He looked across the Franklin again. Ned’s unicorn-riders kept right on patrolling the north bank. They probably kept right on being convinced that Geoffrey was the rightful King of Detina, too, and that blonds were serfs by nature. But, as far as the larger scheme of things went, what Ned of the Forest’s troopers were convinced of mattered less and less with each passing day.
“Lollygagging around again, are you?” a deep voice rumbled behind Rollant.
He turned and saluted. “Oh, yes, sir, Lieutenant Joram,” he replied. “You know all blonds are shiftless and lazy, same as you know all blonds are a pack of dirty, yellow cowards.”
Joram opened his mouth to answer that, then closed it again. Before saying anything, the newly commissioned officer rumbled laughter. Only after he’d got it out of his system did he remark, “Gods damn it, Rollant, there are still plenty of Detinans who do know that, or think they do.”
“Yes, sir.” Rollant nodded. “But are you one of them?”
“Well, that depends,” Joram said judiciously. “There’s a difference, you know, between whether you were lollygagging around on account of you’re a shiftless, cowardly blond and whether you were lollygagging around just in a general sort of way.”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Rollant nodded again. “That’s the truth. There is that difference. The Detinans you were talking about, though, they can’t see it.”
“Before you rubbed my nose in it, I would have had trouble seeing it myself,” Joram said. “Some blonds are shiftless cowards.”
“That’s true, too, sir. So are some Detinans.”
Joram grunted. Detinans prided themselves on being a warrior race. After a moment, Joram’s big head bobbed up and down. “And that’s the truth. So, Sergeant… in a general sort of way, were you lollygagging around?”
If Rollant had admitted it while still a common soldier, his reward would have been extra duty of some sort: chopping wood or digging a latrine trench or filling canteens. As a sergeant, he was supposed to be immune to such little oppressions. But he’d been a common soldier longer than he’d been an underofficer. “Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said blandly.
“I’ll bet you don’t!” Joram laughed again, a laugh so big and booming, Rollant wondered if the riders on the far side of the Franklin could hear it. But they just kept on riding. The company commander said, “Blond or not, you’re sure as hells an old soldier, aren’t you?”
Rollant shrugged. “I’ve been doing this a while now,” he said, “but any serf would tell you how much of a fool you have to be before you admit anything that puts you in trouble.”
“You don’t need to be a serf to learn that-though I don’t suppose it hurts,” Joram said.
“Now that you’re an officer, sir, have you heard anything about whether we’ll cross the Franklin and finish the traitors once and for all?” Rollant asked.
That made Joram laugh yet again, but this time without much in the way of amusement in his voice. “Just because they gave me one epaulet doesn’t mean they tell me anything,” he answered. “If I had my way, we’d already be pushing those bastards out of Honey-I hear that’s where they finally went and ran to. But even though I’m a lieutenant, I don’t have my way.”
“For whatever it may be worth to you, I’d do the same,” Rollant said. “Of course, I’m only a sergeant and I’m only a blond, so I really don’t have my way.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do,” Joram agreed. “But tell me this-when the war started, before you joined the army, did you ever think you’d say something like, ‘I’m only a sergeant’?”
“No, sir, can’t say that I did,” Rollant admitted. “What I wonder now is how things will be for my children, and for their children. I don’t want them to have to go through a lot of the things I’ve had to put up with because of the way I look.”
Joram nodded his big, heavy-featured head once more. “Don’t blame you a bit. If I were a blond, I’d say the same gods-damned thing. Since I’m not a blond, I’ll say something else instead: don’t expect miracles. The gods don’t dole ’em out very often. If you figure everything’s going to be perfect on account of we’ve gone and whipped false King Geoffrey, you’ll wind up disappointed.”
Now Rollant laughed. “Sir, I’m a blond. It’s a miracle I believe in miracles, if you know what I mean.”
“I think maybe I do.” Lieutenant Joram smacked him on the back, hard enough to stagger him. “Never mind miracles, then. Believe that we’ve won this war whether we go over the Franklin or not, and that we’ll go on from there.”
Everyone kept saying the same thing. It wasn’t so much that Rollant believed it was wrong, for he didn’t. After the fight in front of Ramblerton, no northern army worthy of the name survived east of the Green Ridge Mountains. But he wanted to be in at the death, to see false King Geoffrey’s realm fail. Hearing that it happened somewhere else later on didn’t have the same feel, the same meaning. Yes, I want victory in my own hands, he thought, and then, How very, very Detinan I’m getting.
John the Lister had done a lot of hard and dangerous things during the War Between the Provinces. He’d got his detachment through the battle of Poor Richard, and wrecked the Army of Franklin in the process. His men had played a major role in the victory in front of Ramblerton, and in the pursuit that followed. And now here he was talking, negotiating terms of surrender for… a postmaster?
The postmaster in question, a wizened, bespectacled little man named Ithran, had taken care of letters and parcels going into and out of the town of Warsaw. He’d done that before the war, and he’d done it under the auspices of false King Geoffrey during the war, and he wanted to go on doing it now that King Avram’s authority had come to northern Franklin. What he didn’t want to do was swear an oath of allegiance to Avram.
“Well, that’s simple enough,” John told him. “If you don’t, your town will have a new postmaster fast as we can find one.”
Ithran writhed like a man who needed to run to the jakes. “It’s not fair,” he whined. “With the war just about over, who else would I be loyal to?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to find out. Neither does his Majesty,” John replied. “No penalty will fall on you if you don’t swear the oath. King Avram is a merciful man-more merciful than he ought to be, I often think. But if you cannot swear loyalty to him by the Thunderer and the Lion God and the rest of the heavenly host on Mount Panamgam beyond the sky, you will not stay postmaster in Warsaw.”
“But-” Ithran threw his hands in the air. He must have seen that John the Lister meant what he said. “All right. All right! I’ll swear. Do I give you my oath?”
“No. You give it to the priests. They’re the proper ones to hold it. Ask in our encampment,” John said. “Someone will tell you where to find them.”
“I’ll do that. Thank you.” Despite the polite words, Ithran sounded anything but grateful. Still fuming, he scuttled out of John’s presence.
John reminded himself to check to make sure Ithran had sworn the oath before letting him open up the post office in Warsaw. Even if he did swear it, John judged he wouldn’t do so with anything even approaching sincerity. He had, after all, already sworn allegiance first to King Buchan and then to false King Geoffrey. After that, how important would he reckon one more oath? But John was not charged with enforcing sincerity, only the law King Avram had ordained.