“Thank you kindly,” Bart told him. “Now would you care to ride into Rising Rock with me?”
“I would indeed,” Hesmucet said, and into the town they rode without the least concern for whose rank was higher than whose.
* * *
Count Thraxton was not a happy man. Count Thraxton rarely was a happy man, but he found even more reasons for gloom than usual when he peered east from Proselytizers’ Rise toward Rising Rock. Oh, on the surface things looked good enough. King Geoffrey had sustained him in his command. He’d got rid of the officers who’d libeled him to the king. Everyone who led men under him was either loyal to him or knew how to keep his mouth shut in public.
And yet… He knew the grumbling went on. He didn’t need any great skill in magecraft to understand that. His officer corps might be cowed, but it was not satisfied. The only thing that would satisfy his officers was marching into Rising Rock. And how was he supposed to manage that?
You should have done it after we beat the southrons by the River of Death. He could still hear his officers bleating like so many sheep. He looked up into the heavens, toward the mystical mountain beyond the sky where the gods lived. “You tell me, Thunderer; you tell me, Lion God: how was I supposed to make my army move fast when the enemy had just shot one man in four?” he said. A sentry gave him a curious look. His glare sent the man back to dutiful impassivity in a hurry. If it hadn’t, Thraxton would have done a great deal more than just glare.
The gods didn’t answer him. They never did. That might have been one of the reasons he was always so melancholy, so bad-tempered. The gods speak to an idiot like Leonidas the Priest. He says so, and I believe him. But they will not speak to me, not face to face. What does that say about Leonidas? What does it say about me? Even more to the point, what does it say about the gods?
A messenger came up to Thraxton. “Excuse me, your Grace,” the fellow said. “I have here Earl James of Broadpath’s report on the failed attack against the southrons by the Brownsville Ferry a few days past.” He held out a couple of sheets of closely written paper.
“Thank you so much,” Thraxton said, accepting the papers with a sour sneer. “I shall be fascinated to learn how the brilliant Earl James, schooled under the even more brilliant Duke Edward, explains away the ineptitude that kept him from success.”
“Er-yes, sir,” the messenger said, and left in a hurry.
Thraxton needed hardly more than a glance at the report to see how James exculpated himself: partly by blaming Leonidas the Priest, and partly by complaining he hadn’t had enough men to do the job Thraxton had set him. Thraxton’s sneer grew wider. You don’t think it’s so easy when you’re in command, do you? But you expected the sun and moon from me.
All at once, his revulsion against James swelled to the point where it was more than he could stand. He shouted for a messenger. The one who came running looked suitably apprehensive. “Let the illustrious James of Broadpath know I require his presence at his earliest convenience,” Thraxton said.
“Yes, sir.” The runner trotted off to do Thraxton’s bidding, obeying without fuss or back talk. If only the rest of the Army of Franklin would do the same.
James of Broadpath came, but in his own sweet time. It was a couple of hours before he guided his big, ungainly unicorn up to Count Thraxton’s headquarters. When he slid down-to the poor beast’s obvious relief-he saluted and said, “Reporting as ordered, sir.”
“So you are,” Thraxton said. “Good of you to do so-at last.” James glowered, but could only glower. Thraxton went on, “I have a new task in mind for your wing, your Excellency.” One that will get you out of my hair for some time to come.
“Sir?” James of Broadpath said.
He was giving Count Thraxton as little as he could; Thraxton saw that at once. Go ahead, James, wriggle on the hook as much as you care to. It will do you no good. “As I said, I have something special for you, your Excellency, and for the soldiers you brought here from the magnificent Army of Southern Parthenia.”
By the way he said it, he reckoned that army something less than magnificent. James heard that, but could only frown as he replied, “I shall endeavor to do anything you may require of me, your Grace.”
“So you showed by the Brownsville Ferry,” Thraxton said, for the pleasure of watching James scowl and fume. “What I have in mind this time, however, is a more nearly independent command for you.”
“Ah?” James of Broadpath said. Thraxton didn’t smile, though another man might have. The fish was nibbling at the hook. After plucking his bushy beard, James went on, “Tell me more.”
Hooked, sure enough, Thraxton thought. Aloud, he said, “Whiskery Ambrose has been making a nuisance of himself for some time now, southwest of us in Wesleyton. I purpose detaching your force from the Army of Franklin and sending you forth to lay siege to him there or to drive him from our land altogether.”
Earl James frowned. “I see the need for doing it,” he said at last, “but I have to say, your Grace, that I question the timing.”
“How do you mean?” Thraxton always bristled when anyone questioned him.
“Do you really want to detach a large part of your force when the southrons are bringing fresh soldiers into Rising Rock?” James asked. “If you were going to send me against Wesleyton, you might have done better to try it just after we won at the River of Death.”
“Back then, you were all for my moving men east of Rising Rock, not to the southwest,” Thraxton reminded him in tart tones.
“I was all for your doing something, your Grace,” Earl James said. “I was all for your doing anything, as a matter of fact. Sitting in front of Rising Rock frittering away the time does King Geoffrey’s cause no good.”
Count Thraxton glared at him. Sacking James of Broadpath wouldn’t be easy. Thraxton didn’t care to squabble with Duke Edward of Arlington, who was even more likely than he to have the king’s ear. But he could send James away. He could-and he would. “I judge a move against Wesleyton to be in our best interest at this time. Too many would-be betrayers in western Franklin take aid and comfort from having Whiskery Ambrose and his army close by.”
“That’s so,” James said. Had he denied it, Thraxton would have called him a liar on the spot. Most of Franklin was and had been strongly for Geoffrey, but the mountainous west, where there were few estates of any size and only a handful of serfs, remained a hotbed of Avramist sentiment.
“Well, then,” Thraxton said, as if it were all settled.
But James of Broadpath persisted, “They can’t hurt us here. A screen of unicorn-riders could keep Whiskery Ambrose away if he got a rush of brains to the head and tried to move on Rising Rock. Ned of the Forest was doing fine there. Shouldn’t we settle more important business in these parts before we go on to the less?”
“I want Wesleyton taken,” Thraxton said. “I want Whiskery Ambrose killed or chased away. And, your Excellency, it is my express command that you undertake this campaign against him.” Because, your Excellency, I want you and your carping criticism as far away from me as possible.
James of Broadpath gave him a precisely machined salute. “Yes, sir,” he said, no expression whatever in his voice. “When is it your express command that my force and I should leave for Wesleyton?”
“Day after tomorrow,” Thraxton answered. “Go down there, settle with Whiskery Ambrose, and return once he is beaten-but not until then. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” James said, as tonelessly as before. “And if you are attacked while I’m operating against Wesleyton?”
“I assure you, your Excellency, this army is capable of defending itself,” Thraxton said. “Our positions are as strong as the craft of field fortification allows them to be. Do you deny that? How could an enemy possibly hope to sweep up the slopes of Proselytizers’ Rise with fierce, alert soldiers shooting at him from the top?”
“I don’t know, your Grace, and the gods grant that we need never find out,” James repl
ied. He saluted Count Thraxton. “If you would have me go, sir, I shall, and do what I can for the kingdom.”
“Good,” Thraxton said, which earned him another sour look from the officer from the Army of Southern Parthenia. Muttering something his bushy beard muffled, James of Broadpath mounted his burly unicorn and rode away.
Once he was gone, Thraxton called for two more runners. To one, he said, “Tell Roast-Beef William I would see him at once.” He told the other, “Order Duke Cabell of Broken Ridge here immediately.” Both messengers saluted and went to do his bidding. Thraxton enjoyed nothing more than sending men to do his bidding.
Roast-Beef William, who’d taken over for Leonidas the Priest, reported to Thraxton fast enough to keep even that sour-tempered soldier reasonably sweet. His other nickname was Old Reliable; he’d written the tactical manual on which both Geoffrey’s army and Avram’s based their evolutions.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked now. His fondness for big chunks of meat had given him his more common sobriquet, but he also had a red, red face.
“I would sooner wait for the duke,” Thraxton replied. “Then I need say this only once.” Roast-Beef William just shrugged and nodded. He got on well with almost everyone. He got on well enough with Thraxton, which proved the point if it wanted proving.
Cabell of Broken Ridge strode up to Thraxton’s headquarters only a couple of minutes later. He now commanded the wing Dan of Rabbit Hill had led before. Count Thraxton had hesitated more than a little before naming him to the post, not least because his blood was higher than Thraxton’s. When old King Buchan died, there’d been some talk in the north of raising Cabell to the throne, though Geoffrey soon solidified his claim to rival Avram. Cabell seemed content as one of Geoffrey’s officers. Thraxton, who was never content himself, mistrusted that, but found no better choice despite his misgivings.
“At your service, your Grace,” Cabell said now, bowing courteously. He was a darkly handsome man with a round face and long, dark mustachios that swept out like the horns of a buffalo.
“Good,” Thraxton said. Cabell hadn’t got there fast enough to suit him, but hadn’t been so slow as to disgrace himself, either. And Thraxton was much more cautious about offending a duke than he would have been with an earl or a baron or a man of no particular breeding like Roast-Beef William.
“What’s in your mind, sir?” Old Reliable asked now.
“I have ordered James of Broadpath south and west to strike against Whiskery Ambrose at Wesleyton,” Thraxton answered. “After he has beaten Ambrose, he will return here or strike farther south, as opportunity presents itself.”
“That’s a bold strategy, sir,” Cabell of Broken Ridge said.
“Bold, yes. Bold but risky.” Roast-Beef William plucked at his graying beard. “We could find ourselves in trouble if the southrons strike while James is away. Dividing your force in the face of the enemy… It’s how Guildenstern came to grief, you know.”
“But Guildenstern did not know where we were.” Thraxton pointed down toward Rising Rock. “We see everything the southrons do at the moment they do it. They cannot possibly surprise us.”
“With our position, we can hold them anyhow,” Cabell said.
“I hope you’re right, your Grace,” Roast-Beef William said.
“Of course I am.” Cabell of Broken Ridge had no doubts whatever.
Thraxton always had doubts. More often than not, he had doubts about the men who served under him. He said, “We can hold, and we shall hold, provided that my wing commanders stay alert to any movement the southrons might seek to prepare.” He spoke as if expecting to discover Cabell and Roast-Beef William snoring in their tents: if he couldn’t find a quarrel any other way, he would make one.
Roast-Beef William only shrugged; he never had been a quarrelsome sort. But Duke Cabell, predictably, bristled. “Why did you pick us to command the wings, if you didn’t think we could do what you wanted?” he demanded.
Hearing the question made Thraxton regret his choice. He snapped, “That’s my concern, not yours.”
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” Roast-Beef William said in some alarm as Thraxton and Cabell glared at each other. “Remember, gentlemen, the more we fight among ourselves, the happier General Bart will be down there in Rising Rock.”
Duke Cabell of Broken Ridge nodded and half bowed. “That is well said, sir, and I shall try to take it to heart.”
“If my subordinates were more subordinate and less insubordinate, we should not have these problems,” Thraxton said. Roast-Beef William coughed gently, from him as strong as a string of oaths from another man. Thraxton turned his scowl on the other officer, but the man called Old Reliable looked back out of steady and innocent eyes, and Thraxton was the first to look away. He gave a slow, reluctant nod. “As you say, William. The point is well taken.”
“Thank you, sir,” Roast-Beef William said. “And I know one other thing we should do.”
“And that is?” Thraxton’s voice got some of its usual rasp back. If Roast-Beef William presumed to try to give him orders…
But the wing commander said, “Sir, we should pray to the Thunderer to keep the weather good, so we can go on watching Rising Rock,” and Count Thraxton found he had to nod.
* * *
Earl James of Broadpath and his men marched south and west out of Rising Rock in the midst of a driving rain. The autumn had been mild up till then. “Just my luck,” he muttered under his breath, as rain beat down on his broad-brimmed traveler’s hat. “Just my fornicating luck.”
“Sir?” said an aide riding nearby.
“Never mind,” James replied. “Just talking to myself. In the temper I’m in, I’m the only one I’m fit to talk to.”
His heavy-boned unicorn squelched along. When the rain first started falling, he hadn’t been sorry; it would lay the dust on the road. But, of course, more than a little rain was worse than none at all when it came to movement, for it quickly turned roads to bogs. This one was well on the way. And James of Broadpath rode at the head of the army. Once some thousands of footsoldiers had churned up the mud, how would the asses and unicorns hauling supplies and siege engines fare? None too well, and James knew it.
“Glideway,” he said, again more to himself than to anyone else. “We have to get to the glideway port at Grover. Once we do, we’ll be all right.” Grover was thirty miles away: less than two days’ march in good weather, considerably more than two days’ march through muck.
How much more, James soon discovered. His weary, filthy men got into the little town in northwestern Franklin on the fourth day out from Proselytizers’ Rise. He rode to the glideway port there. At the port, he discovered that none of the glideway carpets he’d been promised were anywhere about.
At that point, he lost his temper and began bellowing like a bull just before a sacrifice. His roars routed out a buck-toothed clerk who looked like nothing so much as a skinny, frightened rabbit. The poor clerk’s terror meant nothing to James. “Where in the seven hells are my carpets, you son of a bitch?” he roared.
“Sir, I don’t know anything about them,” the clerk quavered.
“Well, the Lion God rip your throat out, why don’t you?” James said. “If the fornicating glideway clerk doesn’t know where the devils my stinking carpets are, who the devils does?”
“All glideway carpets in the military district of the Army of Franklin are under the personal control of Count Thraxton, sir,” the clerk said.
James of Broadpath clapped a hand to his forehead. “He was supposed to send them here, or enough to let my ragtag and bobtail deliver some sort of attack on Whiskery Ambrose up in Wesleyton. How in the hells am I suppose to deliver any sort of attack on him if half my men drown in the mud before we get to Wesleyton?”
“I wouldn’t know about that, sir,” the glideway clerk said primly. “No, sir, I wouldn’t know about that at all. If you want to find out about that, sir, you’d have to take it up with Count Thraxton his own self.”
“I thought I bloody well had, before I started for this miserable, stinking hole in the ground of a village,” James snarled. The clerk looked furious-in a rabbity sort of way-but James was too irate himself to care a copper for his feelings.
At that moment, a scryer came up to James and said, “Excuse me, your Excellency, but I’ve just received a message from Count Thraxton’s scryers, inquiring as to where we are and asking why we haven’t made better progress toward Wesleyton.”
James of Broadpath stared at the sorcerer. His expression must have been something to behold, for the fellow drew back in alarm. “He complains that we haven’t got closer to fornicating Wesleyton?” he whispered.
“Yes, sir,” the scryer answered.
“Oh, he does, does he?” From a whisper, Earl James’ voice rose to a deep-throated rumbling roar, rather like the precursor to an earthquake, that sent both the scryer and the glideway clerk backing away from him in alarm not far from terror. “He does, does he? Why, that…” James proceeded to express his detailed opinion of Thraxton’s ancestry, likely destination, and intimate personal habits-matters on which he had nothing save opinions, but those strongly held ones.
“Shall I… respond that we’re doing the best we can, sir?” the scryer asked when his fulminations finally faded.
“No, by the gods,” James said, his outrage kindling anew. “Get your fornicating crystal ball. I’ll tell Thraxton what I think of him and his nagging myself, to the hells with me if I don’t.”
“Sir-”
“Get it!” James shouted, and the scryer fled. When he returned, he had the crystal ball with him. “Good,” James said grimly. “Now get me that two-faced son of a bitch, so I can talk with him face to face to face.” He laughed at his own wit.
Looking distinctly green, the scryer murmured the spells he needed to activate his crystal ball. An image appeared in it. It wasn’t Thraxton’s, but that of his chief scryer. James’ scryer spoke briefly to him, then said, “Count Thraxton is not available, your Excellency. He’s plotting strategy with Roast-Beef William and with Duke Cabell. The scryer says it’s urgent.”
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