’t real. How could it be, when the leg itself was gone a few inches below the hip? But, real or not, it hurt him. Not to put too fine a point on things, it tormented him. Cursing under his breath, he groped for his little bottle of laudanum.

He found it, pulled it from the tunic pocket where it hid-and dropped it. Had his left hand been in working order, he might have caught it. But, as far as movement went, his left hand-his whole left arm-was as much a phantom as his amputated leg. The bottle, the precious laudanum, thumped down on the rammed-earth floor.

Being made of thick glass, it didn’t break. Bell cursed in good earnest nonetheless. How the hells was he supposed to recover the drug for which his body screamed? For a whole man, it would have been the work of a moment. But then, a whole man wouldn’t have needed the laudanum so desperately as he did himself, and he was anything but whole.

Later, he realized he could have asked one of the young, hale sentries outside the door to retrieve the little bottle. That was later. At the moment, only two thoughts went through his head: I need the drug and I can do it myself, gods damn it. Mutilated or not, he remained as stubborn in his pursuit of independence as did the northern kingdom Geoffrey ruled.

And so Bell made his slow way over to the iron-framed cot on which he slept. He eased himself down till he was sitting on the floor beside it. Propping his crutches carefully against the cot, he stretched out at full length and began an inchworm’s progress toward the laudanum.

In fact, his progress was more like that of an inchworm which had been stepped on but wasn’t quite dead. Crawling didn’t go well, not with one good arm and one leg with which to work. He tried to roll, but his ruined left shoulder let out a horrible shriek at the very idea. He ended up hitching forward again and again while lying on his right side.

He felt like shouting when his questing fingers closed on the little bottle. He drew the cork with his teeth and poured down a long draught-a draught that would have sent him into oblivion a few months before. But his tolerance was more than it had been; even such a heroic dose took its own sweet time bringing him relief.

As always, the laudanum made him feel as if he were floating on air. But whatever he felt, in truth he remained on the floor. He had to hitch his way back to the cot in the same fashion he’d used to get the bottle. Then he pulled himself up onto the cot with his good arm. The strength that required was one more thing he didn’t think about. It was just something he had to do, and he did it.

Having done it, he lay there panting for a little while. Then he made one more urgent effort and sat up.

“Oh, by the gods!” he said. He hadn’t been down on a dirt floor for a while, or thought about what moving across one on his side and belly would do to his uniform. It was thoroughly filthy. I’m probably filthy, too, he thought.

He brushed at himself. Dust flew from his tunic and pantaloons in a choking cloud, as if his hand were an army on the road in a summertime drought. After a while, the uniform looked… less grimy than it had. He used his good arm and remaining leg to heave himself upright, then stood swaying till he got the crutches in position under his arms. That done, he went over to a chest of drawers, found a rag, and sat down at a table on which stood a pitcher of water. He wet the rag and daubed at his face. Before long, the rag, which had been white, turned the red-orange of the dirt floor. He dared hope that meant his face took on its normal color and appearance.

His hope was tested as soon as one of the sentries came in. The man didn’t stare or gape or point or exclaim, so Bell supposed he’d made himself at least tolerably presentable once more. You went through all that for the drug? he wondered. But he would have endured worse humiliations for the relief-and the pleasure-laudanum brought him, and he knew it.

“Sir, there’s a colonel of unicorn-riders, a fellow named Biffle, outside who’d like to see you,” the sentry said.

“Oh, good,” Bell said. “Yes, I’ve been expecting him. Send him in, by all means.”

“I’ll do it,” the sentry said. “Don’t you go anywhere, now.”

As if I could, Bell thought as the soldier went outside. Colonel Biffle came in a moment later. He was a tall, solidly made man with a high forehead and a long black beard. He wore a uniform so old and faded, it might almost have been southron gray. Saluting, he said, “Good to see you looking so hale, sir.”

“Thank you.” Bell didn’t feel particularly hale, and doubted he ever would again, but he inclined his head at the compliment. Then he asked, “And how is Ned of the Forest?”

“He’s very fine, thank you kindly, and about two days’ ride east of here with all his riders,” replied Colonel Biffle, who was one of the famous northern officer’s regimental commanders. “We had ourselves a busy time out in the east by the Great River, so we did.”

“Yes, I heard about some of that,” Bell said. “You smashed up a southron army twice your size in Great River Province-”

“Three times our size, sir, easy,” Biffle said with a reminiscent grin. “Smashed ’em up and made ’em run for Luxor with their tails between their legs. And we raided Luxor our ownselves, and almost nabbed the southron general commanding in his bed, but the son of a bitch managed to sneak away in his nightshirt.” He had a rustic northern accent. By all accounts, Ned of the Forest’s was thicker still. But neither Ned’s accent nor his unsavory past as a serfcatcher had kept King Geoffrey from promoting him to lieutenant general, though he’d begun the war as a common soldier.

Bell nodded. “I heard something about that, yes. And I heard something more about your raid down into Cloviston-wasn’t there a place called Fort Cushion, on the Great River?”

“Yes, sir.” Colonel Biffle nodded, too, though his face turned grim. “That was a nasty business. Most of the garrison in the place were blonds. Their officers surrendered them, and then they started fighting again. Can’t have that sort of thing going on. We didn’t leave a whole lot of them alive.”

“I heard bits and pieces about the `Fort Cushion massacre,’ yes-that’s what the southron papers call it, you understand,” Bell said. “If you ask me, the blonds surely had it coming. If they try to face their betters with weapons in their hands, such things will happen.”

Colonel Biffle visibly relaxed. “Glad you see it that way, sir. Ned didn’t give the order to kill the bastards, but I can’t say he was sorry it happened, either.”

“Who could be sorry about getting rid of blonds? We just smashed a couple of regiments of them ourselves,” Bell said, and then got down to business: “You tell me Ned is two days away?”

“That’s right.” Biffle nodded again.

“Excellent, Colonel.” Bell felt as happy as anything but his drugs could make him. “I look forward to his joining us. We’ll show the stinking southrons there’s still life in Geoffrey’s men.”

“Er-yes, sir.” Colonel Biffle coughed a couple of times, then went on, “Uh, sir, Lieutenant General Ned, he asked me to ask you, just what have you got in mind once you put his unicorn-riders together with your army?”

“What have I got in mind?” Bell struck a pose. “I’ll tell you what I’ve got in mind, by the gods. I aim to lift the southrons’ yoke from Franklin, reconquer Ramblerton, sweep down into the province of Cloviston-my home province, I’ll have you know-roll on to the Highlow River, and then, again with the help of the gods, cross the river and attack the town of Horatii in Highlow Province.” That’ll impress him, Bell thought.

But Biffle remained unimpressed. “No, sir,” he said. “Sorry, sir. That’s not what Ned of the Forest had in mind-not even a little bit. What he meant was, what do you aim to do about Brigadier Spinner? The two of them, they purely don’t get along. Lord Ned swore a great oath he’d never fight alongside Spinner again, on account of Spinner stole his best men after the battle by the River of Death. That was one more of Thraxton the Braggart’s nasty little tricks.”

Bell grunted. There lay his glorious vision of northern triumph, shot dead by a petty political squabble. Or perhaps not so petty: he remembered rumors that had slid through the Army of Franklin while he was recovering from his amputation. Now, maybe, he could find out if those rumors held any truth. “Tell me,” he said, “did Ned of the Forest really challenge Count Thraxton to a duel?”

“He did, sir. By the gods, sir, he did. I was standing closer to him than I am to you right now, and I heard it with my own ears,” Biffle answered. “He made the challenge, and Thraxton didn’t have the stones to answer it.”

“Isn’t that interesting?” Lieutenant General Bell murmured. As his maneuvers against Joseph the Gamecock proved, he wasn’t above political squabbling himself. Having a weapon to use against Thraxton the Braggart might come in handy. You never could tell.

“I want you to know, sir, Lord Ned, he’s dead serious about this business,” Colonel Biffle said. “He said, `Biff, you tell that fellow-if I’m stuck under Spinner, I’ll stay down here in Franklin and give the southrons a hard time all by my lonesome.’ His very words, sir; Lion God claw me if I lie.”

“He would disobey a superior’s direct order?” Bell rumbled ominously.

That didn’t impress Ned of the Forest’s regimental commander, either. “He’s disobeyed a whole great pile of them in his time, Ned has,” he replied, “and usually he’s come off better on account of it.”

“I ought to send him packing for dickering with me like this,” Bell said. Colonel Biffle only shrugged. Plainly, he didn’t care one way or the other. However difficult Ned of the Forest was, Bell knew him to be a genius at handling unicorns. Brigadier Spinner was competent enough, but nobody had ever accused him of genius, and nobody ever would. No matter how grandiose Bell’s visions, he also knew he needed all the help he could get to bring them off. He plucked at his beard. “You may tell Lieutenant General Ned that I will place Brigadier Spinner on detached duty harrying General Hesmucet’s men here in Peachtree Province. Will that satisfy him?”

“Yes, sir,” Biffle said. “I’m sure of it.”

“All right,” Lieutenant General Bell said. “We’ll do it that way, then.” It wasn’t all right. He had every intention of writing King Geoffrey about it. But, while that would put him on the record and make him feel better, Ned of the Forest was unlikely to get excited about it. Ned did what he wanted, not what anyone else wanted. No, Bell didn’t like bargaining with subordinates. But no matter what he liked, he couldn’t afford to lose this one.

Now that Biffle had got what he-or rather, Ned-wanted, he was all courtesy himself. He gave Bell a smart salute and said, “I’ll head back to Lord Ned fast as my unicorn can take me, sir, and we’ll see you in a little more than two days’ time.”

“Good,” Bell said. He hardly noticed Colonel Biffle leave the farmhouse. He was looking south with his mind’s eye, looking south toward the victory that had eluded him in Peachtree Province, looking south toward glory.

Doubting George was gnawing on some pork ribs when Colonel Andy ducked into his pavilion. George’s adjutant looked even more like an irate chipmunk than usual. “Sir,” he said, “there’s a messenger from General Hesmucet waiting outside. You’re ordered to the commanding general’s headquarters at once.”

“Well, if I’m ordered, I should probably go, eh?” Doubting George heaved his bulk off the folding chair where he was sitting. “And if it’s at once, I probably shouldn’t finish dinner first. You’re welcome to the rest of the ribs, Colonel. They’re mighty good.”

“It’s not right, sir,” Andy said in injured tones.

“What? The ribs?” George said. “You might as well eat ’em. Gods only know when I’ll get back.”

“No, not the ribs,” Colonel Andy snapped. “The ribs have nothing to do with it. The orders General Hesmucet’s going to give you-they’re not right.”

“Well, maybe they are and maybe they aren’t,” Doubting George replied. “But, right or wrong, they’re legal and binding, because he’s the commanding general. If I didn’t believe in following legal and binding orders, I’d be fighting for King Geoffrey today, wouldn’t I? And then you’d want to kill me.”

“Never, sir,” Andy said stiffly.

“Oh, of course you would-I’d be the enemy,” George said. “But I’m not, and I don’t intend to be. And so… I’m off to General Hesmucet’s. Enjoy the ribs.” He left before his adjutant could carp any more.

Trouble is, I agree with every word Andy’s saying, George thought as he climbed aboard his unicorn. But, whether he agreed or not, he could obey Hesmucet or he could go home. After a moment, he shook his head. He couldn’t even go home. Over in Parthenia, the traitors still held the estate they’d confiscated.

Hesmucet’s aides and sentries saluted when he rode up to them. When he dismounted, one of them took charge of the unicorn. Another one said, “General Hesmucet will see you right away.”

“Well, good,” George said agreeably, “because I’m going to see him.”

“Hello, George,” Hesmucet said when his second-in-command went into the pavilion. The general commanding quivered-he practically glowed-with excitement. George knew what was coming even before he spoke: “I’ve got it, by the gods! Marshal Bart and King Avram have given me leave to march across Peachtree, tear up everything in the way, and take Veldt.”

“Congratulations, sir,” Doubting George said. “I trust you’ll send me a postcard or two as you go?”

Hesmucet coughed and turned red. “I told you, Lieutenant General, I need someone I can count on in Franklin, to keep Bell from making mischief.”

“Yes, you told me that,” George said. “Just because you told it to me, though, doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Whom else could I send?” Hesmucet asked him. “After me, you’re the next best general we’ve got here. I am taking what I think is the most important job ahead of us. I’m leaving you what I think is the next most important job. That strikes me as fair.”

“Who knows?” Doubting George shrugged. “The groom has the most important job on his wedding day, the best man the second-most. But I’ll tell you one thing, sir: the groom has a lot more fun.”

“Not necessarily. No, not necessarily, by the gods,” Hesmucet said. “Remember, you’ll still have Bell to deal with. And so, with any luck at all, we’ll both get to screw the traitors.” He threw back his head and laughed. “You give me so many of your sly little stories. This time, I got in my own punch line.”

“Yes, sir,” George said resignedly. He’d known this was going to happen. Now it had, and he had to make the best of it. “What sort of force will you leave me to defend Franklin?”

“Well, for one thing, you’ll have all the garrisons already posted through the province,” Hesmucet said expansively.

“Oh, happy day,” Doubting George replied in a hollow voice. He knew-and Hesmucet surely knew, too-that the garrisons in Franklin were a case where the whole was much less than the sum of its parts. They were enough to hold northern raiders at bay. Against the Army of Franklin… George didn’t want to think about that. Some of those garrison soldiers hadn’t done any real fighting in years. “What else have you got for me? Something, I hope.”

“Oh, yes.” Hesmucet nodded brightly. “I’ve ordered a good solid division to come west from across the Great River. But they’re a little occupied right now, what with Earl Price of Sterling’s unicorn raid down into ShowMe.”

“Splendid. Nothing plus nothing equals nothing,” Doubting George said. “If I’m going to defend Franklin against a real live army, shouldn’t I have at least part of a real live army of my own?”

“Oh, I suppose so.” By the way Hesmucet sounded, he didn’t really suppose any such thing, but was humoring a willful subordinate. He went on, “I’ll give you half of the wing you’ve been commanding. I intend to take all of Absalom the Bear’s men with me.”

“What?” George felt on the point of bursting with outrage. “Half? And the worse half, at that?”

“Half,” Hesmucet said. “And I’ll give you Hard-Riding Jimmy and his brigade of unicorn-riders, all of them carrying these fancy new quick-shooting crossbows.”

“Hard-Riding Jimmy’s still wet behind the ears,” George said, which was true: the officer couldn’t have been much above twenty-five.

“If you don’t want him, I’ll be glad to keep him.”

“I didn’t mean that, sir,” George said quickly. Yes, Jimmy was young. Yes, he’d been a staff officer till not very long ago. But he’d shown signs of making a good fighting soldier, his riders were very tough… and George doubted he’d get any other men if he didn’t take Jimmy’s.

Hesmucet smiled at him. “I thought you were a good, sensible fellow. So that’s all settled, then.”

He sounded perfectly happy. And why shouldn’t he? George thought. He’d settled everything to his own satisfaction. George was the one left with the odds and ends of military meat. He said, “Give me one other thing.”

“What’s that?” All of a sudden, Hesmucet didn’t sound so happy any more.

“Give me John the Lister, too, as my second-in-command.”

Sure enough, the idea seemed to affront Hesmucet. He said, “John’s a fine officer. I had in mind taking him along with me.”

“I’m sure you did,” George said. “But you’re taking everything you want and leaving me with nothing but dribs and drabs. You say you count on me to keep order in Franklin and make sure Bell doesn’t steal the place while I’m not looking. Well, I need somebody I can count on, too. Give me John the Lister, gods damn it.”

When had someone last presumed to swear at the general commanding? Not for a while, unless Doubting George missed his guess-probably not since Fighting Joseph decided he was underappreciated and so spectacularly left King Avram’s service. Hesmucet did take it pretty well. He scowled, but didn’t growl when he might well have. And, in the end, he nodded. “All right, take him. I may not like it, but you make good sense.”

“I thank you, sir,” George said. “To the seven hells with me if I think Brigadier John will thank you-or me. He’s got to be looking forward to marching across Peachtree himself. But somebody has to stay and do the dirty jobs.” He chuckled. “And besides, misery loves company.”

“It may be a dirty job, but it’s an important one,” Hesmucet said. “If Bell comes, he’ll come full force, and you’re the best defensive fighter I’ve got.”

“Flattery won’t get you far, sir,” George said.

“It’s not flattery. It’s the truth. Standing on the defensive, you’re as good as anybody on either side of this gods-damned war. When it comes to putting in an attack, I’d choose some other men before you.”

“Tell that to the traitors who tried to hold Proselytizers’ Ridge against my men, sir,” Doubting George said hotly.

“Well, you have a point-of sorts,” Hesmucet said. “But you got a little help from Thraxton the Braggart, you know.”

He was right about that. However much Doubting George wished to deny it, he couldn’t. He did the next best thing, saying, “You’ll find out whether I can manage an attack or not, by the gods. You wait and see.”

“I look forward to doing just that, Lieutenant General. With any luck at all, we’ll both smash up the traitors. And if we can do that, and if Marshal Bart can keep the Army of Southern Parthenia bottled up in Pierreville-well, if all that happens, the war’s within shouting distance of being over.”

Doubting George couldn’t very well deny that, either, nor did he want to. Instead of telling Hesmucet to go to the seven hells, which was what he wanted to do, he gave him a precise salute. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll start getting ready to move with what you’ve so generously left me.”

Again, Hesmucet refused to take offense. “If thinking I’m a first-class son of a bitch makes you meaner, Lieutenant General, then go right ahead, and I hope you get some good from it.”

Muttering, George ducked out of the commanding general’s pavilion. Muttering, he mounted his unicorn and rode back to his own headquarters. Muttering still, he dismounted and tied up the beast. Colonel Andy came over to him. “Well, sir?” the adjutant asked.

“Not very well, as a matter of fact,” Doubting George replied. “I get half my present command, along with every soldier in every garrison in Franklin-and a division tied up across the Great River. Put them all together, and they add up to… not bloody much.”

Andy cursed with surprising fluency and passion for a small, round, chubby-cheeked man. “Justice is dead. No, by the gods, justice is murdered. And we both know who killed it,” he said.

“It can’t be helped,” George said. Andy looked at him as if he’d just turned traitor. He still wasn’t happy-he was anything but happy-but he went on, “Hesmucet’s right: the job needs doing. He chose me to do it, that’s all. Someone has to. I’ve just got to make the best of it.”

“For that job, he could have chosen any general,” his adjutant declared. “Why did he have to pick you?” He answered his own question: “To keep you from going along with him, that’s why.”

“I thought that, too,” George said. “It made me furious, let me tell you: so furious, I almost drew blade on him. But then I asked him for John the Lister as my second-in-command, and I began to understand.”

“Which is, sir, more than I can say I do,” Colonel Andy sniffed.

“Think on it,” Doubting George told him. “I wanted at least one good, solid officer to help me, because I can’t be everywhere at once. If he’d left me Absalom, I wouldn’t have asked for John, and I wouldn’t have made a fuss till I gods-damned well got him.”

“I still don’t understand a word you’re saying,” Andy replied.

“Hesmucet did the same thing I did,” George explained. “I want John the Lister to back me up. Hesmucet wants someone he’s sure he can trust to back him up-and I happen to be the man. It’s a compliment, of sorts.”

“Of sorts,” Andy echoed bitterly. “He marches off toward Veldt, and if that goes well the bards will sing of it for the next hundred years and more. And you go back to Ramblerton, and when has anybody ever won glory by going back instead of forward? For all you know, for all Hesmucet knows, Bell won’t try to come south at all. You can march your garrison back and forth, back and forth, through the mud. Happy day!”

That had also occurred to Doubting George. He wished his adjutant hadn’t spelled it out quite so plainly. “It’s the chance I take. I have to make the best of it. And if Bell doesn’t come south, maybe I’ll be able to move north after the Army of Franklin myself. Who knows?”

They hashed over possibilities for a while. Little by little, both George and Andy grew resigned, perhaps even mollified. As Andy said, “You kept the Army of Franklin from wrecking us altogether by the River of Death, more than a year ago now. Maybe it’s fitting that you be the one to finish it off.”

“If I can.” Doubting George started to say something more, then pointed. “Someone’s riding this way in a hells of a hurry. Wonder who that could be.”

“Looks like John the Lister,” Andy replied after a brief pause.

“Why so it does,” said George, who was anything but surprised. As John reined in, George raised his voice: “Hello, John. What brings you here?”

“You do, you-” With visible effort, John the Lister restrained himself… to a degree. “You’re the reason I can’t go west, gods damn it.” He was red with fury all the way to the top of his bald head.

“I am sorry about that, Brigadier. I truly am.” George meant it. He spent the next quarter of an hour calming the irate John and explaining exactly why he’d chosen him.

John the Lister was a capable-and, even more to the point, a sensible-man. As George had before him, he listened and, a bit at a time, calmed down. At last, he said, “Well, I still don’t love you for it, but I can see why you did it. If Bell does bring his men south-and what other move has he got left? — we’d better be able to stop him. He won’t get through us, eh?”

“I doubt he will,” Doubting George replied. “By all the gods, John, I doubt it very much.”