Gremio used his free hand to scratch his head. If ever a man seemed in earnest, Thisbe was the one. “What is this precious reason of yours, sergeant?” the company commander asked.
Something more like fear than pain twisted Thisbe’s face. “I can’t tell you, sir. I don’t dare tell you. I don’t dare tell anybody.”
What was that supposed to mean? Gremio started to come out and ask the question, then stopped with the words unspoken. He’d had an arm around Thisbe for some little while now, while Thisbe had had one around him. The sergeant didn’t usually care to be touched. This time, there’d been no choice. Gremio thought he understood now why Thisbe had fought shy of it before. What he thought was madness, but there were times when madness made more sense than anything else. What he saw, what he heard-he could be wrong about all of that. What he felt? No. Madness or not, he thought it was true.
“Sergeant, I’ll look at your wound,” he said. “If I think I can just bandage it, I’ll do that. If I think it has to go to the healers to save your life, I’ll take you there. That’s the best I can offer, because I don’t-I especially don’t-want to lose you.”
“I suppose it’ll have to do, sir.” Despite pain, the underofficer picked up nuance. “Especially?” How much dismay was in that voice?
“Especially,” Gremio said firmly. He eased Thisbe down to the ground. “I’m going to look at the wound now. And then, Sergeant, I think you have a lot-a lot — of explaining to do.”
Thisbe let out a long, long sigh and then nodded. “Yes, sir.”
* * *
Lieutenant General Bell nodded happily to his aide-de-camp. “By the gods, Major, I know where I’m going again.”
“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” Major Zibeon answered. “Where are you going? Is the Army of Franklin going with you?”
“It certainly is,” Bell answered. “The time has come for the Army of Franklin to return to the province from which it takes its name. Franklin has groaned under the southron yoke since the war was young. High time it should be liberated from the hated, hateful foe.”
“Er-yes, sir,” Zibeon said. “How do you propose to arrange that, sir?”
“How? I’ll tell you how. By marching straight to Ramblerton and taking it away from the enemy, that’s how,” Bell answered. “We can do it. We’re ahead of Hesmucet. What have the southrons got in Franklin? A few piddling garrisons, that’s all. Ned of the Forest’s riders have driven them mad. When a real army erupts in their midst, they’ll run like rabbits.”
Major Zibeon didn’t say anything. He didn’t say anything at all. He looked from one map to another in Bell’s farmhouse headquarters, then turned away. He walked out into the cold rain, still without a word. He didn’t even shake his head. He simply walked away.
Bell started to call back his dour aide-de-camp. He didn’t. He let Zibeon leave. Calling him back would have meant wrangling with him, and Bell had had all the wrangling he could stand for a while. He felt as weary as a man bowed under the burden of twice his years. And his leg-or rather, the phantom still haunting the place where his leg had formerly dwelt-began to burn like fire.
The pain wasn’t real. How could it be, when the leg itself was gone a few inches below the hip? But, real or not, it hurt him. Not to put too fine a point on things, it tormented him. Cursing under his breath, he groped for his little bottle of laudanum.
He found it, pulled it from the tunic pocket where it hid-and dropped it. Had his left hand been in working order, he might have caught it. But, as far as movement went, his left hand-his whole left arm-was as much a phantom as his amputated leg. The bottle, the precious laudanum, thumped down on the rammed-earth floor.
Being made of thick glass, it didn’t break. Bell cursed in good earnest nonetheless. How the hells was he supposed to recover the drug for which his body screamed? For a whole man, it would have been the work of a moment. But then, a whole man wouldn’t have needed the laudanum so desperately as he did himself, and he was anything but whole.
Later, he realized he could have asked one of the young, hale sentries outside the door to retrieve the little bottle. That was later. At the moment, only two thoughts went through his head: I need the drug and I can do it myself, gods damn it. Mutilated or not, he remained as stubborn in his pursuit of independence as did the northern kingdom Geoffrey ruled.
And so Bell made his slow way over to the iron-framed cot on which he slept. He eased himself down till he was sitting on the floor beside it. Propping his crutches carefully against the cot, he stretched out at full length and began an inchworm’s progress toward the laudanum.
In fact, his progress was more like that of an inchworm which had been stepped on but wasn’t quite dead. Crawling didn’t go well, not with one good arm and one leg with which to work. He tried to roll, but his ruined left shoulder let out a horrible shriek at the very idea. He ended up hitching forward again and again while lying on his right side.
He felt like shouting when his questing fingers closed on the little bottle. He drew the cork with his teeth and poured down a long draught-a draught that would have sent him into oblivion a few months before. But his tolerance was more than it had been; even such a heroic dose took its own sweet time bringing him relief.
As always, the laudanum made him feel as if he were floating on air. But whatever he felt, in truth he remained on the floor. He had to hitch his way back to the cot in the same fashion he’d used to get the bottle. Then he pulled himself up onto the cot with his good arm. The strength that required was one more thing he didn’t think about. It was just something he had to do, and he did it.
Having done it, he lay there panting for a little while. Then he made one more urgent effort and sat up.
“Oh, by the gods!” he said. He hadn’t been down on a dirt floor for a while, or thought about what moving across one on his side and belly would do to his uniform. It was thoroughly filthy. I’m probably filthy, too, he thought.
He brushed at himself. Dust flew from his tunic and pantaloons in a choking cloud, as if his hand were an army on the road in a summertime drought. After a while, the uniform looked… less grimy than it had. He used his good arm and remaining leg to heave himself upright, then stood swaying till he got the crutches in position under his arms. That done, he went over to a chest of drawers, found a rag, and sat down at a table on which stood a pitcher of water. He wet the rag and daubed at his face. Before long, the rag, which had been white, turned the red-orange of the dirt floor. He dared hope that meant his face took on its normal color and appearance.
His hope was tested as soon as one of the sentries came in. The man didn’t stare or gape or point or exclaim, so Bell supposed he’d made himself at least tolerably presentable once more. You went through all that for the drug? he wondered. But he would have endured worse humiliations for the relief-and the pleasure-laudanum brought him, and he knew it.
“Sir, there’s a colonel of unicorn-riders, a fellow named Biffle, outside who’d like to see you,” the sentry said.
“Oh, good,” Bell said. “Yes, I’ve been expecting him. Send him in, by all means.”
“I’ll do it,” the sentry said. “Don’t you go anywhere, now.”
As if I could, Bell thought as the soldier went outside. Colonel Biffle came in a moment later. He was a tall, solidly made man with a high forehead and a long black beard. He wore a uniform so old and faded, it might almost have been southron gray. Saluting, he said, “Good to see you looking so hale, sir.”
“Thank you.” Bell didn’t feel particularly hale, and doubted he ever would again, but he inclined his head at the compliment. Then he asked, “And how is Ned of the Forest?”
“He’s very fine, thank you kindly, and about two days’ ride east of here with all his riders,” replied Colonel Biffle, who was one of the famous northern officer’s regimental commanders. “We had ourselves a busy time out in the east by the Great River, so we did.”
“Yes, I heard about some of that,” Bell
said. “You smashed up a southron army twice your size in Great River Province-”
“Three times our size, sir, easy,” Biffle said with a reminiscent grin. “Smashed ’em up and made ’em run for Luxor with their tails between their legs. And we raided Luxor our ownselves, and almost nabbed the southron general commanding in his bed, but the son of a bitch managed to sneak away in his nightshirt.” He had a rustic northern accent. By all accounts, Ned of the Forest’s was thicker still. But neither Ned’s accent nor his unsavory past as a serfcatcher had kept King Geoffrey from promoting him to lieutenant general, though he’d begun the war as a common soldier.
Bell nodded. “I heard something about that, yes. And I heard something more about your raid down into Cloviston-wasn’t there a place called Fort Cushion, on the Great River?”
“Yes, sir.” Colonel Biffle nodded, too, though his face turned grim. “That was a nasty business. Most of the garrison in the place were blonds. Their officers surrendered them, and then they started fighting again. Can’t have that sort of thing going on. We didn’t leave a whole lot of them alive.”
“I heard bits and pieces about the `Fort Cushion massacre,’ yes-that’s what the southron papers call it, you understand,” Bell said. “If you ask me, the blonds surely had it coming. If they try to face their betters with weapons in their hands, such things will happen.”
Colonel Biffle visibly relaxed. “Glad you see it that way, sir. Ned didn’t give the order to kill the bastards, but I can’t say he was sorry it happened, either.”
“Who could be sorry about getting rid of blonds? We just smashed a couple of regiments of them ourselves,” Bell said, and then got down to business: “You tell me Ned is two days away?”
“That’s right.” Biffle nodded again.
“Excellent, Colonel.” Bell felt as happy as anything but his drugs could make him. “I look forward to his joining us. We’ll show the stinking southrons there’s still life in Geoffrey’s men.”
“Er-yes, sir.” Colonel Biffle coughed a couple of times, then went on, “Uh, sir, Lieutenant General Ned, he asked me to ask you, just what have you got in mind once you put his unicorn-riders together with your army?”
“What have I got in mind?” Bell struck a pose. “I’ll tell you what I’ve got in mind, by the gods. I aim to lift the southrons’ yoke from Franklin, reconquer Ramblerton, sweep down into the province of Cloviston-my home province, I’ll have you know-roll on to the Highlow River, and then, again with the help of the gods, cross the river and attack the town of Horatii in Highlow Province.” That’ll impress him, Bell thought.
But Biffle remained unimpressed. “No, sir,” he said. “Sorry, sir. That’s not what Ned of the Forest had in mind-not even a little bit. What he meant was, what do you aim to do about Brigadier Spinner? The two of them, they purely don’t get along. Lord Ned swore a great oath he’d never fight alongside Spinner again, on account of Spinner stole his best men after the battle by the River of Death. That was one more of Thraxton the Braggart’s nasty little tricks.”
Bell grunted. There lay his glorious vision of northern triumph, shot dead by a petty political squabble. Or perhaps not so petty: he remembered rumors that had slid through the Army of Franklin while he was recovering from his amputation. Now, maybe, he could find out if those rumors held any truth. “Tell me,” he said, “did Ned of the Forest really challenge Count Thraxton to a duel?”
“He did, sir. By the gods, sir, he did. I was standing closer to him than I am to you right now, and I heard it with my own ears,” Biffle answered. “He made the challenge, and Thraxton didn’t have the stones to answer it.”
“Isn’t that interesting?” Lieutenant General Bell murmured. As his maneuvers against Joseph the Gamecock proved, he wasn’t above political squabbling himself. Having a weapon to use against Thraxton the Braggart might come in handy. You never could tell.
“I want you to know, sir, Lord Ned, he’s dead serious about this business,” Colonel Biffle said. “He said, `Biff, you tell that fellow-if I’m stuck under Spinner, I’ll stay down here in Franklin and give the southrons a hard time all by my lonesome.’ His very words, sir; Lion God claw me if I lie.”
“He would disobey a superior’s direct order?” Bell rumbled ominously.
That didn’t impress Ned of the Forest’s regimental commander, either. “He’s disobeyed a whole great pile of them in his time, Ned has,” he replied, “and usually he’s come off better on account of it.”
“I ought to send him packing for dickering with me like this,” Bell said. Colonel Biffle only shrugged. Plainly, he didn’t care one way or the other. However difficult Ned of the Forest was, Bell knew him to be a genius at handling unicorns. Brigadier Spinner was competent enough, but nobody had ever accused him of genius, and nobody ever would. No matter how grandiose Bell’s visions, he also knew he needed all the help he could get to bring them off. He plucked at his beard. “You may tell Lieutenant General Ned that I will place Brigadier Spinner on detached duty harrying General Hesmucet’s men here in Peachtree Province. Will that satisfy him?”
“Yes, sir,” Biffle said. “I’m sure of it.”
“All right,” Lieutenant General Bell said. “We’ll do it that way, then.” It wasn’t all right. He had every intention of writing King Geoffrey about it. But, while that would put him on the record and make him feel better, Ned of the Forest was unlikely to get excited about it. Ned did what he wanted, not what anyone else wanted. No, Bell didn’t like bargaining with subordinates. But no matter what he liked, he couldn’t afford to lose this one.
Now that Biffle had got what he-or rather, Ned-wanted, he was all courtesy himself. He gave Bell a smart salute and said, “I’ll head back to Lord Ned fast as my unicorn can take me, sir, and we’ll see you in a little more than two days’ time.”
“Good,” Bell said. He hardly noticed Colonel Biffle leave the farmhouse. He was looking south with his mind’s eye, looking south toward the victory that had eluded him in Peachtree Province, looking south toward glory.
* * *
Doubting George was gnawing on some pork ribs when Colonel Andy ducked into his pavilion. George’s adjutant looked even more like an irate chipmunk than usual. “Sir,” he said, “there’s a messenger from General Hesmucet waiting outside. You’re ordered to the commanding general’s headquarters at once.”
“Well, if I’m ordered, I should probably go, eh?” Doubting George heaved his bulk off the folding chair where he was sitting. “And if it’s at once, I probably shouldn’t finish dinner first. You’re welcome to the rest of the ribs, Colonel. They’re mighty good.”
“It’s not right, sir,” Andy said in injured tones.
“What? The ribs?” George said. “You might as well eat ’em. Gods only know when I’ll get back.”
“No, not the ribs,” Colonel Andy snapped. “The ribs have nothing to do with it. The orders General Hesmucet’s going to give you-they’re not right.”
“Well, maybe they are and maybe they aren’t,” Doubting George replied. “But, right or wrong, they’re legal and binding, because he’s the commanding general. If I didn’t believe in following legal and binding orders, I’d be fighting for King Geoffrey today, wouldn’t I? And then you’d want to kill me.”
“Never, sir,” Andy said stiffly.
“Oh, of course you would-I’d be the enemy,” George said. “But I’m not, and I don’t intend to be. And so… I’m off to General Hesmucet’s. Enjoy the ribs.” He left before his adjutant could carp any more.
Trouble is, I agree with every word Andy’s saying, George thought as he climbed aboard his unicorn. But, whether he agreed or not, he could obey Hesmucet or he could go home. After a moment, he shook his head. He couldn’t even go home. Over in Parthenia, the traitors still held the estate they’d confiscated.
Hesmucet’s aides and sentries saluted when he rode up to them. When he dismounted, one of them took charge of the unicorn. Another one said, “General Hesmuce
t will see you right away.”
“Well, good,” George said agreeably, “because I’m going to see him.”
“Hello, George,” Hesmucet said when his second-in-command went into the pavilion. The general commanding quivered-he practically glowed-with excitement. George knew what was coming even before he spoke: “I’ve got it, by the gods! Marshal Bart and King Avram have given me leave to march across Peachtree, tear up everything in the way, and take Veldt.”
“Congratulations, sir,” Doubting George said. “I trust you’ll send me a postcard or two as you go?”
Hesmucet coughed and turned red. “I told you, Lieutenant General, I need someone I can count on in Franklin, to keep Bell from making mischief.”
“Yes, you told me that,” George said. “Just because you told it to me, though, doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“Whom else could I send?” Hesmucet asked him. “After me, you’re the next best general we’ve got here. I am taking what I think is the most important job ahead of us. I’m leaving you what I think is the next most important job. That strikes me as fair.”
“Who knows?” Doubting George shrugged. “The groom has the most important job on his wedding day, the best man the second-most. But I’ll tell you one thing, sir: the groom has a lot more fun.”
“Not necessarily. No, not necessarily, by the gods,” Hesmucet said. “Remember, you’ll still have Bell to deal with. And so, with any luck at all, we’ll both get to screw the traitors.” He threw back his head and laughed. “You give me so many of your sly little stories. This time, I got in my own punch line.”
“Yes, sir,” George said resignedly. He’d known this was going to happen. Now it had, and he had to make the best of it. “What sort of force will you leave me to defend Franklin?”
“Well, for one thing, you’ll have all the garrisons already posted through the province,” Hesmucet said expansively.
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