A tiny flicker of disdain, gone from his face almost-but not quite-before Bell was sure he saw it, said Peegeetee shared King Geoffrey’s opinion of Bell and of what he had-and hadn’t-done. That scorn hurt him worse than either his missing leg or his ruined arm. “Excuse me,” he said thickly, and fumbled for his little bottle of laudanum. He gulped, careless of the dose. Poppies and fire chased each other down his throat.
“I regret the necessity of bringing you such unfortunate news when your wounds trouble you so,” Peegeetee murmured.
Bell doubted he regretted it. If he had to guess, he would have said Peegeetee derived a sneaking pleasure from his pain. And, for once, the wounds weren’t what troubled the general commanding-no, the general formerly commanding-the Army of Franklin. Could laudanum also dull torment of the spirit? If it couldn’t, nothing could. That possibility sent a cold wind of terror howling through Bell’s soul.
“Have you now reconsidered your reconsideration?” the marquis inquired.
“I have,” Bell replied in a voice heavy as lead. “But, your Grace, no matter what you say, I aim to go to Nonesuch to put my case before his Majesty.”
“I would not dream of standing in your way,” Peegeetee said. “I do offer two bits of advice, however, for whatever you may think they are worth. First, do not get your hopes up. King Geoffrey has always been touchy, and he is all the touchier now that the war is going… less well than he would have liked.”
“And whose fault is that?” Bell said, meaning it was Geoffrey’s.
But General Peegeetee answered, “In his opinion, yours. I also note that Nonesuch is not the place you think it to be.”
“I am familiar with Nonesuch,” Bell said. “It is less than a year and a half ago that I last passed through it. Surely it cannot have changed much in so short a time.”
“It can. It has,” General Peegeetee told him. “With Marshal Bart’s army clinging to the siege of Pierreville as a bulldog clings to a thief’s leg, the shadow of the gibbet and the cross falls ever darker on the city. It is not without its gaiety even yet, but that gaiety has a desperate edge.”
“I care nothing for gaiety,” Bell snapped. “I care only for victory, and for vindication.”
“Both of which, I fear, are in moderately short supply in Nonesuch these days.” Peegeetee shrugged. “This is not my concern, however. I, like you, wish it were otherwise. And please believe me when I tell you I wish you good fortune in your quest. As I say, though, do please also be realistic in your expectations.”
Bell had never been realistic, either in the field or in his maneuverings with and against other officers serving King Geoffrey. His headlong fighting style had made him a hero. It had also left him a twice-mutilated man. He had risen to command the Army of Franklin-and, in commanding it, had destroyed it. When he told Marquis Peegeetee, “I shall, of course, take your advice, most seriously,” he meant, I shall, of course, pay no attention whatsoever to you.
With another bow in the saddle, Peegeetee replied, “I am most glad to hear it,” by which he meant, I don’t believe a word of it.
“Which men will be sent to Palmetto Province?” Bell asked. By putting it that way, he didn’t have to mention, or even have to think of, Count Joseph the Gamecock. The less he thought of Joseph, the better he liked it. That Joseph might not care to think of him, either, had never once entered his mind.
Marquis Peegeetee pulled a sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his gold-buttoned blue tunic. “You are ordered to send the wing commanded by Colonel Florizel…” He paused and raised an eyebrow. “A wing, commanded by a colonel?”
“Senior surviving officer,” Bell said. “When we fight, your Grace, we fight hard.”
“Fighting well would be even better,” Peegeetee murmured, and Bell glared furiously. Ignoring him, the nobleman continued, “You are also ordered to detach half the brigades from the wing commanded by Brigadier Benjamin, called the Heated Ham-how picturesque. The said brigadier is to accompany the attached brigades. Have you any questions?”
“No, sir, but do please note you are taking half the army’s strength,” Bell said.
“Not I, Lieutenant General. I am but delivering his Majesty’s orders. And the Army of Franklin-the former Army of Franklin, I should say-is from this moment on no longer your official concern.”
“I understand that… your Grace.” Bell held his temper with no small effort. “Even so, its fate, and the fate of the kingdom, still interest me mightily, as they should interest any man with a drop of patriotic blood in his veins. I have, you know, spent more than a drop of my blood on King Geoffrey’s behalf.” He glanced down toward the stump of his right leg.
Peegeetee’s gaze followed his own-but only for a moment. Then the marquis looked away, an expression of distaste crossing his narrow, clever features. Still not meeting Bell’s gaze, he muttered, “No one has ever faulted your courage.” He gathered himself. “But would you not agree it is now time to let other men shed their blood for the land we all hold dear?”
“I am still ready-still more than ready-to fight, sir,” Bell said.
“That, I regret to repeat, you must take up with his Majesty in Nonesuch,” General Peegeetee replied. Bell nodded. To Nonesuch he would go. He had scant hope, but he would go. His good hand folded into a fist. By all he could see, Geoffrey’s kingdom had scant hope, either. Righteously, Bell thought, I did all I could.
* * *
“Come on,” Captain Gremio called to his regiment. “Get aboard the glideway carpets. Fill ’em up good and tight, too. We don’t have as many as we need.”
Beside him, Sergeant Thisbe murmured, “When have we ever had as much of anything as we need? Men? Food? Clothes? Siege engines? Glideway carpets?”
That was so obviously unanswerable, Gremio didn’t even try. He said, “What I’m wondering is, how the hells are we going to get to Palmetto Province? We ought to go through Marthasville-just about all the glideways from the coast out here to the east pass through Marthasville. But the southrons have held the place since last summer.”
He felt foolish as soon as he’d spoken. Thisbe knew that as well as he did. The Army of Franklin-the army now breaking up like rotting ice-had done all it could to keep Hesmucet and the southrons out of Marthasville. All it could do hadn’t been enough. Gremio didn’t think the attack orders Lieutenant General Bell had given after taking command from Joseph the Gamecock had helped the northern cause, but he wasn’t sure Marthasville would have held even absent those orders. Any which way, it was much too late to worry about them now.
One after another, soldiers in blue stepped up onto mounting benches and from them up onto the carpets. From time out of mind, men had told stories of magic carpets, of carpets that flew through the air like birds, like dragons, like dreams. But, up until about the time Gremio was born, they’d been only stories. Even now, glideway carpets didn’t rise far above the ground. They traveled at no more than the speed of a galloping unicorn, though they could hold their pace far longer than a unicorn. And they could only follow paths sorcerously prepared in advance: glideways. As so often happened, practical magecraft proved very different from the romance of myth and legend.
Colonel Florizel limped toward Gremio, who came to attention and saluted. “As you were, Captain,” Florizel said.
“Thank you, sir.” Gremio relaxed. “We’re heading back towards our home province, eh? Been a long time.”
“Yes.” A frown showed behind Florizel’s bushy beard. “Under the circumstances, I worry about desertion. Can you blame me?”
“No, sir. I understand completely,” Gremio answered. “I wouldn’t worry so much if the war were going better. As things are…” He didn’t go on.
Florizel nodded heavily. “Yes. As things are.” It wasn’t a complete sentence, but what difference did that make? Gremio understood him again. Florizel continued, “What makes it so bad for my regiment-excuse me, Captain: for your regiment-is that we are ordered back to our ho
mes in the middle of a war that is… not going well. If our men think, to hells with it, what is to stop them from throwing down their crossbows and heading back to their farms or wherever they happen to live?”
“Not much, sir, I’m afraid. Maybe things will go better, or at least seem better, once we get to Palmetto Province. If they do, the men will be less likely to want to run away, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. I hope so.” Colonel Florizel still sounded profoundly dubious. Shaking his head, he went on down the line of glideway carpets. Gremio wondered whether he doubted things would go better in Palmetto Province or that it would make any difference to the men if they did-or maybe both.
Gremio could have given Florizel even more to worry about. Being convinced the war was lost and not just going badly, he’d begun to think about deserting himself. No one in Karlsburg would have anything much to say if he returned before the fighting formally finished. He was sure of that. He could resume his career as a barrister easily enough.
He felt Sergeant Thisbe’s eyes on his back. Sure enough, when he turned he found the underofficer looking at him. Thisbe quickly turned away, as if embarrassed at getting caught.
Gremio quietly cursed. He wasn’t cursing Thisbe-far from it. He was cursing himself. He knew he wasn’t going to desert as long as the sergeant kept fighting for King Geoffrey. He couldn’t stand the idea of losing Thisbe’s good opinion of him.
And if Hesmucet storms up through Palmetto Province with every southron in the world at his back? Gremio shrugged. If you get killed because you’re too stupid or too gods-damned stubborn to leave while you still have the chance? He shrugged again. Even then.
It wasn’t anything he hadn’t already known, and known for months. Now, though, he’d spelled it out to himself. He felt none of the fear he’d thought he might. He simply liked having everything in order in his own mind.
“Well, Sergeant, our men seem to be aboard the carpets,” he said to Thisbe. “Shall we get on ourselves?”
“Yes, sir,” Thisbe said. “After you, sir.”
“No, after you,” Gremio answered. “I’m still the captain of this ship: last on, last off.”
Thisbe tried to argue, but Gremio had both rank and tradition on his side. Clucking, the sergeant climbed up onto the closest carpet and sat crosslegged at the edge. Gremio followed. He found a place by Thisbe; soldiers crowded together to make a little more room for them.
A man in a glideway conductor’s black uniform came by. “No feet over the edges of the carpet,” he warned. “Bad things will happen if you break that rule.”
The men all knew that. Most of them also probably knew, or knew of, someone who’d broken a foot or an ankle or a leg against a rock or a tree trunk that happened to lie too close to a glideway line. Detinans were stubborn people who delighted in flouting rules, no matter how sensible those rules might be.
Silently, smoothly, the carpets slid west along the glideway. The silence persisted. The smoothness? No. The spells on the glideway line badly needed refurbishing. No mages seemed to have bothered doing that essential work. The wizards the north had were all busy doing even more essential work: trying to keep the southrons from pushing deeper into King Geoffrey’s tottering realm. They weren’t doing any too well at that, but they were trying.
Great River Province and Dothan had suffered relatively little from the war. Even in those provinces, though, everything had a shabby, rundown look to it, as if no one had bothered taking care of anything that wasn’t vital since the war began. Gremio saw a lot of women working in the fields, sometimes alongside blond serfs, sometimes by themselves. No Detinan men who didn’t have white beards were there to help them. If they didn’t take care of things themselves, who would? Nobody.
A measure of how little the war had touched Great River Province and Dothan was that serfs were working in the fields. Down in Franklin, most of the blonds had fled their liege lords’ holdings, choosing with their feet liberation from feudal ties. Northern nobles had long proclaimed that blonds preferred the security of being tied to the land. The evidence looked to be against them.
Here and there, the path the soldiers detached from the Army of Franklin took twisted like a drunken earthworm. Even here, so far north, southron raiders had sometimes penetrated. Their wizards had dethaumatized stretches of the glideway. On those stretches, the carpets might as well have lain on the floor of some duke’s dining hall, for all the inclination toward flight they displayed. The soldiers had to roll them up and carry them along till they reached a working stretch of glideway once more.
And then, more slowly than they should have, the glideway carpets reached Peachtree Province. They had to skirt Marthasville, which had been the hub of all glideway routes. It still lay in the southrons’ hands, and the garrison there was far too strong for this ragtag force to hope to overcome. Instead, Florizel’s men and those led by Benjamin the Heated Ham went west and then north. They passed through the swath of destruction Hesmucet’s army had left a couple of months before, marching west from Marthasville to the Western Ocean.
That swath was a good forty miles wide. The southrons had ruined the glideways along with everything else. The men who’d set out from Honey had to march across it, and they got hungry on the way. Hesmucet’s men had burned every farm and castle they came upon. They’d ravaged fields, cut down fruit trees, and slaughtered every animal they caught. Skeletons with bits of hide and flesh still clinging to them dotted the landscape. Vultures still rose from the bones, though the carrion birds had long since battened on most of the bounty presented them. The stench of death lingered.
No blonds remained here. They’d run off with the southrons by the thousands.
“How could Hesmucet’s men do such a thing?” Thisbe wondered.
“How? Simple,” Gremio answered grimly. “They were strong enough, and we couldn’t stop them.”
Everyone was grim by the time the detachment reached the far edge of that strip of devastation torn across Peachtree Province. It had to run all the way from Marthasville to the ocean. Had Geoffrey’s kingdom been strong, Hesmucet’s men never could have done such a thing. Since they had…
Colonel Florizel wasn’t far from despair by the time his men got to unravaged soil. He came up to Gremio, asking, “How can I ask even the bravest soldiers to give their lives for King Geoffrey’s realm when everything is falling into ruin here at the heart of it?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Gremio answered. “How much more can we take before… before we go under?” Before the disaster in front of Ramblerton, he wouldn’t have dared ask his superior such a question. Florizel would have called him a defeatist, maybe even a traitor. Now not even Florizel could believe the north’s prospects were good.
He looked at Gremio for a long time before he shook his head and said, “I don’t know, either, Captain. By the Thunderer’s strong right arm, though, we’d better find out soon.” He stumped away without waiting for a reply.
Later that evening, Gremio and Thisbe sprawled wearily in front of a campfire. Gremio said, “I think even the colonel is losing hope.” He told Thisbe what had passed between Florizel and him.
“What do you think, sir?” Thisbe asked, staring into the yellow flames as if they were a crystal ball. “Is it all over? Shall we go home when we get to Palmetto Province, or do we still have a chance if we still keep fighting?”
“I’ll fight as long as you will, Sergeant.” Gremio had thought that before, but now he amplified it: “If you decide you’ve had enough, I won’t say a word.”
Thisbe swung around to face him. “That’s not fair, sir-putting it all on me, I mean.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant,” Gremio said. “I just thought-”
“You didn’t think, sir,” Thisbe said with a shake of the head. “You’re the officer, so it’s really up to you. You said so yourself, when we were getting on the glideway carpet at Honey.”
“I do believe I’ve just been hoist with my own petard.”
Gremio mimed taking a deadly wound.
Although Thisbe laughed, the underofficer’s face remained serious. “If it is up to you, sir, what will you do?”
“I’ll see how things look when we get into Palmetto Province, and I’ll make up my mind then,” Gremio answered. “What will you do?”
“Follow you,” Thisbe said without hesitation. “I know you’ll come up with the right thing to do. You always have.”
“Thank you. I only wish it were true.”
Before they could say any more, a rider came up from the southwest. “Are you the men coming to the aid of Joseph the Gamecock?” he asked tensely, looking ready to gallop away in a hurry if the answer were no.
But Gremio said, “That’s right. How are things in Palmetto Province these days? A lot of us are from there.”
“Been a lot of rain,” the unicorn-rider answered. “Plenty of what would be roads most of the year are underwater now. That ought to slow down the gods-damned southrons. If it doesn’t, we’re in a hells of a lot of trouble, on account of those fornicating bastards outnumber us about five to one.”
Gremio and Sergeant Thisbe looked at each other. That was what had happened to Lieutenant General Bell. Once you came to a certain point, bravery stopped mattering much. No matter how brave you were, you’d get hammered if you were outnumbered badly enough.
One of Gremio’s soldiers said, “Well, it ain’t so bad any more, on account of now you’ve got us.”
The unicorn-rider managed a nod, but the look on his face was pained. Gremio didn’t, couldn’t, blame him for that. A good many farmers who put on Geoffrey’s blue tunic and pantaloons had hardly more education than blond serfs. The men who’d come from Bell’s shattered army to the one Joseph the Gamecock was trying to build might mean his force was outnumbered only four to one. How much would that help him when he tried to hold back Hesmucet? The answer seemed obvious to Gremio, if not to the common soldier.
Advance and Retreat wotp-3 Page 37
