“Yes, sir. I understand that, sir,” the division commander said carefully. “But with Lieutenant General George well east of us and with Brigadier Thom so far off to the west, Thraxton might be able to, to hurt one of our wings before the others could come to its rescue.”
Thraxton might be able to smash one of our wings. That was what Alexander had intended to say. You can’t fool me, Guildenstern thought. I know what you meant, you mealy-mouthed son of a bitch. Even with brandy (not enough brandy, gods damn it) coursing through him, Guildenstern had no trouble seeing through his subordinate’s deceptions.
But had he somehow failed to see through one of Thraxton the Braggart’s deceptions? The trouble was, Brigadier Alexander, however mealy-mouthed he might be, had a point. If Thraxton was lingering in southern Peachtree Province, he might indeed handle one of King Avram’s isolated forces very roughly before the other divisions could get to it.
Guildenstern’s mouth twisted into a thin, bitter line. As if every word tasted bad-and every word did taste bad, as far as he was concerned-he said, “Maybe-just maybe-there is something to what you say. Maybe we ought to bring the wings of the army closer together.”
Brigadier Alexander’s face lit up. “Sir, I think that would be a wonderful idea!” he exclaimed, as if he expected to see Ned of the Forest’s unicorns rampaging through the division he commanded any minute now. “If we’re all together, the Braggart would have to come up with reinforcements before he could even think about attacking us, and where can he find them?”
“He can’t.” General Guildenstern spoke with great certainty. “There aren’t any in this part of the kingdom.”
“I’m sure you’re right, sir,” Alexander said. “And so-a united army for a united kingdom, eh?” He chuckled stagily. “King Avram would surely approve.”
“Yes.” Guildenstern had no trouble holding the enthusiasm from his voice. He didn’t particularly love King Avram. But he thoroughly despised Grand Duke Geoffrey-false King Geoffrey, these days. And he even more thoroughly despised the northern nobles who backed Geoffrey. They had everything he wanted-rank, wealth, elegance. No… They had almost everything he wanted. He turned to Brigadier Alexander and coughed a significant cough. “By the gods, I’m thirsty.”
“Here, sir.” Alexander took the bottle off his belt and handed it to the general.
“Thanks.” Guildenstern yanked out the stopper, took a long pull-and then spat in disgust. He all but threw the flask to the brigadier. “You’ve got your nerve, giving a thirsty man water.”
Alexander blushed bright red, as if he were a blond. “I-I’m sorry, sir,” he stammered. “I-I’m not fond of spirituous liquors myself, and so it never occurred to me that-”
“Dunderhead,” Guildenstern growled. The commanding general turned his back on his luckless subordinate and stalked off toward the scryers’ tent. Brigadier Alexander took a couple of steps after him, then broke off the pursuit, sure it would do no good. And in that, if in nothing else, Guildenstern thought, the brigadier was absolutely right.
I wonder if the scryers will have anything worth drinking, Guildenstern thought as he ducked through the tent flap. He doubted it. And even if they did, odds were they wouldn’t share with him.
The bright young men sitting behind their crystal balls sprang to attention when the commanding general walked in. One of them sprang so enthusiastically, he knocked over his folding chair and then had to bend and fumble to pick it up. “What can we do for you, sir?” asked Major Carmoni, who headed the scryers’ section.
“I need to send some messages,” Guildenstern answered. “What did you think I came in for, roast pork?”
Several of the bright young men snickered. Major Carmoni said, “Yes, sir: I understand you need to send messages. To whom, sir, and what do you need to say?”
That was business. So Guildenstern took it, at any rate. He was too elevated by brandy to suppose it might be scorn. “Send one to Doubting George,” he answered, “ordering him to move toward me. And send the other to Brigadier Thom, also ordering him to move toward me. We shall concentrate our forces.” He spoke the long word in the last sentence with great care.
“Yes, sir.” Carmoni turned to the scryers. “Esrom, your crystal ball’s attuned to the ones in Lieutenant General George’s wing. And you, Edoc, you can deliver the message to Brigadier Thom’s wing.”
Both scryers nodded. One of them (Esrom? Edoc? the commanding general neither knew nor cared) turned to Guildenstern and murmured, “By your leave, sir.” He nodded. The scryers sat down and bent over their crystals. They muttered in low voices. First one crystal began to glow, then the other. The scryers passed on General Guildenstern’s orders. He heard those orders acknowledged. As the scryers looked up from the crystals, the glass globes went dull and dark again.
“It is accomplished, sir,” Major Carmoni said.
“It had bloody well better be,” Guildenstern said. “I wouldn’t put it past George to pretend he’d never got the order so he could go on after Thraxton the Braggart all by his lonesome. He’s a glory-sniffer, if you ask me.” Off he went, not quite realizing how much juicy gossip he’d just left in his wake.
He still remained imperfectly convinced that the northern traitors really were loitering here by the southern border of Peachtree Province. He wouldn’t have done it himself, which made it harder for him to believe Count Thraxton would. And the column in which he advanced, the column led by Brigadier Alexander, hadn’t been assailed the way Doubting George had-the way Doubting George said he had, at any rate. Oh, a few bushwhackers had shot crossbows at the men in gray from the underbrush, but that happened marching along any road in any northern province.
Musing this, he glumly tramped back to his own pavilion. His stride grew glummer still when he bethought himself that no one soft and young and round and friendly was waiting for him in the pavilion. He sighed and scowled and kicked at the dirt. By all the gods, I should have brought that wench with me when we marched out of Rising Rock, he thought. I expected to be heading up toward Stamboul by now. Bound to be plenty of women once I get into settled country-plenty of serfs who want to be nice to King Avram’s general. But there aren’t any at all in this wilderness.
If he couldn’t have a woman, more brandy needs must do. He didn’t know where to get his hands on a woman, but brandy-or something else just as potent, such as the amber spirits for which Franklin was famous-was never hard to come by, not in any army on either side of this civil war.
Just before General Guildenstern went into his pavilion, shouts rose from the mages’ tents not far away: “Sorcery! Magecraft! Wizardry!” The men started rushing about in the gray robes that always made them look-to Guildenstern, at least-as if they’d just come from the baths. They would run from one tent and then into another, calling out all the while.
Guildenstern’s lip curled. Mages were always running around yelling about magic, whether it was there or not. Guildenstern couldn’t sense it, which made him doubt it was there. He wanted to see mages running around yelling about cauliflowers. He rumbled laughter. With cauliflowers, at least, an ordinary human being would have some hope of telling whether or not the mages were flabbling over nothing.
Sentries saluted as Guildenstern came up to the pavilion. “Cauliflowers,” he muttered. Their eyebrows rose. But they didn’t ask questions. Asking questions wasn’t their job. Into the pavilion he strode. Sure enough, he had no trouble coming up with a bottle of brandy from which he could restore his sadly depleted flask-and from which he could restore his sadly depleted self.