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 homes 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.”