Bell started to growl at him, to order him to come back and explain himself and apologize. He left the order unspoken. He was as brave a soldier as any who served King Geoffrey. No one without great courage would, or could, have stayed in the field after the wounds he’d taken. But even he didn’t care to antagonize Ned of the Forest.
“We’ll get them,” Bell muttered. “If we don’t catch up to them on the road, we’ll get them in Poor Richard. John the Lister might have slid by me once, but he won’t do it again.”
Where railing at his subordinate commanders hadn’t done a thing, that did help ease his wrath. All I need is another try, he thought. All the north needs is another try. We can still lick those southron sons of bitches. We can, and we have to. And so, of course, we will.
He went back into his pavilion. A folding chair waited for him. With a weary sigh, he sank into it and leaned his crutches against the iron-framed cot nearby. With his one good hand free, he fumbled for the laudanum bottle. He pulled it out, yanked the stopper free with his teeth, and took one more long swig.
Little by little, the latest dose of the drug washed through him. He sighed. At last, he had enough laudanum coursing through his veins to stop worrying quite so much about what might have been. He felt much more alive with the mixture of opium and brandy than he ever had without it. There were times when he felt his mutilations were almost worthwhile. Without them, he never would have made the acquaintance of the wonders of laudanum, and he couldn’t imagine living apart from it, not any more he couldn’t.
But not even laudanum’s soothing influence altogether stifled his rage against the men who had let him down. How many times do I have to give the command to advance? he wondered. What can I do when they refuse to listen? I can’t charge the gods-damned southrons myself, not on one leg. He had charged them, many times. The catapult stone that had smashed his thigh by the River of Death was the reason he went on one leg these days.
“Next time,” he muttered. “We will get them next time.” Then the huge doses of the drug he’d taken overwhelmed even his laudanum-accustomed frame. A wriggle and a scramble shifted him from the chair to the cot. He twisted into a position that put the least weight on his bad shoulder and his stump, closed his eyes, and slept, dreaming of blood and victory.
“Here you are, sir,” the gray-robed scryer said, standing up from the stool in front of his crystal ball so Lieutenant General George could take his place.
“That’s true. Here I am.” Doubting George sat down. John the Lister’s image, tiny and perfect, stared out of the crystal ball at him. George said, “So you’re on your way to Poor Richard now, are you?”
“Yes, sir,” John answered. “By the Thunderer’s beard, I’m glad to be past the traitors, too. I thought they’d cooked our goose at Summer Mountain.”
“Never give up,” Doubting George said. “Till they kill you, you’re still in the fight. And after that, make ’em worry about your ghost.”
“Haven’t seen any ghosts on the battlefield, sir,” John the Lister said. “It’s the live sons of bitches who worry me. If Bell pursues hard, I could still wind up in trouble.”
“What can I do to help you?” Doubting George asked.
“Another ten thousand men would be nice,” John replied. George chuckled. He’d made many such wry remarks himself.
But this one, unfortunately, he couldn’t answer with more than a chuckle. He said, “I’d send them to you if I had them, but I don’t. Do you know how much trouble I’m having pulling garrisons out of towns and off of glideway lines here and down in Cloviston?”
“I have some small idea.” John sounded even drier than before. “You wouldn’t have sent me up here to take a beating-I mean, to slow down Lieutenant General Bell, of course-if you thought it would be easy. Still, if you had them to spare, I could really use them right now.”
“I haven’t got them to spare. I haven’t got them at all, as a matter of fact,” George said. “You’re commanding more men than I am right now. General Hesmucet did me no favors when he put me in charge of these provinces after he went and stripped most of the good soldiers out of them.”
“Superiors don’t usually do favors for subordinates they give hard, nasty jobs to,” John the Lister said.
“Uh, yes.” Doubting George felt skewered by the sort of dart he usually aimed at other officers. He’d given John a hard, nasty job, and was uncomfortably aware of it. “I am doing the best I can,” he assured the man to whom he’d given it.
“I’m sure of that, sir.” John didn’t come right out and call him a liar, but he didn’t miss by much. “If you can’t give me reinforcements, can you send that hotshot mage of yours up to me?”
“Major Alva, you mean?”
“I forget his name. The one who actually knows what he’s doing, even if he looks like an unmade bed and has no idea how an officer is supposed to behave.”
“That’s Major Alva, all right,” George said. “I hate to lose him. He’s far and away the best wizard around-gods only know why Hesmucet didn’t take him along for the march across Peachtree.”
John took a deep breath that was both visible and audible. “I wouldn’t ask for him if he weren’t good, sir. I’m trying to keep from getting slaughtered, you know. Anything you can do to help would be nice.”
“You’re right, of course,” Doubting George said contritely. “I’ll send him straight to you. Shall he wait for you in Poor Richard, or do you need him on the north bank of the Trumpeteth?”
“If you can get him all the way up here, I’ll be glad to have him,” John said. “The river’s running high right now, what with all the rain we’ve had lately, and bridging it won’t be easy. A good wizard would be a handy thing to have.”
“Call Major Alva a thing to his face, and he’ll make you sorry for it,” George warned. “It’s not just that he forgets he’s supposed to be an officer. He’d be touchy even if he weren’t one.”
“Too smart for his own good, eh?” John the Lister asked.
“You might say so,” George answered. “Yes, by the gods, you just might say so. Why I haven’t wrung his scrawny neck… But I know why, as a matter of fact. I haven’t wrung his neck because he is good.”
“Well, fine. I can use somebody who’s good,” John said. “The mages I’ve got up here with me can’t grab their backsides with both hands. They can’t spell cat if you spot them the c and the a. They can’t-”
“I get the idea,” Doubting George said. “I’ll send Alva to you as fast as I can, and I hope he does you some good.”
“Thanks very much, sir,” John said. “I am grateful for it. If we can get over the Trumpeteth and into Poor Richard, I think we’ll give a good account of ourselves when Lieutenant General Bell comes to call.”
“That’s good. That’s what I want to hear.” Especially if it’s true, George thought. He asked, “Anything else?” John the Lister shook his head. George gestured to the scryer in charge of the crystal ball. The man in the gray robe broke the mystical connection between this ball and the one John was using. John’s image disappeared. The crystal ball went back to being nothing but a round lump of glass that twisted light oddly when you looked through it.
“Do you need to speak with anyone else, sir?” the scryer asked. “With Marshal Bart, maybe, or King Avram?”
“No, thanks,” George said. “The only time they want to talk to me is when they think I’ve done something wrong. As long as they’re happy leaving me alone, I’m happy being left. The less I do to remind them I’m around, the better off I am. This way, I get to run my own war.”
Belatedly, he realized he might get in trouble if the scryer passed his sentiments on to Marshal Bart over in Pierreville, or to King Avram’s henchmen in the Black Palace at Georgetown. Then he shrugged. Even if the marshal or the king did get wind of his sentiments, he’d probably escape without anything worse than teasing. What Detinan didn’t think he could do almost anything? What Detinan didn’t resent having superiors looking over his shoulder? George had the job here. He intended to take care of it.