“I am not dithering, sir,” George replied with dignity. “I am waiting for a couple of good brigades to come in from the far side of the Great River. As soon as they’re here, I will land on Bell like a ton of barristers.”
“I am of the opinion-and King Avram is also of the opinion-that you have enough men to do the job without these footsoldiers from beyond the Great River,” Bart said. “I want you to get on with it, George.”
“Sir, I will attack when I am ready,” Doubting George said stiffly. “Until I am sure I can do the job as it should be done, I don’t see how I can-or why I should-launch an attack.”
“Lieutenant General, if you stay in Ramblerton much longer without attacking, you put your command in jeopardy,” Marshal Bart said. “Do I make myself plain?”
“Odiously so,” George answered. “If you want to replace me, you have the right to do just that. You are the marshal, after all.”
“Confound it, George, I don’t want to replace you,” Bart said irritably. “I want you to go out there and fight and win. The longer you sit there and don’t fight, though, the worse you look, and the louder people scream for your head.”
“Tell those people to go scream about something else,” George said. “Have I ever let you down? Have I ever let the kingdom down?”
“No, but they say there’s a first time for everything. I’m beginning to wonder myself,” Bart said. “I tell you that frankly, as one soldier to another. You outnumber Bell. He is there in front of you. Go strike him.”
“You outnumber Duke Edward. He is there in front of you. Go strike him,” Doubting George said.
“You are not so funny as you may think. If you saw the works of Pierreville, you would be more sparing of your advice.”
“Sir, it could be,” George allowed. “I do not understand the situation there. I admit it. And you do not understand the situation here-only you refuse to admit it.”
“I understand that I am the commanding general of all the armies of the Kingdom of Detina,” Marshal Bart said. “I understand that I have ordered you to attack. I understand that you are not attacking. What more do I need to understand about Ramblerton?”
“That ordering me to attack when my army is not ready is about as bad a mistake as you can make… sir,” Doubting George said. “That you are flabbling over nothing. Bell will not get away, and I will whip him.”
“You are a stubborn man, Lieutenant General,” Bart said. “I warn you once more, though: you are trifling with your career.”
“I will take the chance, sir,” George replied. “Let history-and you-judge by the result.”
“If you don’t get moving before too long, history would judge me if I didn’t remove you from your command,” the marshal said. “You had better bear that in mind if you mean to sit around with a superior force.”
“You will do what you think best,” Doubting George said stolidly, not showing any of the outrage that boiled up in him at Bart’s threat. “I wish you would credit me with doing the same, though.”
“I believe you are doing what you think best,” Marshal Bart said. “But if I do not also happen to think that is the best thing to do, I would be remiss in my duty if I did not take steps to see what I want done, done.”
“You want a victory. I will give you a victory. If I don’t give you a victory, send me out to the trackless east and let me chase the blond savages along with Guildenstern and John the Hierophant.”
“I want a victory now, Lieutenant General. You have it in your power to give me what I want,” Bart said. “If you don’t give me what I want, I will get it from someone else. That is the long and short of it.” Bart turned to the scryer dealing with his end of the mystic connection between crystal balls. The scryer broke it. Bart’s image vanished from the crystal ball in front of Doubting George.
George’s scryer asked, “Do you want to send any messages of your own, sir?”
“Eh? No.” George shook his head. “Not only that, I didn’t want to hear the one I just got.”
“I don’t blame you a bit,” the scryer said. Then, remembering such conversations were supposed to be confidential, he turned red. “Not that I was paying much attention to it.”
“No, of course not.” George’s irony was strong enough to make the scryer flinch. “Just keep that convenient forgetfulness in mind when you’re talking with anybody else, eh?” The wizard nodded quick and, George thought, sincere agreement. It wasn’t so much that he had George’s interests uppermost in his mind. But he had to know the general commanding could make his life amazingly miserable if he let his mouth run away with him.
Doubting George stalked away from the room full of crystal balls. Miserable invention, he thought. They let distant commanders inflict their stupidity on someone on the spot. If the ignorant bastards off in the west actually knew what they were doing and what things were like here… He shook his head. As he’d seen, that was too much to ask for.
He went out onto the streets of Ramblerton. He hoped he wouldn’t have anyone asking him questions out there. No such luck. Colonel Andy emerged a couple of minutes later. Someone must have tipped him off that George had been summoned to talk on a crystal ball. “Well?” George’s adjutant asked.
“No, as a matter of fact, it’s not so well,” George answered. “Bart wants everything to start yesterday.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Andy asked.
“He’ll throw me out on my ear,” George answered. “Then he’ll go and pull somebody else’s strings.”
Andy scowled like an irate chipmunk. “That’s a hells of a thing for him to go and do. Fat lot of gratitude he shows for all you’ve done. If you hadn’t saved things by the River of Death, we might really be worrying about how to hold on to Cloviston now.”
“Nothing I can do about it,” Doubting George said. “Anyone who puts his faith in a superior’s gratitude is like the fellow who said he believed in no gods at all till the Thunderer hit him with a lightning bolt: you can try it, but chances are it won’t do you much good.”
He’d heard that story since he was a little boy. For the first time, he paused to wonder if it was so. From some of the things Alva had said, the wizard believed the gods were a lot less powerful than most people thought. A solid conservative, George doubted that, but the Thunderer hadn’t smitten Alva with any lightning bolts. And, if the Inward Hypothesis somehow turned out to be true, how much room did it leave for the action of the gods in the world? Less than George would have wanted, plainly.
To his relief, Colonel Andy brought him back to the mundane world of battles: “Could you make Marshal Bart happy and attack the traitors now?”
“I suppose I could,” George replied, “but we’d have more of a chance of coming away with a bloody nose if I did. When I hit them, I want to hit them with everything we can get our hands on. For that, I need those last two brigades from the east side of the Great River to get here.”
“What if Bart replaces you before they do?” Andy asked nervously.
“Why, then I suppose they send me off to hunt blonds out on the steppe. I already told Bart I’d go.” George spoke with equanimity. In fact, he doubted anything so dreadful would happen. He was a brigadier in the regulars, and he wouldn’t have lost a battle like Guildenstern or John the Hierophant. Odds were he’d just spend the rest of his career in Georgetown counting crossbow quarrels or something equally useful.
Andy… If I remember rightly, Andy is a captain of regulars, George thought. His adjutant probably would get sent to the steppe, and to one of the less prepossessing forts there. No wonder he seemed nervous.
“Don’t fret,” George told him. “If you let anything but what you need to do prey on your mind, you’re in trouble. I know what’s going on here. Marshal Bart doesn’t, regardless of whether he thinks he does.”
“But he’s the one who can give the orders,” Andy said.
“Well, yes, he can,” Doubting George admitted. “But he’d be wrong if he did.”<
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“By the gods!” Colonel Andy burst out. “When in the hells has that ever stopped one of our generals, or even slowed the stupid son of a bitch down?”
“Do bear in mind, Colonel, that you are presently talking to one of those stupid sons of bitches,” George said. Andy had the grace to look embarrassed, though George suspected he wasn’t, or not very. The general commanding continued, “And I don’t happen to think I’m wrong in delaying. If I did, I wouldn’t.” He listened to himself to make sure he’d said what he meant there. After a bit of thought, he decided he had.
Andy, however, still looked unhappy. “Maybe we ought to move forward now, sir. If Bell gets reinforcements-”
“Where?” George broke in, shaking his head. “What are the odds of that? Whatever he can scrape up, he’s got.”
“I don’t know where he’d get them,” Andy said petulantly. “I just think we ought to hit him as hard as we can as soon as we can.”
“And we will,” George said. “But that isn’t quite yet, in my opinion. And mine is the opinion that counts.”
“Not if Marshal Bart removes you,” his adjutant said.
“He won’t.” Doubting George sounded more confident than he felt.
“What if, while you’re waiting for your brigades, Bell comes up with a new strong wizard?” Andy asked.
“From where?” George asked again. “If the northerners have any decent mages who aren’t already wearing blue robes, you can bet your last piece of silver it’s news to Bell and Geoffrey both. Besides, even if Bell does come up with one, Alva will handle him.” He patted Andy on the shoulder. “Cheer up. Everything will be fine.”
“I doubt it,” Andy said, in exactly the tone George would have used. George found himself with no reply.
* * *
Brigadier of the regulars. The words-and what they betokened-sang within John the Lister. Up till he could use those words about himself, he’d almost dreaded the end of the War Between the Provinces. He enjoyed being a brigadier, and he thought he’d proved he did a good job at that rank. To drop down to a captain’s meager command would have been hard. To drop down to a captain’s meager pay would have been even harder.
He didn’t have to worry about that any more. He would hold brigadier’s rank till he died or retired. He wouldn’t have to go out to some steppe castle in the middle of nowhere and listen to wild wolves and wilder blonds howling outside the walls. Doubting George had said he would recommend him for promotion, and he’d kept his promise. Marshal Bart and King Avram had recognized what John did at Poor Richard. Now all the southrons had left to do was finish squashing Lieutenant General Bell and the Army of Franklin.
For some reason John couldn’t fathom, Doubting George didn’t seem to want to do that. There the traitors were, out on ridges in plain sight of Ramblerton. They didn’t even have enough men to stretch their line all the way across the neck of the loop of the Cumbersome River in which the capital of Franklin laid. As far as John the Lister could see, outflanking them and rolling them up would be the easiest thing in the world.
Why didn’t George want to move?
John knew he wasn’t the only one who had trouble finding an answer. Most of the officers inside Ramblerton kept scratching their heads, wondering what George was doing-or rather, why he wasn’t doing it. And the rumors that came out of the scryers’ hall…
Rumors like that came out all the time. More often than not, soldiers had the sense to ignore them. This time… John the Lister shook his head. How could you ignore rumors that Bart was threatening to sack Doubting George? How could you ignore rumors that Bart was threatening to leave the siege of Pierreville and come east, either taking command in Ramblerton himself or appointing George’s replacement?
You couldn’t. It was that simple. Whenever two officers-hells, whenever two soldiers-got together, the gossip started up afresh. Some people started saying John the Lister ought to take Doubting George’s place. When a colonel did it in John’s hearing, he rounded on the man. “I am not going to replace Lieutenant General George,” he growled. “I don’t think George needs replacing. Do you understand me?”
“Uh, yes, sir,” the man answered, his eyes wide with surprise.
“You’d better, Colonel,” John said. “If I hear you’ve been spouting more of this disruptive gossip, I won’t be the only one who hears about it. I hope I make myself plain enough?”
“Uh, yes, sir,” the unhappy colonel said again, and retreated faster than General Guildenstern had fallen back from the River of Death.
That wasn’t enough to satisfy John the Lister. He went and told Doubting George what had happened, though he named no names. He finished, “Sir, I don’t want you to think I’m intriguing against you.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” George replied. “Now the question is, do you want me not to think that because you’re not doing it or because you really are intriguing against me but you want to keep me in the dark?”
“What?” John the Lister needed several heartbeats to work through that. When he did, he stared at the commanding general with something approaching horror. “That’s the most twisted bit of thinking I do believe I’ve ever run into, sir.”
“Thank you,” Doubting George replied, which only flummoxed John further. George continued, “Now answer the question, if you’d be so kind.”
“Sir, I am not intriguing against you, and that is the truth,” John said stiffly. “If you don’t believe me, go fetch Major Alva and let him find out by magic.”
He didn’t fear what might happen if Doubting George did that. He’d told the general commanding the truth: he’d shown no disloyalty in word, deed, or manner. On the contrary. That didn’t mean he would have been unhappy if Marshal Bart booted George out of the command and set him in George’s place. Again, on the contrary. Ambition, he told himself, was different from disloyalty.
He didn’t care for the smile that played on what he could see of George’s lips behind the other officer’s thick beard and mustache. Still smiling that unpleasant smile, George said, “I won’t sic Major Alva on you if I think you’re scheming against me, Brigadier. I’ll just dismiss you. Have you got that?”
“Yes, sir,” John replied. “You leave me no room for, er, doubt.” Doubting George laughed out loud. John went on, “But may I ask you one different question?”
“Go right ahead.” George was the picture of northern hospitality.
“Sir, why the hells won’t you attack Bell?” John the Lister blurted.
“Why? Because the son of a bitch isn’t going anywhere, and I’m not quite ready to give him what-for yet. I want those last couple of brigades from the far side of the Great River here before I do,” George answered. “I tell this over and over to anybody who’ll listen, but nobody seems to want to. Is it so gods-damned hard to grasp?” He sounded as plaintive as a commanding general was ever likely to.
“Sir, he’s right in front of us. He’s just waiting to be hit. If we can’t whip him with what we’ve got here…”
“If we can’t, we’d be stupid to try, especially when those brigades are almost here,” Doubting George said.
“But I think we can!” John the Lister said.
“That’s nice.” George sounded placid. Whether he was… Well, now John was the doubting one. The commanding general went on, “If Marshal Bart bounces me and names you in my place, you can go charging forth just as though you’d borrowed Bell’s brains, such as they are. Meanwhile, you’d better do what I tell you. We’ll both be unhappy if you don’t, but you’ll end up unhappier. I promise you that, Brigadier.”
“Yes, sir,” John the Lister said. “If you’ll excuse me, sir…” He waited for Doubting George’s affable nod, then left George’s headquarters at something just this side of a run.
Still steaming, he hurried up the muddy, puddle-splashed streets of Ramblerton till brick buildings gave way to log huts and log huts gave way to bare-branched broad-leafed trees and brooding, dark green pines
. The southrons’ line of fortifications abridged the forest along the ridges north of Ramblerton. John ascended to a sentry tower in the nearest fort. The sentry in the tower was so startled to have a brigadier appear at his elbow, he almost fell out of his observation chamber coming to attention when John did.
“Give me your spyglass,” John barked.
“Sir?” The sentry gaped.
“Give me your gods-damned spyglass,” John the Lister said again.
Numbly, the sentry handed over the long, gleaming brass tube. John raised it to his eye and swept it over the traitors’ lines. Lieutenant General Bell’s soldiers seemed to leap toward him. Mages insisted spyglasses weren’t sorcery: only a clever use of the mechanic arts. No matter what the mages said, the effect always seemed magical to John.
Now, almost as if he were standing in front of its parapets, he could see the Army of Franklin in action, and in inaction. Scrawny men in tattered blue tunics and pantaloons, many of the poor bastards barefoot, lined up in front of kettles to get their midday meals. They looked more like the survivors of some disaster than an army that probably imagined it was laying siege to Ramblerton. The earthworks they’d thrown up were very fresh and new, but they didn’t have many soldiers in them.
John scanned the northerners’ position, trying to spy out how many unicorn-riders they had with them. Fewer than he’d expected. He wondered if some of them had gone off to raid somewhere else. He wouldn’t have divided his forces in the face of an enemy that outnumbered him. What Bell would do, though, was liable to be known only unto the gods.
Back swung John’s narrow circle of vision. Suddenly, the spyglass stopped. There was some northern sentry or officer looking straight back at him out of a spyglass of his own. The traitor’s glass had stopped moving, too. Had he spotted John watching him? By way of experiment, John raised his left hand, the one that wasn’t holding the spyglass, and waved.
Sure as hells, the soldier in the Army of Franklin waved back. John laughed and lowered the spyglass. The southron sentry’s face was a mask of perplexity. “What’s so funny, sir?” he asked.
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