Gently, Sergeant Joram said, “Sir, maybe you’ll have noticed that things don’t always turn out just the way the people with the fancy uniforms think they will.” He might have been explaining the facts of life to a youngster who was at least as likely to find them appalling as interesting.
Lieutenant Griff certainly looked appalled. He said, “But they wouldn’t be wearing those fancy uniforms if they didn’t know what was going on.”
“There’s a pile of difference between wouldn’t and shouldn’t, Smitty said. “Sir.”
Rollant added, “Besides, sir, there are plenty of fellows in fancy uniforms on the other side, too.”
“Keep your mouth shut, soldier,” Griff snapped. He hadn’t complained when Joram tried to correct him, or even when Smitty did. Of course, they were both of Detinan blood, as he was. Rollant was only a blond.
I’m good enough to die for my kingdom, but not to speak up for it, he thought. The first few times such things had happened to him, he’d been both angry and humiliated. He still was, but only to a degree. All he could do to keep them from happening so often was to show, over and over if need be, that he knew what he was doing and knew what he was talking about. Lieutenant Griff hadn’t seen that yet, but maybe he would one of these days.
Or maybe he never would. Some southron Detinans, like most of their northern counterparts, refused to believe blonds could be anything more than beasts of burden that chanced to walk on two legs.
“We’d better get back to the encampment,” Griff said. Rollant couldn’t argue with him about that.
At the encampment, Griff hurried off to report to his superiors. Rollant hoped the news would soon get to someone with the wit to see what it meant. He had his own opinions about which general officers in the army owned such wit and which carried their headquarters in their hindquarters, as a wag had put it.
Hagen, the runaway serf he’d brought back to the company, said, “Where are the rest of you?”
“Where in the seven hells do you think?” Rollant answered irritably. “We ran into the traitors-more of ’em than we expected-and some of us stopped bolts. That’s part of what war’s about, worse luck.”
“Where is Captain Cephas?” That was Corliss, Hagen’s wife.
“He got shot,” Rollant said. As Joram had, he put his hand to the right side of his chest. “I didn’t see it happen, but I hear it’s not so good.”
“Oh, no,” Corliss said softly, turning pale. Then she started to sob. Rollant stared at her. So did Hagen. Cephas had let the two serfs and their children stay with the company as laborers. Was that enough to set Corliss crying so? Maybe. But maybe not, too. What else had Cephas done for-or with-Corliss in particular?
Rollant didn’t know. Hagen looked as if he didn’t know, either, and as if he was wondering the same thing. It wasn’t Rollant’s worry. At the moment, he was very glad it wasn’t his worry, too.
* * *
“Gods damn it to the hells, maybe the stinking traitors haven’t all scurried north to Stamboul.” General Guildenstern admitted even so much with the greatest reluctance.
“I’m afraid you may be right, sir,” Brigadier Alexander agreed.
“Of course I’m right,” Guildenstern snarled. He rarely doubted himself, even, perhaps, when he should have. “Bugger Thraxton the Braggart’s arse with a red-hot poker, why isn’t he behaving the way he’s supposed to? Does the stinking son of a whore think he can beat me?” He paused in his tirade to pour more brandy down his throat, then resumed: “If he thinks he can beat me, I’ll kick his scrawny backside so hard, he’ll end up in Marthasville whether he wants to or not.” He gulped from the flask again, only to discover he’d drunk it dry. That set off a fresh barrage of foul language.
His division commander said, “It certainly is surprising that he would dare to try conclusions with you.”
“Surprising? It’s bloody idiotic, that’s what it is,” Guildenstern thundered. “I’ve seen beers with better heads on ’em than Thraxton’s got, if he’s enough of a moron to want to join battle with us when our army outnumbers his close to two to one.”
Brigadier Alexander coughed a couple of times, the coughs of a man who’s just had an uncomfortable thought. “Our whole army outnumbers his close to two to one, yes, sir. But his is larger than any of our three separate forces. If he were to concentrate against one of them…”
“That’s why I sent Doubting George out by his lonesome, you nincompoop,” Guildenstern said. He shook his flask. It was empty, and he remained thirsty. That he couldn’t do anything about his thirst at the moment only made him more irritable. Ignoring Alexander’s wounded look, he went on, “I wanted to lure Thraxton into trying to hit him, so the rest of us could land on the traitors like a ton of bricks and get rid of them once for all.”
“Yes, sir. I understand that, sir,” the division commander said carefully. “But with Lieutenant General George well east of us and with Brigadier Thom so far off to the west, Thraxton might be able to, to hurt one of our wings before the others could come to its rescue.”
Thraxton might be able to smash one of our wings. That was what Alexander had intended to say. You can’t fool me, Guildenstern thought. I know what you meant, you mealy-mouthed son of a bitch. Even with brandy (not enough brandy, gods damn it) coursing through him, Guildenstern had no trouble seeing through his subordinate’s deceptions.
But had he somehow failed to see through one of Thraxton the Braggart’s deceptions? The trouble was, Brigadier Alexander, however mealy-mouthed he might be, had a point. If Thraxton was lingering in southern Peachtree Province, he might indeed handle one of King Avram’s isolated forces very roughly before the other divisions could get to it.
Guildenstern’s mouth twisted into a thin, bitter line. As if every word tasted bad-and every word did taste bad, as far as he was concerned-he said, “Maybe-just maybe-there is something to what you say. Maybe we ought to bring the wings of the army closer together.”
Brigadier Alexander’s face lit up. “Sir, I think that would be a wonderful idea!” he exclaimed, as if he expected to see Ned of the Forest’s unicorns rampaging through the division he commanded any minute now. “If we’re all together, the Braggart would have to come up with reinforcements before he could even think about attacking us, and where can he find them?”
“He can’t.” General Guildenstern spoke with great certainty. “There aren’t any in this part of the kingdom.”
“I’m sure you’re right, sir,” Alexander said. “And so-a united army for a united kingdom, eh?” He chuckled stagily. “King Avram would surely approve.”
“Yes.” Guildenstern had no trouble holding the enthusiasm from his voice. He didn’t particularly love King Avram. But he thoroughly despised Grand Duke Geoffrey-false King Geoffrey, these days. And he even more thoroughly despised the northern nobles who backed Geoffrey. They had everything he wanted-rank, wealth, elegance. No… They had almost everything he wanted. He turned to Brigadier Alexander and coughed a significant cough. “By the gods, I’m thirsty.”
“Here, sir.” Alexander took the bottle off his belt and handed it to the general.
“Thanks.” Guildenstern yanked out the stopper, took a long pull-and then spat in disgust. He all but threw the flask to the brigadier. “You’ve got your nerve, giving a thirsty man water.”
Alexander blushed bright red, as if he were a blond. “I-I’m sorry, sir,” he stammered. “I-I’m not fond of spirituous liquors myself, and so it never occurred to me that-”
“Dunderhead,” Guildenstern growled. The commanding general turned his back on his luckless subordinate and stalked off toward the scryers’ tent. Brigadier Alexander took a couple of steps after him, then broke off the pursuit, sure it would do no good. And in that, if in nothing else, Guildenstern thought, the brigadier was absolutely right.
I wonder if the scryers will have anything worth drinking, Guildenstern thought as he ducked through the tent flap. He doubted it. And even if t
hey did, odds were they wouldn’t share with him.
The bright young men sitting behind their crystal balls sprang to attention when the commanding general walked in. One of them sprang so enthusiastically, he knocked over his folding chair and then had to bend and fumble to pick it up. “What can we do for you, sir?” asked Major Carmoni, who headed the scryers’ section.
“I need to send some messages,” Guildenstern answered. “What did you think I came in for, roast pork?”
Several of the bright young men snickered. Major Carmoni said, “Yes, sir: I understand you need to send messages. To whom, sir, and what do you need to say?”
That was business. So Guildenstern took it, at any rate. He was too elevated by brandy to suppose it might be scorn. “Send one to Doubting George,” he answered, “ordering him to move toward me. And send the other to Brigadier Thom, also ordering him to move toward me. We shall concentrate our forces.” He spoke the long word in the last sentence with great care.
“Yes, sir.” Carmoni turned to the scryers. “Esrom, your crystal ball’s attuned to the ones in Lieutenant General George’s wing. And you, Edoc, you can deliver the message to Brigadier Thom’s wing.”
Both scryers nodded. One of them (Esrom? Edoc? the commanding general neither knew nor cared) turned to Guildenstern and murmured, “By your leave, sir.” He nodded. The scryers sat down and bent over their crystals. They muttered in low voices. First one crystal began to glow, then the other. The scryers passed on General Guildenstern’s orders. He heard those orders acknowledged. As the scryers looked up from the crystals, the glass globes went dull and dark again.
“It is accomplished, sir,” Major Carmoni said.
“It had bloody well better be,” Guildenstern said. “I wouldn’t put it past George to pretend he’d never got the order so he could go on after Thraxton the Braggart all by his lonesome. He’s a glory-sniffer, if you ask me.” Off he went, not quite realizing how much juicy gossip he’d just left in his wake.
He still remained imperfectly convinced that the northern traitors really were loitering here by the southern border of Peachtree Province. He wouldn’t have done it himself, which made it harder for him to believe Count Thraxton would. And the column in which he advanced, the column led by Brigadier Alexander, hadn’t been assailed the way Doubting George had-the way Doubting George said he had, at any rate. Oh, a few bushwhackers had shot crossbows at the men in gray from the underbrush, but that happened marching along any road in any northern province.
Musing this, he glumly tramped back to his own pavilion. His stride grew glummer still when he bethought himself that no one soft and young and round and friendly was waiting for him in the pavilion. He sighed and scowled and kicked at the dirt. By all the gods, I should have brought that wench with me when we marched out of Rising Rock, he thought. I expected to be heading up toward Stamboul by now. Bound to be plenty of women once I get into settled country-plenty of serfs who want to be nice to King Avram’s general. But there aren’t any at all in this wilderness.
If he couldn’t have a woman, more brandy needs must do. He didn’t know where to get his hands on a woman, but brandy-or something else just as potent, such as the amber spirits for which Franklin was famous-was never hard to come by, not in any army on either side of this civil war.
Just before General Guildenstern went into his pavilion, shouts rose from the mages’ tents not far away: “Sorcery! Magecraft! Wizardry!” The men started rushing about in the gray robes that always made them look-to Guildenstern, at least-as if they’d just come from the baths. They would run from one tent and then into another, calling out all the while.
Guildenstern’s lip curled. Mages were always running around yelling about magic, whether it was there or not. Guildenstern couldn’t sense it, which made him doubt it was there. He wanted to see mages running around yelling about cauliflowers. He rumbled laughter. With cauliflowers, at least, an ordinary human being would have some hope of telling whether or not the mages were flabbling over nothing.
Sentries saluted as Guildenstern came up to the pavilion. “Cauliflowers,” he muttered. Their eyebrows rose. But they didn’t ask questions. Asking questions wasn’t their job. Into the pavilion he strode. Sure enough, he had no trouble coming up with a bottle of brandy from which he could restore his sadly depleted flask-and from which he could restore his sadly depleted self.
He was smacking his lips over the restorative when one of the sentries stuck his head inside and said, “General Guildenstern, sir, Colonel Phineas would like to talk to you.”
“Ah, but would I like to talk to Colonel Phineas?” Guildenstern replied grandly. It wasn’t altogether a rhetorical question; his chief mage had and persisted in the unfortunate habit of telling him things he didn’t want to hear. He scowled. Phineas would also write a nasty report if he sent him away without listening to him. King Avram read reports like those. Scowling still, Guildenstern said what he had to say: “Very well. Send him in.”
In came Phineas, a round, agreeable man who looked more like a patent-medicine seller or a carnival barker than anyone’s usual idea of a mage. “Sir!” he said, clapping a dramatic hand to his forehead, “we have been probed!”
“Probed?” Guildenstern echoed. It didn’t sound pleasant; he was willing to admit that. What it did sound like was something a physician might do, not a sorcerer. “What exactly do you mean, Colonel?”
“What I say, of course,” Phineas answered. “We have been probed-quite thoroughly, too, I might add.”
“If you can’t explain yourself in plain Detinan so an ordinary human being can understand you, Colonel, perhaps you should find yourself another line of work,” Guildenstern said acidly. “Footsoldier springs to mind.”
As he’d thought it would, that got Phineas’ attention. “What I mean, sir, is that the northern mages have done everything they could to learn everything they could about our dispositions through sorcerous means. Perhaps you will criticize my style there. I am not used to being judged on my literary technique.”
“Never mind,” Guildenstern said: he’d finally found out what he needed to hear. “All right-they probed us, if that’s what you wizards call it. How much did they find out? I presume you fellows blocked them. That’s what we pay you for, anyhow.” He laughed at his own wit.
Colonel Phineas didn’t laugh. Colonel Phineas, in fact, looked about as somber as Guildenstern had ever seen him. “We did the best we could, General,” he said, his voice stiff and anxious. “We always do the best we can, as you must surely know. But, I have to admit, we were taken somewhat by surprise.”
Guildenstern didn’t like the way that sounded. By the miserable expression on his chief mage’s face, he had good reason not to like it. “How much did they learn?” he demanded. “They must have learned something, or you wouldn’t look as though a brewery wagon just ran over your favorite kitten.”
“They learned… perhaps a good deal, sir,” Phineas said, forcing the words out one by one. “We… might have detected the probe rather sooner than we did. We are still… not quite so good as we might wish at reacting when taken by surprise. Such things… don’t happen quite so often in civilian life.”
“You’ve gone and futtered things again, is what you’re telling me,” Guildenstern boomed, his rage fed both by brandy and by knowing such things had happened to southron armies far too often. “You’re telling me Thraxton the Braggart knows where every louse is on every man I command. That bloody well is what you’re telling me, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think it’s quite that bad, sir,” Colonel Phineas said. “But, considering how scattered our forces are…”
The commanding general took great pleasure in laughing in his face. “If that’s all you’re having puppies about, you can rest easy,” he said. “I’m already pulling them together.” Phineas blinked. That wasn’t enough for Guildenstern, who went on, “No thanks to you, gods damn you to the hells. Now get out of my sight!” Phineas fled. Guilden
stern nodded. That was better. He swigged from the brandy flask again.
V
Ned of the Forest could not have been more disgusted if he’d been invited to King Avram’s coronation.
“Why have we even got an army?” he demanded of Colonel Biffle. “What good is it if we just sit around with it and don’t use it?”
“Tell you what I heard,” Biffle said.
“Well? Go on,” Ned said. “How come General Thraxton’s being an idiot this time out?” He was willing to assume Thraxton was being an idiot, for one reason or another.
But Colonel Biffle shook his head. “It’s not Thraxton’s fault this time, Ned.” He held up a hasty hand. “I know the two of you don’t see eye to eye. Everybody knows that, I expect. But what I hear is, Thraxton’s flat-out ordered Leonidas the Priest to get up off his arse and go for the stinking southrons, and Leonidas just keeps sitting on his backside and won’t move for anything.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Ned allowed. “Leonidas has got himself plenty of holy where you ought to have smart, you know what I mean? But the southrons are figuring out we didn’t run for Stamboul or Marthasville. They’re starting to pull their own army together. If we don’t start taking bites out of their separate columns pretty soon, we lose the chance for good.”
“I know that, sir,” Biffle said. “But I can’t make Leonidas move, either.”
“Only thing that’d make Leonidas move is a good, swift kick in the backside,” Ned said scornfully. He raised a bristling black eyebrow. “I will be cursed if I don’t feel a little bit sorry for Thraxton, and that’s nothing I reckoned I’d ever say.”
“Won’t be so good if Guildenstern does pull his whole army together before we get the chance to hit it,” Colonel Biffle remarked. “He’s almost done it already.”
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