John the Lister’s eye went to the Black Palace. The home of Detina’s kings-of Detina’s rightful kings, anyhow-towered over the city. Looking out from the battlements of the Black Palace, King Avram could see a long way. He could look on Parthenia to the north and on the loyal provinces to the south (even if crossbowmen and pikemen had been required at the start of the war to keep Peterpaulandia loyal).
Now everything looked likely to turn out for the best. A couple of years earlier, John wouldn’t have bet on that. Twice Duke Edward of Arlington had invaded the south; once Count Thraxton the Braggart had pushed an army down into Cloviston, too. Even men of the stoutest loyalty to King Avram could hardly be blamed for fearing that Geoffrey might yet forge a kingdom of his own.
It hadn’t happened, though. It hadn’t, and now it wouldn’t. The end was visibly at hand. Geoffrey, Duke Edward, and Count Joseph the Gamecock were all stubborn men. They hadn’t given up yet. That’s why my wing’s come west, John thought: to make them give up.
He’d found his way back to his hostel while hardly even noticing in which direction his feet were going. Anyone who was anyone-anyone who had pretensions of being anyone-stayed at the House of the Rat when he came to Georgetown. For one thing, it had the softest beds and finest kitchen of any establishment in the city. For another, it lay right at the edge of the joyhouse quarter, with brothels to suit every purse and every taste within easy walking distance.
Fighting Joseph had stayed at the House of the Rat. Rumor said he’d enjoyed the nearby attractions, too. Knowing Fighting Joseph, John the Lister suspected rumor was true. And Marshal Bart had stayed at the House of the Rat. Rumor said he’d almost got a dreadful upstairs room because no one recognized him till he signed the guestbook. Knowing Bart, John suspected rumor there was also true.
Bart was supposed to be coming down from Pierreville to confer with him. The Marshal of Detina had already delayed the meeting once. John took the delay in stride. He was sleeping and eating in fancy style at King Avram’s expense. He would have to spend his own money in the joyhouses, but every man had to sacrifice a little now and then. There was a war on, after all.
At the desk, John asked, “Any messages for me?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” the clerk there replied, fixing John with a fishy stare. “Who are you, anyway?”
“John the Lister, brigadier of the regulars,” John answered proudly.
He’d hoped that would impress the desk clerk. He rapidly discovered nothing impressed the clerk. With a yawn, the fellow said, “I’ve seen plenty of those before you. You can’t expect me to recognize everybody.” But he did condescend to look and see if John had any messages. With a grudging grunt, he passed the officer from the east a scrap of paper. “Here you are.”
“Thank you so much,” John said. The desk clerk proved immune to sarcasm, too. I might have known, John thought. When he unfolded the scrap of paper, he brightened. “Oh, good. It’s from Marshal Bart.”
That at least kept the scrawny little man behind the desk awake enough to ask, “What has he got to say?”
“We’re going to have supper here tonight,” John answered before he realized he didn’t have to tell this annoying creature anything. Gathering himself, he added, “You’d better inform the kitchens so they can fix up something extra fine for the Marshal of Detina.”
But the desk clerk only sneered. “Shows how much you know. Whatever he orders, Marshal Bart’ll want it with all the juices cooked out of it. He always does. Cooking fancy for him is just a waste of time.”
Defeated, John the Lister went off to his room. He emerged at sunset, to meet Bart in the lobby. If he hadn’t worked with the Marshal of Detina in Rising Rock, he wouldn’t have recognized him. As things were, he almost didn’t. Bart wore a common soldier’s plain gray tunic with epaulets fasted on very much as an afterthought: no fancy uniform for him. His boots were old and muddy. His face? He could have been a teamster as readily as the most eminent soldier Detina had produced in the past three generations.
“Good to see you, Brigadier,” Bart said, an eastern twang in his voice. “Your men have done some fine work, and I know they’ll do more once they get to Croatoan and link up with General Hesmucet.”
“Thank you very much, sir,” John replied. “Shall we go into the dining room?”
“I suppose so,” Marshal Bart said. “Have to eat, I reckon.” He sounded completely indifferent. That nasty, nosy little desk clerk, gods damn him, had had it right.
In the dining room, the blond waiter fawned on Bart-and, incidentally, on John the Lister as well. Basking in reflected glory, John chose a fancy seafood stew and a bottle of wine. Bart ordered a beefsteak.
“Don’t you care for anything finer, sir?” John asked.
“Not me.” Bart turned back to the waiter. “Make sure the cook does it up gray all the way through. No pink, or I’ll send it back.” The blond nodded, and hurried away. To John, Bart said, “I can’t abide the sight of blood. I never have been able to.”
“Uh, yes, sir,” John said, reflecting that that was an odd quirk for a man who’d commanded most of the bloodiest fights in Detinan history.
As if thinking along with him, Bart remarked, “I’ve seen too much blood already. I don’t need to look at more on my plate.”
“Yes, sir,” John said again. The waiter brought the wine and filled his goblet, then set the bottle on the table between the two officers. John reached for it. “Shall I pour you some?”
“No, thanks,” Marshal Bart answered. “I will take a drink every now and again, but only every now and again. I used to like it too well-I daresay you’ll have heard about that-so now I’m very careful about how much I pour down.”
John felt self-conscious about drinking when the Marshal of Detina wouldn’t, but Bart waved for him to go on. His first taste of the wine removed his lingering hesitation. The House of the Rat had an excellent cellar. The cooks worked fast, too. The waiter fetched John’s stew and a beefsteak that looked as if it had just come from a long stay in the hottest of the seven hells.
Bart attacked the beefsteak with gusto, though it was so thoroughly cooked, he had to do some serious work with his knife to hack through it. He said, “You’ll know Joseph the Gamecock is operating against General Hesmucet in Palmetto Province. Operating as best he can, I should say, because Hesmucet outnumbers him at least three to one. Your job will be to go up to Croatoan by sea, hit Joseph in the rear or in the flank as opportunity arises, and join forces with Hesmucet. Then, if the war has not ended before you get there, you will come up to Pierreville and help me finish off Duke Edward of Arlington.”
That made John take another big sip of wine. “Finish off Duke Edward of Arlington,” he echoed, awe in his voice. “That hardly seems real.”
“Oh, it is real, all right,” Bart said. “Real as horseradish. We are going to whip the traitors, and we are going to do it pretty quick. I have no doubts about that, none at all.”
He’d never had any doubts about that, which made him unique among King Avram’s officers. And he’d been right. Time and time again, he’d been right. He didn’t look like much. He didn’t sound like much. But he won. That was why Avram had made him Marshal of Detina. And he’d kept hammering till even Duke Edward and the Army of Southern Parthenia were visibly coming to the end of their tether.
Doubts, John thought. Then he heard himself saying, “Doubting George isn’t very happy with you, you know.”
“Yes, I do know that.” Bart paused to take another bite of his leathery beefsteak. Once he’d choked it down, he went on, “I am sorry about it, too. George is a good man, a sound man. When it comes to holding off the foe, there is not a better man in all of Detina. But when it comes to going after him… When it comes to going after him, George is too gods-damned slow. That is the truth. I am sad to say it, but it is the truth. There at Ramblerton, he should have struck Bell two weeks before he did. He would have won.”