“Not very, not as far as I can see,” George answered. “But Bart’s right-it could happen. Now he’ll have somebody in place to make sure Duke Edward doesn’t get far if he tries it.”
“Yes, sir. So he will.” Andy didn’t seem delighted at the prospect. “And isn’t that a wonderful use for the army that broke the traitors’ backs out here? Just a wonderful fornicating use.”
“He is the Marshal of Detina. He can give the orders. He has given them, as a matter of fact. We need to obey them. You’ll want to draw up plans to shift us to the western part of the province-glideway lines, supply dumps, and such.”
“Oh, I have them,” Andy said. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
Doubting George stared. “You… have them? Even to Wesleyton?”
“Yes, sir.” Andy nodded. “That’s what an adjutant is for: making plans, I mean. Most of them end up in the trash. That’s how things work, too. But one will come in handy every now and again. Excuse me, please-I’ll start things gliding.” He saluted and hurried off.
Behind him, Doubting George started to laugh. Now I know what an adjutant does, he thought. And if only someone would tell me what a commanding general is for…
Here in the west, the war looked and felt different. That was John the Lister’s first thought when his wing moved through Georgetown on the way to the coast of Croatoan and a rendezvous with General Hesmucet’s hard-driving army. Things seemed cramped here, without the room to maneuver that had marked the fighting in the east.
Georgetown itself appeared confident the war was won. Engineers had been fortifying the capital of Detina ever since the War Between the Provinces broke out. Castles and earthworks and trenches littered the landscape for miles around the heart of the city. If the Army of Southern Parthenia had ever come this far, it would have had to fight its way through all of them to get to the Black Palace.
When that thought crossed John’s mind, he suddenly remembered that a detachment from the Army of Southern Parthenia had tapped at those fortifications only the summer before, till forces detached from Marshal Bart’s army pushed them back. What a difference a bit more than half a year made! Now Jubal the Late’s detachment was smashed, the valley he’d guarded so long a smoking ruin that could no longer feed Duke Edward’s men, and the Army of Southern Parthenia penned up and hungry in Pierreville. That army would see southern Parthenia no more, nor Georgetown, either.
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.