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 head 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.”