Elbowing aside his own scryer, James stared at the fellow who served Count Thraxton. “Plotting, indeed,” he ground out. “He is plotting against me, and you’re welcome to tell him I said so.”
“Your Excellency, I am certain you are mistaken,” the scryer back by Proselytizers’ Rise said smoothly. “Count Thraxton wishes you every success.”
“Count Thraxton wishes I would jump off a cliff,” James of Broadpath retorted. “Why did he send me out without any proper help on the glideways here?”
“I’m sure that’s an oversight on the part of someone else,” Thraxton’s scryer said.
“Are you? I’m not,” James answered. “Who controls routing for the glideways in this part of the kingdom? His Grace does, his Grace and no one else.”
“Why would he want you to fail, your Excellency?” the scryer asked. “There’s no sense to it, as you’ll see if you think about things for just a moment.”
“No, eh?” James sounded thoroughly grim. “Why would he send me forth without arranging the glideways unless he wanted me to fail? He has to know I need them; whatever else he is, he’s no fool. And why would he order me to hurry without giving me any possible chance to do so? To put himself on the record as hustling me along, that’s why. Of course, nothing about the glideways is on the record, is it?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know, sir,” the scryer answered. “I am not privy to Count Thraxton’s thoughts.”
A lot of those thoughts surely went through him to the officers Thraxton commanded. Even so, James had trouble getting angry at the fellow. He would not have wanted a scryer who blabbed his ideas to the world at large. Still… He took a long, deep, angry breath. “You tell Count Thraxton for me that I want to see enough glideway carpets to move my army get here to Grover pretty gods-damned quick. And you tell him that, without those carpets, I can’t move against Whiskery Ambrose in Wesleyton. I can’t, and I won’t. Have you got that?”
“I certainly do, your Excellency,” Thraxton’s scryer said. “The count will hear of this.”
“He’d bloody well better,” James rumbled. He made a sharp chopping gesture to his own scryer, who broke the mystical link between the two crystal balls.
Eyes wide, his scryer asked, “Would you really stop the advance on Wesleyton, sir?”
“Of course I would,” James growled. “How in the hells can I go on with it unless I’ve got glideway carpets? If these rains keep up, we’d be a fornicating month getting there by road, and we’ll all starve by the time we did.” He knew he was exaggerating. He also knew he wasn’t exaggerating a great deal.
He got his glideway carpets. They started coming in the next day. That surprised him. He hadn’t expected them in the least. Maybe Count Thraxton had some vestigial sense of shame after all. No sooner had that thought crossed James’ mind than he shook his head. He wouldn’t have bet anything on it that he couldn’t afford to lose.
Loading men and unicorns and wagons and engines onto the carpets was another adventure, especially since the rain kept falling-and especially since Thraxton the Braggart kept haranguing James for more speed. James made a point of having his scryer tell Thraxton he was busy whenever the general commanding the Army of Franklin asked for him. Had he spoken with Thraxton, he knew what he would have said-and he knew the other man would not have cared to hear it.
At last, several days after it should have, James’ force started southwest down the glideway. Even that went more slowly than it should have. James didn’t know why. The mages claimed the wretched weather had nothing to do with it. But when James bellowed, “What in the seven hells does, then?” they only shrugged and shook their heads.
And, of course, they couldn’t simply take the glideway straight to Wesleyton, climb off the carpets, and come out fighting Whiskery Ambrose’s men. The southrons were in possession of the glideway for about the last third of the distance to Wesleyton. As soon as James’ men got down to the Little Franklin River, the glideway journey was over. They had to go back to being soldiers again.
James of Broadpath hoped Whiskery Ambrose would come out and fight him with his whole army. He’d fought Ambrose when the southrons attacked the Army of Southern Parthenia, and Duke Edward had crushed him without any great effort. Ambrose was unquestionably brave. Having said that, one said everything there was to say about his military virtues. If he’d attacked the position Duke Edward had taken for the next hundred years, all he would have done was kill every southron man born of the next several generations. In the field, in a standup fight, James was sure he could beat him.
But Whiskery Ambrose refused to give James a standup fight. His unicorn-riders and a few footsoldiers skirmished with James’ men, delaying them, falling back, skirmishing again, and again retreating toward Wesleyton. James, who had been frustrated from the very beginning of this misbegotten campaign, soon felt ready to bite nails in two.
Lacking nails, he also felt ready to bite in two the captured southron captain who was brought before him. “Gods damn you, why don’t you sons of bitches fight?” he shouted into the man’s startled face.
“Sir, you’d have to ask General Ambrose about that,” the captain said.
“To the hells with General Ambrose,” James said. “If he is a general, why doesn’t he come out and give battle?”
The captain raised an eyebrow. “If you’re such a fine general, why don’t you make him?” James glared at him. The southron looked back steadily enough. He went on, “General Ambrose has orders to hold Wesleyton, and that is what he intends to do.”
Cursing under his breath, James sent the prisoner away. Whiskery Ambrose always followed orders to the limit, presumably because he couldn’t come up with any better ideas on his own. Had he been ordered to drive James away, he would have bravely done his best-and played straight into James’ hands.
As things were, James had no choice but to press on despite wretched roads and worse weather. He had his orders, too, and he had Count Thraxton back outside Rising Rock nagging him ahead through the scryers. They faithfully delivered all of Thraxton’s messages. James ignored some and answered those he couldn’t ignore. He didn’t want Thraxton to be able to make a case that he’d been derelict.
“I know where the dereliction lies,” he told Thraxton’s chief scryer. “King Geoffrey will know it, too-you mark my words.”
“King Geoffrey and the count are intimate friends,” the scryer answered. “You slander Count Thraxton at your peril.”
“I fail to tell the truth about him at the kingdom’s peril,” James retorted. “And his Grace is the greatest slanderer left at large.”
“Shall I convey that opinion to him?” the scryer asked acidly.
“Why not?” James said. “He already knows my view of him, and his of me is unlikely to go lower.”
“Very well.” The scryer did his best to sound ominous. James of Broadpath laughed in his face. The scryer mouthed something that was surely not a compliment. A moment later, the crystal ball in front of James went dark.
He laughed again. He’d had the last word, and he hadn’t even said anything.
In spite of everything, he got his army moving again the next morning. The men went forward with a will. They thought they could take Wesleyton. They thought they could do anything. Under Duke Edward, they’d proved they could time and again.
Can they do it without Duke Edward? James wondered, and then, even more to the point, Can they do it under me? He was going to find out. He’d always longed for independent command. Now he had it, even if not quite under the circumstances in which he’d wanted it.
That afternoon, his little army came up against the outworks around Wesleyton. He looked from them to the keep at the heart of the town, then let out a long, sad sigh. One glance was plenty to tell him Whiskery Ambrose had orders much easier to obey than his own.
* * *
After Rollant’s regiment helped drive the traitors back from the Franklin River and helped open the way for sup
plies and for the forces led by Fighting Joseph and by Lieutenant General Hesmucet, it had little fighting to do for a while. That suited him fine. He and Smitty made their tent as comfortable as they could, adding scrounged extra cloth to make it more wind- and waterproof and piling up springy, fragrant pine boughs on which they could lie snug and warm in their blankets.
Rollant was sitting in front of the tent spooning up mush mixed with salt pork from his mess tin when somebody not far away let out a cheer. His head whipped around. Several more people started to whoop and holler. A moment later, Rollant did, too.
Smitty stuck his head out of the tent. “What in the hells?” he said. “How am I supposed to write a letter to my folks if you’re yelling your fool head off?”
“Captain Cephas is back-for good, this time, looks like,” Rollant exclaimed. “See? There he is.”
“What?” Smitty said, this time in an altogether different tone of voice. Then he started cheering, too.
The wounded officer made his way through the company, shaking hands with all his men. He remained thinner and paler than Rollant remembered, but he was back, and that was all that mattered. “Good to see you, sir!” Rollant said.
“Good to be seen, believe me.” Cephas’ hand went to the right side of his ribcage. “For a while there, I didn’t think anyone would see me again.” He clasped Smitty’s hand after Rollant’s, and asked him, “Are you still raising trouble?”
“Every chance I get, sir,” Smitty said proudly.
“Good. Keep it up,” Cephas said with a grin, and went on to the next tent.
Smitty looked about ready to burst with pride. Rollant said, “Remember, now, he won’t tell you that when Sergeant Joram brings you up before him.”
“Spoilsport,” Smitty said. After a moment, he added, “I can think of one man in the company who isn’t happy to see the captain again.”
“Who, Lieutenant Griff?” Rollant shook his head. “You’re wrong, Smitty. I saw him-he was grinning fit to burst.”
“So he was,” Smitty agreed. “But he’s not the fellow I meant. It’s Hagen who isn’t happy to see Captain Cephas back, and that’s because Corliss is.”
“Oh.” Rollant glanced toward the serfs he’d brought in from just outside of Rising Rock. Sure enough, smiles wreathed Corliss’ pretty face. And, sure enough, her man scowled at Cephas’ back. “I don’t like that,” Rollant said. “I don’t like that one bit, as a matter of fact. That could be trouble. It could be a lot of trouble.”
“You’re repeating yourself,” Smitty remarked. “Not only that, you’re saying the same thing over and over.”
“Well, what if I am?” Rollant said. “I’ll tell you something else-once. I wouldn’t want to be Captain Cephas if he does start messing around with Corliss, or even if Hagen just thinks he is.”
“You’re worrying too much,” Smitty said with a dismissive wave. “Gods above, Rollant, Hagen is only a-” Several words too late, he broke off. Even with his swarthy skin, his flush was plain to see.
Rollant took off his cap and displayed his own head of blond hair. “Just in case you’d forgotten, I’m only a serf, too. Only a runaway serf, come to that. If you want to take me across the lines to my old liege lord, you’d put some gold in the pockets of your pantaloons.”
“Oh, shut up,” Smitty said. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’ve proved you’re a man, by the gods.”
“And Hagen hasn’t?” Rollant was unwilling to let it go. “Is that on account of the color of his hair?”
“Gods dammit, it’s on account of he’s not a soldier.” Now Smitty was starting to sound angry, too. “Anybody who’s no soldier and tries to take on one of us’ll be sorry he was ever born-but not for very long, because it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.”
That held some truth-enough to melt some of Rollant’s anger. Not all of it, though. “How long are blonds going to have to keep on proving themselves in Detina?” he asked bitterly. “We didn’t invite you black-bearded bastards to sail over here. How long are we going to stay strangers in our own land?”
With anyone but Smitty, that would have put him in trouble. It was one step over the line, or more likely two. Before King Avram succeeded, Rollant never would have dared say such a thing to an ordinary Detinan: he would have been too likely to end up in gaol as an insurrectionary. But Avram had taken over the Black Palace promising to free the northern serfs from their bondage to the land and, by implication, to turn them into something like ordinary Detinans themselves. If that didn’t let Rollant speak his mind every now and again, what ever would?
Slowly, Smitty said, “The more you look at things, the more complicated they get, don’t they?”
It wasn’t an apology, but it felt like a step toward one. Rollant said, “That’s what this war is all about-to make sure Detina doesn’t stay the way it used to be.”
“All I joined up for was to make sure Grand Duke Geoffrey didn’t change Detina into two different kingdoms,” Smitty said. “That’s all most of us joined up for. This other business, it… just happened.”
Rollant should have got used to being an afterthought in Detinan affairs. He should have, but somehow he hadn’t. And, if blonds were an afterthought, why had the north tried to set up its own kingdom to keep them tied to the land?
He almost threw that in Smitty’s face, too. Almost, but not quite. A blond who pushed too hard only ended up pounding his head against a wall. And most of Smitty’s heart was in the right place. If not quite all of it was, when had the world ever been perfect?
Sergeant Joram strode by. He nodded to Rollant. “Nice day, isn’t it?” he remarked.
Incautiously, Rollant answered, “If you ask me, it’s chilly.”
Sergeant Joram beamed. “Then you need some work to warm you up, don’t you? Draw yourself an axe and chop firewood.”
“Sergeant!” Rollant said, cursing having grown up in the milder autumns that prevailed down in Palmetto Province. He didn’t think Joram was picking on him because he was a blond. Joram picked on people because he was a sergeant, and that was all sergeants were good for-or so things seemed to common soldiers, at any rate.
Incautiously, Smitty laughed at Rollant’s fate. Joram beamed at him, too. “Misery loves company,” the sergeant observed. “You can chop wood, too.”
“Have a heart, Sergeant!” Smitty howled. Joram went on his merry way. For a heartless man, he walked very well. Even the blond warriors who’d fought against Smitty’s ancestors had surely known hearts were in short supply among underofficers.
“Misery loves company,” Rollant repeated spitefully. What Smitty said to him was a good deal more pungent than have a heart. Smitty didn’t have to waste politeness on a common soldier who was a blond to boot.
Mist shrouded the top of Sentry Peak and turned Proselytizers’ Rise, off to the west, into a vague dark gray shape hardly visible against the lighter gray of the sky. Smitty, still grumbling at everything, said, “This stinking fog means we can’t see what Thraxton the Braggart’s up to.”
“He can’t see what we’re up to, either,” Rollant pointed out as his axe thudded into a log. “Which counts for more?”
“I don’t know,” Smitty answered. “But after what that old he-witch did to us there by the River of Death, I want to keep an eye on him every gods-damned minute of the day and night.” He attacked the log in front of him as if it were Count Thraxton.
Rollant grunted with effort as he swung his own long-handled axe. Smitty had a point, perhaps a better one than he realized. To Detinans, magic was just another craft, just another skill. A man could be a fine mage in the same way as he could be a good cook. Rollant lived in that world, but wasn’t altogether of it. Among his people, magic was more personal, more dangerous. He dreaded a man like Count Thraxton in a way Smitty didn’t.
But when our magecraft met theirs, they smashed ours again and again, he thought. That must mean they’re right, or closer to right than we were, mustn’t it? However li
ttle he liked the idea, he supposed it had to be true.
He’d been sure Joram would come by to see how they were doing. The sergeant smiled sweetly. “Feeling warmer now?” he inquired.
“Just fine,” Smitty said. Rollant didn’t say anything. Joram might have turned whatever passed his lips into an excuse to pile more work onto his shoulders. Of course, if Joram was looking for an excuse to pile more work onto his shoulders, he could always just invent one.
But he said, “All right, boys, that will do for now. Get Hagen to haul it off to the cooks.” He raised his voice to a shout: “Hey, Hagen! Got a job for you.”
“What do you need, Sergeant, sir?” The serf treated Joram as if the underofficer were his liege lord. “You tell me what to do, I do it.” He grinned. “Not only that, you even pay me to do it.” He liked money. And Sergeant Joram had never bothered his wife-if Corliss was bothered.
“Take this firewood to the cooks,” Joram said.
“Yes, sir, Sergeant, sir,” Hagen said. Joram grinned, enjoying every word of that. Rollant did his best not to grin, too. His amusement sprang from rather different sources. He’d laid flattery on with a trowel a few times himself, or perhaps rather more than a few. He remembered getting out of trouble with Baron Ormerod more than once by pretending Ormerod was just this side of a god. The Detinan noble had eaten it up. What man wouldn’t?
As the blond whom Rollant had brought in to the company picked up a big armload of wood, Rollant and Smitty quietly got out of Joram’s sight, lest the sergeant find them something else to do. They were gone before Joram bothered to look for them. He could have yelled and called them back, but he didn’t bother. He could pick on any common soldier in the company; he didn’t need to concentrate on the two of them.
“He’s not a bad sergeant,” Rollant said.
“There are worse,” Smitty allowed. “But there are better ones, too. Some of those bastards only want to sit around and get fat, and they don’t make their men work any harder than they do themselves.”
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