Transform things did. The wizard had been right to warn Doubting George about the directional nature of the spell. George saw the result, but as if it were made from fog: everything seemed half transparent, and ragged around the edges. He might almost have been watching the memory of a dream. Smoke, or the wraithlike semblance of smoke, poured up from the encampment. The ghosts of flames sprang from tents that weren’t really burning. Shadowy figures that might have been men ran in all directions, as if in terror.
“Bell’s wizards are seeing this sharply?” George asked.
“Not just the wizards, sir,” Alva told him. “Anybody peering across the, uh, Smew will think the dragon has wrecked everything in sight.”
“All right, then,” the general commanding said. “Hold the illusion for as long as you can, and I’ll get Hard-Riding Jimmy’s troopers and some engineers moving. If they can cross the river and hit Bell in the flank when he thinks I’m all messed up here…”
“Deception,” Major Alva said happily. “Yes, sir. I get it.”
“Good.” Doubting George shouted for a messenger. When the young man appeared, came to attention, and saluted, George gave him his orders. The youngster saluted again. He trotted off.
Before long, the unicorn-riders and the engineers hurried up the Smew. Ghostly smoke between them and the river should conceal them from prying eyes on the other side, assuming it seemed as solid as it was supposed to from the north. Doubting George had no cause to doubt that; another reason he approved of Alva as a mage was that the man delivered.
A messenger came back and reported, “We’re over the Smew, sir.”
“Good,” George said. “Can I send a column of footsoldiers after you? Have you got a ford or a bridge safe and ready to use?”
“Yes, sir,” the messenger answered. “But Brigadier Jimmy says to warn you that if you’re looking to surprise the traitors, you’re going to be disappointed. They already know we’re moving against them.”
“Gods damn it!” George exclaimed in disgust. “What went wrong?”
“We hadn’t been on the north bank of the river more than a couple of minutes before Ned of the Forest’s unicorn-riders found us,” the messenger replied.
“Well, to hells with Ned of the Forest, too,” the commanding general said. “All right-we’re discovered. Can Jimmy’s riders get in front of Bell’s men and hold them until the rest of us come north and finish them off?”
“Sir, I don’t think so,” the young man on unicornback said. “Bell’s men are scooting north as fast as they can go, and Ned’s unicorn-riders are slowing our troopers down so we can’t reach Bell’s main force. I’m sorry, sir.”
“So am I,” Doubting George said wearily. “We did everything right here-after that gods-damned dragon, anyhow-but it didn’t quite work. Well, we’ll go after them anyhow. Maybe Bell will make a mistake. It wouldn’t be the first one he’s made on this campaign, by the Lion God’s tail tuft.”
He said that, but he didn’t really believe it. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Bell could make more mistakes; he was sure Bell could. But prisoners had told him Ned of the Forest commanded the northern rear guard. Doubting George had seen that Ned made a very solid soldier. George wished he had more officers of Ned’s ability. He was just glad the war looked nearly won. Even Ned didn’t matter-too much-any more.
X
Captain Gremio had never particularly wanted to command a regiment. For that matter, Gremio had never particularly wanted to command a company; had his previous captain not been killed at Proselytizers’ Rise, he would have been more than content to remain a lieutenant, with but a single epaulet on his shoulder.
But he had the whole regiment in his hands now, like it or not, and had it in the worst possible circumstances: a grinding retreat after a disastrous battle. And his men could hardly have had a harder time. They were worn and ragged and hungry, as was he. His shoes, what was left of them, leaked mud onto his toes at every stride. Too many of them had no shoes at all.
“What the hells am I supposed to do, sir?” one of the soldiers asked. “My feet are so gods-damned cold, how long will it be before my toes start turning black?”
“Well, we’re in camp now, Jamy,” Gremio answered, “camp” being a few small, smoky fires in a clearing in the woods. “Get as close to the flames as you can. That’ll keep you from frostbitten toes.”
“Yes, sir, we’re in camp now,” Jamy said. “But what am I supposed to do about tomorrow morning, when I start tramping through half-frozen muck again?”
“Find some rags. Wrap your feet in them.” Gremio helplessly spread his hands wide. “I don’t know what else to tell you.” Jamy muttered something under his breath. It sounded like, If I let myself get captured, I don’t have to worry about it any more. Gremio turned away, pretending not to hear. If Jamy did hang back, how could Gremio stop him? More than a few men had already given themselves up to the southrons.
Also muttering, Gremio went off to stand in line and get something to eat. Half a hard biscuit and some smoked meat that was rancid because it hadn’t been smoked long enough weren’t going to fill his belly. He asked the cooks, “What else have you got?”
They looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “You’re gods-damned lucky we’ve got this here… sir,” one of them said. “Plenty of folks in this here army, they get a big fat nothing for supper tonight.”
“Oh.” Gremio sighed and nodded. “I suppose you’re right. But how long can we go on with this kind of food?”
In unison, the cooks shrugged. “Hells of a lot longer than we can go on with nothing,” replied the one who’d spoken before.
The worst of it was, Gremio couldn’t even argue with him. He was incontestably, incontrovertibly, right. “Scrounge whatever you can,” Gremio told him. “I’m not fussy about how you do it-just do it. I won’t ask you any questions. We’ve got to keep moving, one way or another.”
One by one, the cooks nodded. “We’ll take care of it, Captain. Don’t you worry,” said the one who liked to talk. “Pretty good, a regimental commander who tells us we can forage however we want.” The rest of the cooks nodded again.
One of them added, “Sergeant Thisbe already said the same thing.”
“That’s a sergeant. This here is a captain. Them’s two different breeds, you bet, like unicorns and asses,” the mouthy cook said.
Gremio wondered whether officers were supposed to be unicorns or asses. He didn’t ask. The cook was all too likely to tell him. What he did say was, “If Sergeant Thisbe told you it’s all right, it is. You can bet on that.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” the talkative cook agreed. “Thisbe, he’s got his head screwed on tight. Probably why he never made lieutenant.” He didn’t look a bit abashed at smearing officers. With the Army of Franklin falling to ruins, what was Gremio going to do to him? What could Gremio do that the southrons hadn’t done already?
“Sergeant Thisbe has been offered promotion to officer’s rank more than once, but has always declined,” Gremio said stiffly.
The cooks looked at one another. None of them said a thing, not even the mouthy one. Gremio turned away in dull embarrassment. They hadn’t embarrassed him; he’d done it to himself. If Thisbe was a good soldier (and Thisbe was) and if Thisbe didn’t want to become an officer (and Thisbe didn’t, as Gremio had admitted), what did that say about officers?
It says officers are asses, Gremio thought. Feeling very much an ass, he went off to eat his meager and unappetizing supper.