John the Lister shook his fist at the northerners again. But then, suddenly, he started to laugh. In the end, how much difference did it make that a few of them had managed to escape? For all practical purposes, the war here in the east was won.
Before long, the soldiers in Doubting George’s army would go elsewhere-maybe after Lieutenant General Bell’s men, maybe off to the west to help finish off the armies there that remained in the field for false King Geoffrey. Either way, how likely was it that Geoffrey’s rule would ever be seen in this part of the kingdom again? Not very, and John knew it.
From now on, if the locals wanted to send a letter, they would have to send it through a postmaster loyal to King Avram. If they wanted to go to law against each other, they would have to do it in one of Avram’s lawcourts. If one of the local barons wanted to keep on being a baron, he would have to swear allegiance to Avram. If he didn’t, if he refused, he wouldn’t be a baron any more. He would be an outlaw, and hunted down by Avram’s soldiers.
And, from now on, all the blonds in this part of the kingdom would be free men, no longer bound to their liege lords’ lands as they had been for so many hundreds of years. Ever since the invaders from the far side of the Western Ocean overwhelmed the blonds’ kingdoms they’d found in the north of what became Detina, they’d looked on the people they’d conquered as little more than domestic animals that happened to walk on two legs. That had changed-changed some-in the south, where blonds had been fewer and the land itself poorer, and where serfdom never really had paid for itself. Now, no matter how little the northerners liked it-and John the Lister knew how little that was-it was going to change here, too.
King Avram had always been determined about that. He’d made his views plain long before succeeding old King Buchan. He’d made them so plain, Grand Duke Geoffrey had rebelled the instant the royal crown landed on Avram’s homely head, and he’d taken all the northern provinces with him, even if some of them hadn’t actually abandoned Avram till after the fighting started. Geoffrey’s war was going on four years old now. It wouldn’t-couldn’t-last much longer. After the spilling of endless blood and endless treasure, King Avram would get his way.
John the Lister wondered how well things would work once peace finally returned to the kingdom. Like a lot of southrons (and almost all northerners), he remained unconvinced that the average blond was as good a man, as smart a man, as brave a man, as the average Detinan. He’d needed the war to convince him that some blonds could match some Detinans in any of those things. He knew one of his regiments had a blond sergeant in it, thanks to the promotion from Colonel Nahath. That a blond could rise so high, could give orders to Detinans and get away with it, still surprised him. That a Detinan with such abilities who’d started as a common soldier would probably be a captain or a major by now never once crossed John’s mind.
One other thing of which John was convinced was that the Detinans in the north weren’t about to accept blonds as their equals, no matter what King Avram had to say about it and even if they did lose the War Between the Provinces. The brigadier wondered how that would play out in the years to come. How many soldiers would Avram need to garrison the northern provinces to make sure his will was carried out? Would he keep them there to make sure it was? He was a stubborn man; John knew as much. But the northerners, like any Detinans, were stubborn, too.
Gods be praised, it isn’t my worry, John the Lister thought. All he had to do was carry out commands. King Avram was the one who had to give them, and to figure out what they ought to be. Most of the time, Brigadier John had the same schoolboy fancies as flowered in the heart of any other man. What if I were King of Detina? Wouldn’t it be wonderful, for me and for everybody else?
Looking at what lay ahead for the kingdom, at what King Avram would have to do if he wanted to knit things back together for south and north yet at the same time cling to his principles, John decided the current king was welcome to the job. After he’s straightened things out-then, maybe…
John got so lost in his reverie, he didn’t notice another unicorn coming up beside his. A dry voice snapped him back to the here-and-now: “Well, Brigadier, it hasn’t turned out too bad the past couple of weeks, has it? No matter what those bastards over in Georgetown say, I mean.”
Snapping to attention on unicornback wasn’t practical. John the Lister did salute. “No, sir. Not too bad at all.”
“Glad you agree,” Doubting George said. “Of course, Baron Logan the Black would have done everything a hells of a lot better. He’s sure of it even now, I bet, and so is Marshal Bart.”
Sarcasm like that flayed. John said, “Sir, I don’t see how anybody could have done anything better on this campaign.” Maybe his words held some flattery. He knew they also held a lot of truth.
Doubting George muttered something into his beard, something distinctly un flattering to the Marshal of Detina. Part of John the Lister hoped the general commanding would go into more detail; he liked gossip no less than anyone else in King Avram’s gossip-loving armies. But all George said after that was, “Well, by the Thunderer’s prick, we’ve done every single thing we were supposed to do with the Army of Franklin. We’ve done every single gods-damned thing we were supposed to do to the Army of Franklin, too.”
That wasn’t altogether true. The Army of Franklin still existed, at least after a fashion. George had wanted to expunge it from the field altogether. Thanks more to Ned of the Forest than anyone else, he hadn’t quite managed to do it, though Bell’s force wouldn’t endanger Cloviston, or even Franklin, again. “What now, sir?” John the Lister asked. “Do we go up and down the river till we find a place where we can get our own pontoon bridge across? Do we keep on chasing Bell and whatever he’s got left of an army?”
With a certain amount of regret-more than a certain amount, in fact-George shook his head. “Those aren’t my orders, however much I wish they were. My orders are to hold the line of the Franklin and to garrison the northern part of Franklin against possible further attacks by the traitors.” A chuckle rumbled, down deep in his chest. “I don’t expect that last’ll be too gods-damned hard. A weasel doesn’t come out and bite a bear in the arse.”
“They’d better not, by the Lion God’s talons!” John exclaimed. “Not even Bell could be crazy enough to want to go back to the fight.”
“Ha!” Doubting George said. “You never can tell what that son of a bitch’d be crazy enough to do. I’m sure he wants to fight us some more. He just doesn’t have any army left to do it with, that’s all, at least not so far as I can see. Our job now is to make sure we send him back with his tail between his legs if he is daft enough to try it.” He paused and frowned, dissatisfied with the figure of speech. “How the hells can we send him back with his tail between his legs if he’s only got one leg?”
“If that’s your biggest worry, sir, this campaign is well and truly won,” John said.
“I expect it is.” Doubting George still sounded imperfectly ecstatic. “Did I tell you? I had a call on the crystal ball from his Imperial Bartness the other day, telling me what a clever fellow I was, and how I’d been a good little boy after all.”
“No, you didn’t mention that,” John the Lister replied. He couldn’t help echoing, “His Imperial Bartness?”
“What would you call him?” George said. “We have Kings of Detina all the time-we’ve got too gods-damned many Kings of Detina right this minute, but there’s always at least one. But till Bart, we hadn’t had a Marshal of Detina for seventy or eighty years. If that doesn’t make a Marshal of Detina fancier and more important than a King of Detina, to the hells with me if I know what would. And don’t you suppose a fancy, important rank deserves a fancy, important-sounding title to go with it?”
“To tell you the truth, sir, I hadn’t really thought about it.” John wondered if anyone but Doubting George would have thought of such a thing.
“Well, anyway, like I say, he told me I was a good little boy, and he patted me on the h
ead and said I’d get a bonbon or two for singing my song so nice, even over and above making me lieutenant general of the regulars,” the general commanding went on, not bothering to hide his disdain. “And I rolled on my back and showed him the white fur on my belly and kicked my legs in the air and gods-damned near piddled on his shoe to show him how happy I was about the bonbons.”
John the Lister had an alarmingly vivid mental image of Doubting George acting like a happy, bearded puppy and Marshal Bart beaming benignly out of a crystal ball. John had to shake his head to drive the picture out of it. “You always have such an… interesting way of putting things, sir,” he managed at last.
“You think I’m out of my mind, too,” George said equably. “Well, hells, maybe I am. Who knows for sure, especially these days? But crazy or not, I won. That’s what counts.”
It was what counted. For a soldier, nothing else really did. John nodded and said, “This kingdom’s going to be a different place when the fighting finally stops. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.”
“I’ve been thinking about it myself, as a matter of fact,” Doubting George replied. “I doubt I’m going to be very happy with all the changes, either. But it’ll still be one kingdom, and that’s what counts, too.”
He was right again. That was what counted, too, for King Avram’s side. John the Lister nodded. “Yes, sir.”
* * *
What was left of the Army of Franklin straggled into the town of Honey, in the southwestern part of Great River Province. The southrons had given up their pursuit after failing to bag the army in front of the Franklin River. Now Lieutenant General Bell wanted to salvage whatever he could from the ruins of his campaign up toward Ramblerton. He even hoped to salvage what was left of his own career.
That last hope died a miserable death when he recognized the officer sitting his unicorn in the middle of Honey’s muddy main street and waiting for him. Saluting, Bell spoke in a voice like ashes: “Good day, General Peegeetee. How… very fine to see you, your Grace.”
Marquis Peegeetee of Goodlook punctiliously returned Bell’s salute. “It is good to see you, too, Lieutenant General, as always,” he replied, reminding Bell which of them held the higher rank. He was a short, ferret-faced man, a very fine and precise commander who would have been of more use to King Geoffrey if he hadn’t been in the unfortunate habit of making plans more elaborate than his men, most of whom were anything but professional soldiers, could carry out… and if he weren’t at least as touchy as Count Joseph the Gamecock. He went on, “We shall have a good deal to talk about, you and I.”
Bell liked the sound of that not a bit. He would even rather have seen Count Thraxton the Braggart; he and the luckless Count Thraxton, at least, both despised Joseph the Gamecock. But what he liked wasn’t going to matter here. With a grim nod, he said, “I am entirely at your service, your Grace.” If he could be brave facing the enemy, he could be brave facing his own side, too.
Even on this chilly day, a bee buzzed by Bell’s ear. He shook his head and the bee flew off. The hives around the town had helped give it its name. General Peegeetee’s expression, though, could have curdled honey. He said, “Where is the rest of your army, Lieutenant General?”
There it was. Bell had known it was coming. He said what he had to say: “What I have, sir, is what you see.”
Peegeetee’s expression grew more sour, more forbidding, still. Bell hadn’t imagined it could. The marquis blurted, “But what happened to the rest of them? I knew it was bad, but…”
“Sir, the ones who survive and were not captured are with me,” Bell said.
“By the Thunderer’s big brass balls!” Marquis Peegeetee muttered. “You cannot have left more than one man out of four from among those who set out from Dothan in the fall. It is a ruin, a disaster, a catastrophe.” When it came to catastrophes, he knew exactly what he was talking about. He’d been in command at Karlsburg harbor, where the war between Geoffrey and Avram began. He and Joseph had led the northern forces at Cow Jog, the first great battle of the war, down in southern Parthenia, which had proved that neither north nor south yet knew how to fight but both had plenty of brave men. And he’d taken over for Sidney the War Unicorn after Sidney bled to death on the field at the Battle of Sheol, a hellsish conflict if ever there was one.
“We made the southrons pay a most heavy price, your Grace,” Bell said stiffly.
“They paid-and they can afford to go on paying,” Peegeetee said. “But what of this army?” He shook his head. “This army is not an army any more.”
“We can still fight, sir,” Bell insisted. “All we need to do is refit and reorganize, and we’ll soon be ready to take the field again.”
“No doubt.” This time, General Peegeetee’s politeness was positively chilling. “I am sure your host-your small host, your diminished host-can defeat any enemy army of equal or lesser size.” He did not sound sure of even so much, but continued before Bell could call him on it: “Unfortunately, my good Lieutenant General, Doubting George’s force is now about five times the size of yours. You will correct me if I chance to be mistaken, of course.”
He waited. Bell thought about protesting that the southrons surely could not have more than four times as many men as he did. He might even have been right to claim that. But what difference would it make? Four times as many men or five, Doubting George had far too many soldiers for the Army of Franklin to hope to withstand.
When Bell kept silent, Peegeetee nodded to himself. As calmly and dispassionately as if talking about the weather, he remarked, “King Geoffrey is most unhappy-most vocally unhappy, you understand-about the manner in which this campaign was conducted.”
Again, a hot retort came to the tip of Lieutenant General Bell’s tongue-came there and went no further. He was unhappy about a whole great raft of things Geoffrey had done, too. Once more, though, what difference did it make? Geoffrey was the king. Bell wasn’t. All he said was, “By the gods, General, we tried as hard as mortal men could.”
“Have I tried to deny it?” Peegeetee replied. “No one denies your valor, Lieutenant General, or the valor of the men you lead-those of them who survive. Unfortunately, no one doubts your lack of success, either.” He steepled his fingertips and looked past Bell’s right shoulder. “This now leaves you with a certain choice.”
“A choice?” Bell echoed, frowning in incomprehension. “What kind of choice?”
Marquis Peegeetee still didn’t seem to want to meet his eyes. “You may pay a call on the headsman, or you may fall on your own sword. This, I fear me, is the only choice remaining to you at the moment. A pity, no doubt, but such is life.”
For a moment, Bell thought he meant the words literally. Figurative language had always been a closed book to the man who led the Army of Franklin. Here, though, he found the key. “You mean his Majesty will sack me if I don’t lay down my command?”
“But of course,” Peegeetee told him. “As I say, I regret this, but I can do nothing about it save convey the choice to you.”
Bell thought about making Geoffrey dismiss him. That would show the world he thought he’d done nothing wrong. But what counted except results? Nothing. And what had come from this campaign? Also nothing, worse luck. Shrugging-the motion sent a wave of agony through his ruined left shoulder, making him long for laudanum-he said, “You may convey to his Majesty my resignation, and my readiness to serve him in any capacity in which he believes I may be of use.”
Peegeetee bowed in the saddle. “Your sentiments do you credit.”
“I want no credit, your Grace. What I wanted was to beat our enemies. Since that was denied me…” Bell shrugged again, not so much careless of the pain as embracing it. Once it had washed over him, he asked, “And who will succeed me in command of this army?”
To his surprise, Marquis Peegeetee looked past him again. “I am afraid, Lieutenant General, that that is not such an easy question to answer.”
“Why not?” Bell demanded. “Some
one has to, surely.”
“Well… no. Not necessarily,” Peegeetee replied. “King Geoffrey plans to send part of your army to Count Joseph the Gamecock, who is gathering forces in Palmetto Province to try to hold off the southrons. Veldt, you know, fell to General Hesmucet a couple of weeks ago. His Majesty fears Hesmucet will turn south, aiming to join Marshal Bart in an assault against Nonesuch. The rest of your force here…” He shrugged, too, a dapper little shrug. “… will be able to carry on without the formal name of the Army of Franklin.”
Rage ripped through Lieutenant General Bell. “What?” he growled. “You’d gut my army to feed soldiers to that useless son of a bitch of a Joseph?”
With icy courtesy, Peegeetee replied, “It seems to me, Lieutenant General, that you are the one who has gutted your army.”
Bell ignored him. “Gods damn it, if I’d known Geoffrey was going to do that, I never would have resigned. As a matter of fact, I withdraw my resignation!”
“I am going to pretend I did not hear that,” the marquis said. “Believe me when I say you are lucky I am going to pretend I did not hear it. I told you his Majesty was disappointed in the Army of Franklin’s performance. I did not tell you how disappointed, and how… how wrathful, he was. If you fail to resign, he will sack you, Lieutenant General. And he will do worse than that. ‘Lieutenant General Bell, give me back my army!’ he cried when word of your sad, piteous overthrow before Ramblerton reached him. If he sacks you, you will go before a court-martial, one with membership of his choosing. Perhaps you will only see the inside of a prison. Perhaps, on the other hand, you will see a cross.”
“A… cross?” Bell said hoarsely. “He would do that to me, for fighting a campaign the best way I knew how? By the Thunderer’s strong right hand, where is the justice in this world?”
“A cross not for the fight, I would say.” General Peegeetee judiciously pursed his lips as he paused to find just the right words. “A cross for throwing away Geoffrey’s last hope east of the mountains-his last hope, really, of ruling a kingdom that amounts to anything.”
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