And, once the oath was sworn, the priests wouldn’t be the only ones holding it. The gods would also keep it in their hands. While that might not matter in this world, it should in the next. Several of the seven hells had particularly… interesting sections reserved for oathbreakers.
That was one reason why John the Lister didn’t fret much about Ithran’s sincerity (though he did wish Major Alva had never told him about the Inward Hypothesis, which made the gods seem weaker than they should). The other was that, as the postmaster himself had said, the war was nearly over, false King Geoffrey nearly beaten. If no one could carry on the fight for Geoffrey, Ithran and all the people like him would have to stay loyal to Avram.
A runner came up to John and stood at attention, waiting-ostentatiously waiting-to be noticed. When John nodded, the young soldier in gray saluted and said, “Sir, you are ordered to report to Lieutenant General George’s pavilion right away.”
“Oh, I am, am I?” John said. “What’s this all about?”
The runner shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. I was just told to deliver the message, and now I’ve done it.”
“I’m on my way, then.” John wondered if the runner could have told him more than he had. Rumor and gossip always swirled through the camp. John shrugged broad shoulders. He’d find out soon enough.
Doubting George stood waiting for him outside the pavilion. The commanding general didn’t look particularly happy, but then George never looked particularly happy. He returned John’s salute in an absentminded way.
“Reporting as ordered, sir,” John said. “What’s going on? Will we cross the Franklin and chase the traitors after all?”
“No.” Doubting George shook his head. “This army will do no such thing. The new orders I have from Georgetown make that perfectly clear.”
“Oh, dear. Too bad,” John said. “We really ought to finish smashing up the Army of Franklin and Lieutenant General Bell, or whoever’s in charge of it if Bell really has resigned.”
“The chowderhead is gone,” George said. “No doubt about that at all. I don’t know who the traitors will appoint in his place. I don’t know how much it matters, either, not with these orders I’ve got.”
John the Lister frowned. “What are your orders, sir?” Whatever they were, they seemed to have sucked all the vitality out of the commanding general. John couldn’t remember ever having seen him so low, not even after the disaster by the River of Death. George had been a tower of strength then; without him, General Guildenstern’s whole army, and the southron war effort east of the mountains, might well have gone to pieces in the aftermath of the defeat.
Now he said, “Your wing, Brigadier, is to be detached from my army and sent to General Hesmucet in the west, to go to Croatoan and join him after he moves south through Palmetto Province toward Marshal Bart at Pierreville.”
“My… entire wing? With me in charge of it?” John the Lister had trouble believing his ears.
But Doubting George’s heavy, pain-filled nod assured him he’d heard correctly. “That is what the order says. I suppose I should congratulate you.” He held out his hand. “You’ll get to be in at the very end, to see everything false King Geoffrey has left fall to bits.”
Automatically, John took the proffered hand. He said, “But why are they leaving you behind, sir? If anybody’s earned the right to be there, you’re the man.”
“Not according to what the orders say. They’re not happy with me over in Georgetown. No, they’re not happy at all.”
“Why the hells not?” John asked in honest amazement. He knew his own career was rising while George’s stumbled, and he rejoiced that he was moving up in the world and in the army, but this left him baffled. “What could they ask you to do that you haven’t done?”
“Well, for one thing, they’re still grumbling because they think I took too long to hit the Army of Franklin in front of Ramblerton. They don’t seem to care that I shattered it when I did hit it, and they’re annoyed with me for not pursuing harder and not destroying it altogether.”
That last touched John the Lister’s honor, too. “By the Thunderer’s prick, sir, don’t they know you’re up here on the Franklin?” he asked angrily. “Don’t they know how many traitors we’ve killed, how many we’ve captured?”
“If they don’t, it’s not because I haven’t told them,” Doubting George replied. “But whether they want to listen is another question, gods damn it. You know how easy it is to be a genius when you’re running a campaign from a few hundred miles away from where the real fighting is, and how simple it is to blame the poor stupid sod who’s actually there for not being perfect.”
“Yes, sir.” Like any officer in the field, John knew that all too well.
“All I can say is, it’s a good thing Geoffrey has the same disease, or worse, or we’d be in a lot more trouble than we are.” George spat in disgust. “But… so it goes. And so you go. And may good fortune go with you. Considering the dribs and drabs that are left of the traitors’ armies, I expect it will.”
John expected that, too, and for the same reason. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “Thank you very much. And what will you be doing?”
“Well, I’m ordered to stay here with the rest of my army for now,” the commanding general replied. “You notice I’m not ordered to pursue Bell, even though they say they’re unhappy that I haven’t. What I figure will happen is, they’ll keep on detaching pieces from my army till I haven’t got much left. Then, maybe they’ll order me after what’s left of the Army of Franklin. And if I have trouble, they’ll blame me for it.” He shrugged. “Like I say, so it goes.”
“Army politics is a nasty business,” John said sympathetically. Doubting George’s glum prediction sounded all too likely to him.
With another shrug, George said, “It won’t change who wins the war, not now it won’t. I console myself with that. Of course, once we have won, they’ll probably ship me out to the steppe to fight the blond savages instead of letting me help hold down the traitors.”
“Urgh!” was all John the Lister said to that. Garrison duty at some dusty castle in the middle of nowhere? Command of a regiment at most, after leading an army tens of thousands strong? He looked down at his wrists. If he got orders like that with the rank among the regulars he now held, he’d think about slashing them. And George was a lieutenant general of regulars, not just a brigadier.
But the other officer surprised him, saying, “If that’s where they send me, I’ll go. Why the hells not? The blonds are honest enemies, not like some of the ones I’ve got in Georgetown.”
“Er-yes.” John thought George was being indiscreet. No, he didn’t just think so. He knew George was being indiscreet. If he let word get back to Georgetown about what the general commanding had said… well, what difference would it make? If George didn’t care whether they sent him to the trackless east, it would make no difference at all.
The power of indifference, John the Lister thought. Indifference was a power he’d never contemplated before, which made it no less real. Trust Doubting George to come up with a weapon like that.
“I have my orders,” George said, “and now you have yours. Go get your wing ready to travel, Brigadier. I know you’ll show Hesmucet he didn’t take all the good soldiers with him when he set out to march across Peachtree.”
“I’ll do that, sir,” John promised. “And I’m sorry things didn’t turn out better for you.”
“I doubt it,” Doubting George said. “What you wish is that Marshal Bart would’ve named you commanding general here instead of trying to ship Baron Logan the Black here from the west. Then you would’ve smashed Bell in front of Ramblerton, and you would’ve been the hero. Eh? Am I right or am I wrong?”
“You’re right,” John mumbled, embarrassed he had to admit it. “Why didn’t you do more to call me on it back then?” George had warned him, but hadn’t made it so plain he knew what was going on in his mind.