“Yes, well, I’m sure you’re welcome,” Albertus the Great said. He scrambled aboard his ass as if he’d never mounted it before and rode off down the road.
By the time Colonel Nahath’s regiment made camp, Rollant felt about ready to drop. His men had a hells of a time starting fires, even though the rain had eased off by then. Wet fuel and wet tinder made things difficult. At last, the squad got a couple of smoky blazes going. “Wish we had a mage along now,” Rollant grumbled. “He’d have set us up in a hurry.”
“Either that or he’d have burned down half the gods-damned province trying,” Smitty said. Rollant nodded. Mages could bungle things, sure enough, and often did.
He sat down on the wet ground. His tunic and pantaloons were already soaked; a little more water made no difference. To his surprise, the trooper named Gleb sat down next to him. Gleb’s face still showed the marks of their fight. He supposed his own did, too. Did Gleb want another try? If he did, Rollant was ready to give him one.
But all Gleb said was, “Ask you something, Corporal?”
“You can ask,” Rollant said roughly. “I don’t promise to answer.”
Gleb nodded. “All right. That’s fair enough.” He still hesitated. Rollant gestured impatiently, as if to say, Come on. Words spurted from Gleb in a rush: “How was it you were able to lick me when we tangled?”
To Rollant, the answer to that was plain as the sun in the sky. “How? I didn’t dare lose, that’s how.”
By Gleb’s frown, that made less sense to him than it did to Rollant. Of course, he’d never been a blond. He proved that by continuing, “But how could you beat me? I mean, you’re, uh, not a proper Detinan, and I am.”
As patiently as he could, Rollant said, “You’ve seen me fight the traitors, haven’t you?”
Gleb nodded again. “Well, yes.”
“I did that all right, didn’t I?” Rollant asked. Gleb nodded once more. In some exasperation, Rollant said, “Those bastards are Detinans, aren’t they? If I can fight them, why the hells can’t I fight you?”
“I don’t know.” Gleb’s broad shoulders went up and down in a shrug. “They’re the enemy. You’re supposed to fight them.”
Rollant tapped the stripes on his sleeve. “You know I almost had to get myself killed before they’d put these on me, don’t you?” This time, Gleb’s nod came much more slowly. Rollant persisted: “And you know why, too, don’t you? On account of I’m a blond, that’s why. You know all about that.”
The trooper muttered something. Rollant couldn’t make out what it was. Just as well, he thought. Then Gleb said, “It wasn’t like I thought it would be.”
“I’m trying to tell you why, gods damn it,” Rollant snapped. “I had to work so hard to get these stripes, I don’t want to lose them. If you licked me, I likely would’ve lost them. And so you would have had to kill me to make me quit. Is that plain enough for you?”
“Oh,” Gleb said. Maybe he got it. Maybe he didn’t. Rollant didn’t much care one way or the other. As long as the Detinan took his orders and gave him no trouble, what Gleb thought didn’t matter to him.
He wondered how much Gleb actually did think. Not much, unless he missed his guess. That didn’t matter, either, not unless his stupidity endangered the men around him-or it led him to something like picking a fight with a corporal who also happened to be a blond.
But I don’t happen to be a blond, Rollant thought. I am a blond. I happen to be a corporal. That’s how Detinans see it, anyway.
How Detinans saw it, though, didn’t matter so much to him, not any more. Regardless of how even Detinans in King Avram’s army with him looked at the world and at him, certain facts no one could deny. Here he sat, wet and miserable, in the middle of an invading army in the middle of Peachtree Province. He wore a gray tunic and pantaloons like everybody else’s. He got paid like everybody else, too. And that he’d come here with weapons to hand, ready to kill any Detinans who didn’t agree with his comrades and him, went a long way toward proving how much had changed since he was first grudgingly allowed to fight.
After the war, everybody’s likely to try to forget blonds did some of the fighting for King Avram, he thought. That’s the sort of thing ordinary Detinans won’t want to remember. They can go back to thinking we’re “just blonds” if they forget. Well, we can’t let that happen.
“Gleb,” he said, “looks like we’re a little short on firewood. Chop some more.” He waited to see what the soldier would do.
“All right, Corporal,” Gleb replied, and went off to obey the order. Slowly, Rollant nodded to himself. Sure as hells, some things had changed.
XII
“What the hells is Bell playing at?” General Hesmucet demanded, going over the reports the scouts brought in about the Army of Franklin’s movements. “If he keeps going in this direction, he’ll be all the way down to Caesar by the time he’s through. That’s where this campaign started, near enough.”
Doubting George perched on a stool in the farmhouse Hesmucet was using for a headquarters. Hesmucet wondered how many farmhouses he’d used for temporary headquarters since the war began. He couldn’t have guessed, not even to the nearest dozen. When the war finally ended, if it ever did, he intended to stay away from farmhouses from then on.
George said, “One thing Bell’s doing: he’s making you dance to his tune instead of the other way round. You imposed your will on Joseph the Gamecock. You haven’t done that with Bell-if you leave Marthasville out of the bargain, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” Hesmucet said dryly. “No one would want to talk about Marthasville at all. Bell didn’t care one way or the other what the devils happened to it.”
“That’s not what I meant, sir, or not exactly,” Doubting George said.
Whatever he’d meant, he had a point, or at least a good part of one. As long as the southrons kept chasing Lieutenant General Bell and the Army of Franklin all over southern Peachtree Province, Hesmucet couldn’t do what he really wanted to: make the north regret ever starting a war against King Avram. If I can march to theWesternOcean, that will prove Geoffrey’s king over nothing but air and brags, he thought. I can do it. I know I can.
He sighed. “Turning into a hero would be a lot easier if the bastards on the other side cooperated a little more.”
“I’m sure you’re right, sir,” Doubting George replied. “One thing, though: I’m reasonably sure they feel the same way about you.”
“That’s something,” Hesmucet agreed. “It’s less than I’d like, but you’re right: it is something.”
After his second-in-command left, he summoned Major Alva and asked him, “Can you divine what Bell has in mind trying next?”
“I can do my best,” the bright young mage said. “How good my best will prove depends on how well Bell is warded and how firm his plans are in his own mind. If he doesn’t know what he’s going to do, I can’t very well pick it out of his brain, now can I?… Uh, sir.”
“What brain?” Hesmucet said scornfully. “The next sign of having one in actual working order that Bell shows will be the first.”
Major Alva smiled. “That’s funny, sir. I like it. I like it a lot.”
“Glad to amuse you,” Hesmucet told him. “Now, can you manage this wizardry?”
“As I say, sir, I can certainly try the requisite spells,” Alva replied. “I don’t know how much I’ll learn from them till I do.”
“Get on with it, then,” Hesmucet said. “Report back to me after whatever happens, happens.”
“Yes, sir.” Alva saluted and hurried away.
Only after the mage had gone did Hesmucet realize he hadn’t had to correct him on military deportment even once. Little by little, Alva was learning. If he kept learning, he might eventually turn into a civilized human being, and perhaps even into a tolerable soldier. Hesmucet wouldn’t have imagined either one of those as the remotest possibility a few months before.