The sun beat down on him. He took off his hat and fanned himself with it, doing his best to fight the muggy summer heat of Peachtree Province. He’d always thought Parthenia had vile summer weather-and, as a matter of fact, it did. But Peachtree Province was worse.
What there was of the breeze came out of the west. When George inhaled, he wrinkled his nose. He knew what that stench came from: unburned southron bodies, still lying in front of the works on Commissioner Mountain they hadn’t been able to take. “If the enemy won’t make them a pyre,” he said, “the least they could do would be to get them under the ground.”
“Bury them, the way the blonds used to do with their dead before we taught ’em better?” Colonel Andy’s lip curled with distaste. “I don’t know about that, sir. Do you really think the gods would accept it?”
“Better than leaving dead men on the field to bloat and stink, wouldn’t you say?” Doubting George asked.
Again, his adjutant remained unconvinced. “Burying’s unnatural. Fire purifies the soul.”
“I-” George stopped and coughed. If he said he doubted that, he would find himself in a theological argument with Andy. He had neither the time nor the energy for any such thing. Besides, in the general run of things, he didn’t doubt it. If he fell in battle, he wanted to be burned. But even burial struck him as preferable to being ignored by everyone save the carrion birds.
Andy looked toward the south. “Here comes General Hesmucet, sir.”
Hesmucet reined his unicorn to a halt. As Doubting George stiffened to attention, he reflected that the general commanding rode more like a tradesman than a noble. Then he laughed at himself again. That was true, but it would have counted against Hesmucet much more heavily in the blood-conscious north than in the south, where what a man could do mattered more than who his grandfather was. This is the side you chose, George thought. Make the best of it.
After descending from the unicorn and tying it to a tree, Hesmucet said, “If the weather holds, we’ll be able to do some more against the bastards.”
“That’s true, sir,” George agreed. “Do we have a bridgehead on the west bank of Snouts Stream? I’ve heard it, but I want to make sure it’s so before I go out and celebrate.”
“It’s so,” Hesmucet answered. “Now we have to figure out how to make the most of it-and how to keep the traitors from wrecking it before we can.”
“The more we press them, the likelier they are to break,” George observed. “If we can slip some unicorn-riders over to the far side of that stream and turn them loose, that might give Joseph something new to think about.”
“Well, so it might,” the commanding general allowed. He called for a runner, then told him, “Fetch Marble Bill here. If we’re going to talk about unicorn-riders, we might as well have their commander listening.”
He probably would have come up with that for himself, Doubting George thought. He’s a solid general. No matter how he tried to hide it, even from himself, not being in command hurt.
Brigadier William-more commonly Marble Bill, because of a pale complexion and a nearly expressionless face-was not a brilliant commander of unicorn-riders. The traitors had a couple of those: Jeb the Beauty, who served Duke Edward of Arlington so well in Parthenia, and grim Ned of the Forest here in the east. But Marble Bill was a competent commander of unicorn-riders. After some of the unfortunate officers who’d led southron unicorns into battle, competence was not to be despised.
Hesmucet said, “Doubting George here had himself a notion.” He didn’t try to take credit for it himself, as a lot of high-ranking officers might have done. After spelling it out for Marble Bill, he asked, “What do you think? Can we do it?”
“I don’t know for certain.” The brigadier’s voice gave away no more than his face did. After a moment, he went on, “Finding out might be worthwhile, though. I probably ought to take my riders across Snouts Stream by night, to keep the enemy from knowing they’re there till they start moving.”
Definitely competent, George thought. Hesmucet said, “I’ll have Major Alva lay down a confusion spell for you, if you like.”
To George’s surprise, Marble Bill shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said. “The traitors will be looking for magecraft, I expect. Even if they can’t pierce it, knowing it’s there will put them on the alert.”
Very definitely competent, Doubting George thought. He asked, “Can you move a couple of regiments over tonight?”
“Yes, sir,” was all Marble Bill said in reply to that. A lot of officers-both General Guildenstern and Fighting Joseph leaped into George’s mind-were given to boasting and bluster. Hearing one give a simple, matter-of-fact answer was refreshing. As if thinking of Fighting Joseph were enough to conjure him up, he strolled over and nodded casually to Hesmucet and George in turn.
“Then do it,” Hesmucet said with the air of a man coming to a decision. He turned to George and to Fighting Joseph. “I’ll want more soldiers from both of you to help build up the bridgehead.”
“You’ll have them,” George said, imitating Marble Bill’s brevity.
Fighting Joseph, by contrast, struck a pose. “My brave men are always at your service, sir, and at the service of the kingdom,” he declared.
He meant it. George was sure he meant it. As far as Fighting Joseph was concerned, he selflessly served Detina. As far as any outsider was concerned, Fighting Joseph worried first about himself, and grabbing more power and glory for himself, and about everything else afterwards… long afterwards. It seemed painfully obvious to everyone who served with him and tried to command him.
“I’m so glad to hear it,” Hesmucet replied now.
“Tell me what to do, and I shall do it.” Fighting Joseph struck another pose. George fought down a strong urge to retch.
“All right,” Hesmucet said. “This is what you’ll do, then-you’ll move in support of Lieutenant General George’s men and-”
“You want me to do what?” Fighting Joseph demanded indignantly. His ruddy face got ruddier, till it almost reached the high color of Roast-Beef William’s. “You want me to move in subordination to another wing commander?”
“Lieutenant General George has more men, and more men in the vicinity, than you do.” Hesmucet spoke in reasonable tones. “To me, that means he should be the one with the main responsibility and you the one with the secondary responsibility.”
Fighting Joseph rolled his eyes up to the heavens. “By the Thunderer’s shaggy beard, how many more such insults must I endure?”
“I don’t see that you’ve endured any,” George told him. “If our positions were reversed, I’d certainly subordinate myself to you.”
“No one understands me,” Fighting Joseph groaned, as if he were an avant-garde artist-or perhaps a six-year-old in a temper. He stormed away from his fellow generals. George wondered if spanking his backside would do any good. Unfortunately, he had his doubts.
General Hesmucet sighed. “He is brave,” he said, and he might have been reminding himself as well as the officers with him. “He is brave,” he repeated, “but he’s also gods-damned difficult. One of these days…” He kicked up some dirt with his right boot, as if kicking the obstreperous Joseph out of the army.
But, as Doubting George knew, Hesmucet couldn’t simply dismiss Fighting Joseph. Joseph’s seniority entitled him to high rank somewhere: if not here, then somewhere farther west. Hesmucet might not want him here, but King Avram didn’t want him anywhere closer to Georgetown. In that contest, Hesmucet was bound to lose.
The general commanding sighed again. “You gentlemen know what I want from you now. George, if Fighting Joseph positively disobeys my command, I want to hear about it.”
“Yes, sir,” George said. If Fighting Joseph gave Hesmucet enough spikes to crucify him, the general commanding would, no doubt, shed nary a tear. George himself wasn’t enamored of working alongside Fighting Joseph, and wouldn’t have been brokenhearted to see him go, either.