He left the building where the scryers kept their crystals. As soon as he walked out onto the streets of Ramblerton, he flipped up his collar and stuck his hands in his pockets to protect them and his neck from the chilly wind blowing up from the south. He came from Parthenia himself, and had no use for the nasty weather that made winter so unpleasant through much of King Avram’s realm.
Sentries came to attention and saluted when he returned to his headquarters. “Fetch me Major Alva, if you’d be so kind,” he told one of them, adding, “and don’t let him dawdle on the way any more than you can help.”
“Yes, sir.” The sentry saluted again and hurried off, crossbow slung on his shoulder, quiver full of bolts hanging at his hip next to his shortsword.
Alva arrived soon enough to keep Doubting George from getting too annoyed at him. He even remembered to salute, which warmed the cockles of the commanding general’s heart. And when he said, “What can I do for you?” he tacked on, “Sir?” with a hesitation even George, who was looking for it, had trouble noticing.
“You can go to Poor Richard,” George told him. “At once. Go pack. Be on the next northbound glideway caravan.”
Major Alva gaped. “I beg your pardon?”
“Why? Did you fart?” Doubting George asked. Major Alva’s jaw dropped. George ignored the histrionics. He went on, “I gave you an order. Please obey it, without fuss and without wasting time.”
“Uh, yes, sir,” Alva said dazedly. “But why?” The expression on his face said, What did I do to deserve this?
“You’re not in trouble. It’s even a compliment, if you like,” George said. “John the Lister asked for you by name.” That wasn’t quite true, since John hadn’t remembered Alva’s name, but it came close enough. “He’s having some difficulties with Lieutenant General Bell and his wizards, and he wanted a good mage on his side to make sure things don’t go any wronger than they have already.”
“Oh,” Alva said, still a trifle stunned. “All right. I’ll go.”
“How generous of you,” Doubting George said.
Alva needed a moment to notice the lurking sarcasm. When he did, his flush was unmistakable despite his swarthy skin. “I said I’d go,” he muttered, voice petulant.
“You don’t need to make it sound as if you deserve a decoration for doing what I tell you to do,” George said. “I hope you do well enough to deserve a decoration.” He paused, then shook his head. “No, I take that back.”
“You hope I don’t do well enough to deserve a decoration?” Alva asked. “Why?”
“I hope you don’t need to do well enough to deserve a decoration,” George answered. “I hope everything is simple and easy, and the traitors don’t do a single thing to cause you any trouble. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“That would be lovely,” the mage said in hollow tones. “That would be splendid. But I doubt it’s going to happen. Don’t you?”
“Me? Doubt? What a ridiculous notion,” Doubting George said. “Why, I’m as full of positive thoughts as the inside of a daffodil is full of crossbow quarrels.”
“Er, yes… sir.” Major Alva looked like a man who wanted to leave. Rapidly. After a moment of very obvious thought, he found an excuse: “If I want to be on the next glideway carpet, I’d better get ready. May I be excused, sir?”
“Oh, yes. You’re dismissed,” the commanding general said. Alva had to remember to salute. He hurried out of the headquarters. Doubting George threw back his head and laughed. He’d put the fear of the gods into Alva, or at least done a good job of confusing him, which would serve every bit as well.
Now if I could only assemble an army that easily, he thought. Getting men to come to Ramblerton so they could actually do some fighting got harder by the day. News that General Bell had invaded Franklin should have made men rush together to defend their kingdom. Instead, it had made each little garrison want to stay exactly where it was, so it could defend its own little town or fortress.
If Bell wasn’t altogether a fool-not the most obvious proposition George had ever thought of-he wouldn’t want to fight at every little town and fortress. He’d bypass whatever he could so he could move south into Cloviston and head for the Highlow River, where he could do King Geoffrey some good and embarrass and perhaps even hurt King Avram. That seemed obvious to George. To his subordinates? No.
But Bell couldn’t ignore a big army on his flank-or at least he would be a fool if he did. Maybe he would try to ignore it-Bell was the sort who would try to ignore whatever he could if ignoring it meant he could go after something else. George hoped Bell would ignore southron soldiers on his flank. That would make life easy for him personally, and for King Avram and the south in general.
Meanwhile, he still had an army to build up… if he could, if his own officers, men who were supposed to obey his commands, would let him. They were convinced they knew what was best for them, best for their own little forces. They didn’t think about or didn’t care what was best for the kingdom. If somebody tried to point out what was best for Detina as a whole, they didn’t want to listen.
Colonel Andy came in and saluted. “What did you do to poor little Alva?” George’s adjutant asked.
“Poor little Alva? I doubt that,” Doubting George said. “After the war ends, he can get about as rich as he cares to. What did I do? I sent him up to Poor Richard, to give John the Lister a hand.”
“Oh. That explains the kicked-puppy look I saw on his face,” Andy said. “He has to pack his carpetbag and go somewhere else, and nobody will take care of him while he’s traveling.”
“He’s not all that helpless,” George said. “Gods know I’ve seen mages who were a hells of a lot worse.”
“I know,” Andy said. “But he thinks he’s helpless when he has to deal with the ordinary world, and so he acts that way, which also gives him the chance to annoy everybody around him.”
“My, you’re sour today,” George remarked. “Feel like insulting anyone else while you’re here, or can I have a turn?”
“Go right ahead, sir. You’re the commanding general, after all,” Andy replied. “Rank hath its privileges.”
Doubting George snorted and held his nose. “Rank is mostly just… rank. Look at what dear General Hesmucet left me, if you don’t believe that. Some people had to make bricks without straw. I get to make bricks without clay. There’s good reason most of these odds and sods in Franklin and Cloviston were garrison soldiers. The more I see it, the plainer it is, too: they aren’t worth a counterfeit copper in a real fight.”
“And you blame Hesmucet for that?” Andy asked.
“Of course I do. You don’t expect me to blame myself, do you? Not fornicating likely. Besides, Hesmucet’s marching through Peachtree, and he’s up against nothing but the same kind of odds and sods, except in blue uniforms. He’ll whale the living stuffing out of them, and he’ll be a big hero. Meanwhile, I’m still fighting against a real army. Do you think I’ll let him get away without a few insults flying around his ears? That’s likely the worst opposition he’ll see.”
“You don’t like him very well, do you?”
“He’s a brave soldier. He’s a good general. I wish I were doing what he really is. I’d get to be a famous hero, too. The way things are, I’ve got a hard, ugly job to do, and nobody gets famous taking care of those.” Doubting George sighed. “That doesn’t mean they don’t need doing, though.”
Corporal Rollant looked toward the Trumpeteth River, which lay between John the Lister’s army and safety in Poor Richard. He’d crossed the river coming north, on his way to Summer Mountain. At the ford, it hadn’t come up past his waist. He’d taken off his pantaloons, got the bottom of his shirt wet, and gone on about his business. Things wouldn’t be so easy heading south.