Thisbe stared into the flames. The sergeant said nothing while a soldier dumped more wood on the fire. Then, in a low voice, Thisbe said, “I don’t want to be promoted. I told you that, sir, the last time you were generous enough to offer that to me. I’m… content where I am.”
Gremio looked around. The soldier with the wood was building up another campfire ten or twelve feet away. A couple of men lay close to this blaze, but they were already snoring thunderously. Gremio spoke in a low voice: “Do you have the same reasons now as you did then?”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant answered.
“Are they the same reasons that kept you from wanting to see a healer when you were wounded?” Gremio persisted.
Thisbe looked into the flames again. “My reasons are my reasons. I think they’re good ones.” The sergeant would not meet Gremio’s eyes.
“Are they the reasons I think they are?” Gremio asked.
That made Thisbe look at him. It didn’t get him a straight answer, though. With what might have been a smile, the underofficer said, “How can any man know what another man is thinking?”
Gremio took a deep breath. He’d never asked Thisbe a direct question about the matter that interested him most. Even as he started to ask one now, he stopped with it unspoken. Thisbe might give him a truthful answer. But even if the sergeant did give him that kind of answer, it might preclude further questions. One of these days-very likely not till the war ended, if it ever did-Gremio hoped to have the chance to ask those questions.
All he said now was, “Sergeant, do you know how difficult you make things?”
“I’m sorry, sir.” And Thisbe really did sound sorry. “I never wanted to be difficult. All I ever wanted was to do my job, and to do it as well as I could.”
“You’ve done it very well-well enough to deserve promotion,” Gremio said.
“I don’t want to be a lieutenant,” the sergeant said.
“I know. You deserve to be one anyhow,” Gremio said. They eyed each other, back at their old impasse. Thisbe shrugged. Gremio smiled a rueful smile. And then, in spite of everything, they both started to laugh.
* * *
Doubting George wished he could go north to Poor Richard. All hells were going to break loose up there, and he sat here in Ramblerton gathering soldiers a dribble at a time. Actually, he knew he could go up to Poor Richard. John the Lister was hardly in a position to shoo him away if he hopped on a glideway carpet and sped up there. But John was only a captain in King Avram’s regulars. If he could hold Bell off or beat him, he would surely gain permanent rank to match his ability. George already had it: less than he craved, less than he thought he deserved, but a sufficiency.
And so he stayed behind the line, and did the things a good regional commander was supposed to do, and didn’t do anything else. If he sometimes drummed his fingers on his desk and looked longingly toward the north… well, he was the only man who knew that.
Colonel Andy came in, a troubled look on his round face. “Sir,” he said, “word from the scryers is that Lieutenant General Bell is getting ready to attack John the Lister.”
“John’s got himself ready at Poor Richard, hasn’t he?” George asked.
“As ready as he can be, yes, sir.” His adjutant nodded.
“Better Bell should attack him there than when he was on the march and vulnerable by Summer Mountain, eh?” George said.
“Well… yes, sir, put that way.” Andy nodded again, but reluctantly. “Even so, he’s badly outnumbered.”
“There is that,” Doubting George allowed. “How imminent is this attack? Can we down here do anything about it?”
“I don’t think so, sir.” Colonel Andy looked very much like a worried chipmunk. “From what the scryers say John says, Bell will be on him this afternoon at the latest.”
“We could send men by glideway that fast, if everything went perfectly,” George said. “We couldn’t send so many as I’d like, and we couldn’t send much in the way of equipment with them, not on such short notice, but they would be better than nothing.”
“That was the other thing I wanted to tell you,” Major Andy said unhappily. “The northerners have desorcerized a stretch of the glideway line between here and Poor Richard. I don’t know whether Bell got wizards past John and Alva, or whether these are local traitors sneaking out and making trouble now that we’ve recalled so many garrisons to Ramblerton. Either way, though, till our mages repair the break, we can’t use that line to move soldiers.”
“Well, gods damn the northerners, then,” George said. “I was just thinking John had the chance to make a name for himself. I doubt he would have wanted quite such a good chance, though.”
“Yes, sir. I doubt that, too,” Andy said. “I wish we could do something more.”
“So do I.” Doubting George drummed his fingers on the broad desktop, right out there where Andy could see him do it. He’d sent John the Lister north to delay Bell, not to serve as a snack for him. After a moment, he brightened. “Bell’s not what you’d call a very clever fellow, and he’s bound to be spitting mad because John got away from him once. He’ll go in as quick and as hard as he can, no matter what’s waiting for him.”
“If he has enough men, how much will it matter?” Colonel Andy asked bleakly.
“Always an interesting question,” George admitted. “Of course, there’s another interesting question-what do you mean by ‘enough’? The north has never had enough men for all the ground false King Geoffrey needed to cover at the start of the war. That’s why they’re losing.”
“In general terms, that’s true, sir. But whether Bell has enough to smash John is a rather more specific question, wouldn’t you say?”
“Unfortunately, I would. Anything I can do to help our wizards fix the desorcerized stretch of glideway? Would sending more sorcerers help?”
“Probably not, sir,” Andy answered. “They’re doing all they can, and half the time more wizards only mean more quarrels.”
“More than half the time,” Doubting George said. “All right, then. We’ll do everything we can. If we can’t do enough, John the Lister will fight his own battle.” He brightened slightly. “I did send him Major Alva before the traitors got at the glideway line. That’s something, anyhow.”
“Yes, sir,” Colonel Andy said. “And he has Hard-Riding Jimmy’s unicorn-riders with him.”
“Hard-Riding Jimmy hasn’t got very many men, not if he wants to stand against Ned of the Forest.” Doubting George sounded even more dubious than usual.
His adjutant spoke soothingly: “They carry those newfangled quick-shooting crossbows, though. There may not be many of them, but they can put a lot of bolts in the air.”
Hesmucet had offered Doubting George the same sort of consolation when he’d given him Hard-Riding Jimmy’s brigade. “Newfangled crossbows are all very well,” George said now, “but one of the reasons you take newfangled weapons into the field is to find out what goes wrong with them. Tangling with Ned of the Forest’s unicorn-riders is liable to be an expensive way to find out.”
“That’s if they don’t work as advertised,” Andy said.
Doubting George raised one dark eyebrow. “When have you ever known a newfangled weapon that did, Colonel?”
Andy frowned. After a moment, he shrugged. “Well, you’ve got me there, sir. But these have seen some use-and besides, there’s bound to be a first time.”
“Yes, so there is,” George agreed. “But has the Lion God come down from Mount Panamgam and whispered in your ear that this is it?”
“Uh… no, sir.” Colonel Andy looked as if he wasn’t sure whether George was serious.
Since the commanding general wasn’t sure whether he was serious, either, that suited him fine. He gave Andy his blandest smile. “Have you got any other delightful news for me, Colonel?”
“Uh… no, sir,” his adjutant repeated.
“All right. You’re dismissed,” George said. “I’m going to review our works
here. Unless John the Lister takes Lieutenant General Bell’s army clean off the board, Bell’s heading this way. Or do you think I’m wrong?”
“No, sir.” Andy sounded sure about that. “And it’s not very likely that John can smash Bell, is it, not when he’s so badly outnumbered?”
“I thought I just said that. Maybe I’m wrong.” Doubting George dug into his map case. Andy departed, shaking his head.
The maps showed what George already knew: Ramblerton was a town fortified to a faretheewell. The southrons had taken it away from King Geoffrey’s men when the war was barely a year old, and they’d held it ever since, even when Thraxton the Braggart mounted an invasion of Cloviston. To hold it with the fewest possible men, they’d surrounded it with a ring of trenches and forts as strong as any in Detina save perhaps those of Georgetown itself.
Doubting George shook his big head. The works at Pierreville, north of Nonesuch-the works Marshal Bart was now besieging-were probably this strong, too. He hadn’t thought of them for a moment because they belonged to the traitors. But that was wrong. Detina was still one kingdom. If not, why fight for Avram?
He hadn’t dwelt on such things for a while. And he’d already given his own answer, to himself and to Detina. As far as he was concerned, his homeland was and could be only one kingdom. If that meant it would be one kingdom without serfs, then it did, and he would worry about what, if anything, that meant later on. He’d felt the same when he declined to follow Duke Edward of Arlington after Parthenia Province declared for Geoffrey and against Avram: that even though he’d been a liege lord himself, over a small fief in Parthenia.
False King Geoffrey had solved his problem there long before King Avram could have worried about it. George chuckled. Now, at a distance of more than three years, he could find it funny. He didn’t need to worry about serfs if he didn’t own that estate any more. And he didn’t, not according to Geoffrey, who’d taken it away from him.
If the south won the War Between the Provinces-no, when the south won the War Between the Provinces-he could go back again. He could take his place among his neighbors as a minor nobleman. He could, yes, but how much good would it do him? He would be a minor nobleman without blonds to work the land. Under those circumstances, what point to going back at all?
That was one obvious question. Another question, equally obvious, was, what would his erstwhile neighbors, who were also minor nobles in Parthenia Province, do after the south won the war? How would they bring in their crops without plenty of blond serfs to do the hard work for them? Would they labor in the fields themselves, with their wives and children?
“I doubt it,” George said, and went back to the maps.
But maps could show him only so much. They chiefly showed him the places he needed to see with his own eyes. He put on a wool hat and a gray overcoat and left his warm headquarters to give his own eyes the looks they needed.
Ramblertonians glowered at him as he made his way north up a muddy street (and, when it rained, Ramblerton had no other kind of street). King Avram’s soldier’s had held Franklin’s metropolis-such as it was-for two and a half years now. The locals still resented them. Doubting George laughed. The locals did more than resent. They hated southrons, with a hatred that had curdled and grown more sullen over time because it was so impotent.
“Bell’ll bundle you bastards back where you belong!” somebody shouted after George walked past.
He stopped and looked back. That was exactly what the Ramblertonian had wanted him to do, of course… whichever Ramblertonian it was. Six or eight Detinans in civilian clothes sent mocking stares his way. He judged they would all mock him if he said, I doubt it. What he said instead was, “Well, he’s welcome to try.” Then, tipping his hat to them, he went on his way.
They muttered behind him. He doubted they would have the nerve to rush him, and he proved right. They could jeer, but that was all they could do. And Geoffrey’s so-called kingdom is no better off than they are, George thought, and smiled again.
The maps had got behind the fortifications they were supposed to represent. Doubting George had hoped that was so, but hadn’t dared to expect it: if he assumed the worst, he was unlikely to be disappointed. Here, though, areas that had seemed weak on parchment looked rugged in reality.
Blonds did most of the ongoing work, under the orders of Detinan engineers. Runaway serfs dug trenches, carried dirt in barrows and hods, and raised ramparts where none had stood before. Some of them wore gray tunics and pantaloons of a cut not much different from that of southron uniforms. Others had on the rags of the clothes they’d worn while fleeing their liege lords’ estates. All of them were probably working harder than they ever had back on those estates.
What struck Doubting George was how happy the blonds looked. Detinans, especially Detinans from the north, thought of blonds as a happy-go-lucky lot, always smiling regardless of whether things called for a smile. That, George now suspected, was a mask serfs wore to keep Detinans from knowing what was really in their minds. These blonds, by contrast, looked and sounded and acted really happy, no matter how hard they were working.
One of them recognized Doubting George. Waving, the fellow called, “General, we want you to use these works to kill loads and loads of those stinking northern nobles.”
“We’ll do our best,” the general commanding answered. He wondered if the blond knew he was a stinking northern noble. He had his…
“Kill ’em all,” the blond said. “Bury ’em all. Stick ’em in the ground. Don’t give ’em to the fire. Don’t let their spirits rise up with the flames and the smoke.”
The rest of the runaways now laboring for King Avram nodded. Back in the old days, before the conquerors came, most blonds had buried their dead. Now they followed ordinary Detinan usage, and looked on burial with as much horror as ordinary Detinans did. Odds were these fellows hadn’t the faintest idea what their ancestors had done.
Are they savages, or just savage? Doubting George wondered. And if people had done to me what we’ve done to the blonds for generations, wouldn’t I have good reason to be savage?
He walked up and down the line, from one end to the other. It was anchored at both east and west by the Cumbersome River. A solid fleet of catapult-carrying war galleys rowed up and down the Cumbersome. All of them flew King Avram’s gold dragon on red. The northerners had no galleys on the Cumbersome, and none on the Great River, either, not any more. Several river fights and the losses of Old Capet and, after a long siege, Camphorville had made sure of that.
In the center, the line bulged out toward the north, swallowing up the whole town of Ramblerton and taking advantage of the high ground out beyond the edge of settled territory. The more George walked, the fewer the doubts he had. He didn’t see how Lieutenant General Bell and the Army of Franklin could batter their way through these works and into Ramblerton.
Of course, what he saw and what Bell saw were liable to be two different beasts. “I hope they’re two different beasts,” Doubting George muttered. The mere idea that he and Bell might think alike offended him. And if it also offended Bell… George did some more muttering: “That’s his worry.”
* * *
It was already past noon when Lieutenant General Bell and the Army of Franklin neared John the Lister’s defensive position by Poor Richard. Bell looked across the wide, empty fields toward the three slightly concave lines of entrenchments awaiting him. King Avram’s banners fluttered on the earthworks.
He glanced over toward his wing and brigade commanders. With a brusque nod, he said, “We attack.”
“As simple as that, your honor?” Patrick the Cleaver asked.
“As simple as that,” Bell said. “Unless you haven’t the stomach for it, as you hadn’t the stomach for it at Summer Mountain.”
Like most men from the Sapphire Isle, Brigadier Patrick was swarthy even by Detinan standards. That didn’t keep him from showing an angry flush now. “I’ll show you what sort of man I am,” he growled.
“Sure and you’ve shown me now what sort of man you are.”
That did nothing to improve Bell’s temper. Neither did the pain he could never escape. “We can discuss this further at your leisure, Brigadier,” he said.
Patrick bowed. “I am at your service in that as in all things.”
“And I,” Brigadier Provincial Prerogative said. “When you insult Brigadier Patrick, you insult all your officers.”
“That’s true,” Otho the Troll said in a rumbling bass.
Brigadier John of Barsoom bowed to Bell. “As a proper northern gentleman, I would be remiss if I said this did not also hold for me.”
“And me, for gods’ sake,” For Gods’ Sake John added.
Hiram the Cranberry turned even redder than usual and nodded without speaking.
Bell wondered if he would have to duel with every officer in the Army of Franklin, down to the rank of lieutenant. He had a hells of a time cocking a crossbow, but he could shoot quick and straight with one hand. If they wanted to quarrel with him, he would give each of them a quarrel, right in the ribs.
Ned of the Forest said, “I thought we were supposed to be fighting the southrons, not each other.”
“Theory is wonderful,” Provincial Prerogative said, still glaring at Bell. He’d been one of the leaders in the attack on Sumptuous Castle in Karlsburg harbor, the attack that had started the War Between the Provinces. Bell glared back. He didn’t care what Provincial Prerogative had done in what now seemed the dim, distant, dead past.
“We’d better fight the southrons,” Ned said. “Anybody who doesn’t care to fight them can fight me instead.”
That produced a sudden, thoughtful silence. No one was eager to fight Ned. Lieutenant General Bell said, “I require no proxies.”
“I’m not doing this for you, sir,” Ned of the Forest answered. “I’m doing it for the kingdom. Seems to me a lot of folks here have forgotten about the kingdom.”
Some of Bell’s brigadiers still looked angry. But several of them nodded. “For gods’ sake, he’s right!” For Gods’ Sake John burst out. No one disagreed, not out loud.
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