After reading it, Roast-Beef William nodded. “I was afraid this might be coming, sir. The king will know of it?”

“Oh, yes,” Count Thraxton said bitterly. “The king will indeed know of it. He has appointed Joseph the Gamecock as my successor in command here.”

“Well, that’s good. That’s very good,” William said, which was the last thing Thraxton wanted to hear. “He’ll make a first-rate leader, so he will.”

“May you prove correct,” Thraxton replied, in tones suggesting he thought the other officer was several slices short of a loaf.

If Roast-Beef William noticed that tone, he didn’t let it anger him. Thraxton had had a hard time making him angry, and didn’t know whether to admire or despise him for it. Roast-Beef William just went on with his own glideway of thought: “Yes, I do think Joseph the Gamecock will be just what we need. We won’t be doing much in the way of attacking for a while-that’s as plain as the nose on my face. And there’s nobody better than Joseph the Gamecock at standing on the defensive, nobody in the whole wide world.”

“Is that a fact?” Thraxton said coldly. In his own judgment, he was a matchless defensive fighter. He thought himself perfectly objective about it, too.

But Roast-Beef William soberly nodded. “Yes, sir, I think it is,” he answered. “Remember when he was defending Nonesuch against the southrons after they came up the Henry River at him? He didn’t even have half the men they did, but he held ’em off. He had people playacting, by the gods, marching men back and forth so they’d look like four brigades instead of just one.”

“Folderol,” Thraxton said. “Claptrap.”

“Maybe so, but it worked,” Roast-Beef William said. “When you get right down to it, that’s the only thing that matters, isn’t it?”

Was he deliberately rubbing salt in Thraxton’s wounds? Had William been any of several other officers, Thraxton would have been sure of it. With William, though, even his suspicious nature hesitated before laying blame. “May there be victory for us here,” Thraxton choked out at last.

“Gods grant it be so.” Roast-Beef William cocked his head to one side, as if remembering what he should have thought of long before. “And what will you be doing now, sir?”

“King Geoffrey has summoned me to Nonesuch, to advise him on matters military,” Thraxton replied.

“That’s good. That’s very good.” Roast-Beef William chuckled. “Keep you out of mischief, eh?”

Again, Thraxton couldn’t decide if that was a cut or merely a witticism in questionable-very questionable-taste. Again, he reluctantly gave William the benefit of the doubt, where he wouldn’t have for most of the men under his command. William had fought hard and stayed sober. And so Thraxton said, “Heh”-all the laughter he had in him.

“Well, good luck to you, sir,” William said. “I’m sure you mean well.” He went on his way: a sunny man who was sure that everyone meant well. Thraxton was just as sure he labored under a delusion, but what point to tell a blockhead that he was a blockhead? Off Roast-Beef William went, as ready to put his optimism at Joseph the Gamecock’s service as he had been to offer it to Thraxton.

Off Count Thraxton went, too, off toward the glideway port. “N-no, sir,” a startled clerk said when he arrived. “We haven’t got any carpets departing for Nonesuch today.”

“Procure one,” Thraxton said coldly. The clerk gaped. Thraxton glared. “You know who I am. You know I have the authority to give such an order. And you had better know what will happen to you if you fail to obey it. Do you?”

“Y-yes, sir,” the clerk said. “If-if you’ll excuse me, sir.” He fled.

Thraxton waited with such patience as was in him: not much. Presently, the clerk’s superior came up to him. “You need a special carpet laid on?”

“I do,” Thraxton replied.

“And it’ll take you away and you won’t come back?” the glideway official persisted.

“That is correct,” Thraxton said. Gods damn you, he added to himself.

“Well, I reckon we can take care of you, in that case,” the glideway man said. Thraxton nodded, pleased at being accommodated. Only a moment later did he realize this fellow hadn’t paid him a compliment. To make sure he remained in no doubt whatsoever, the wretch went on, “Maybe they’ll bring in somebody who knows what the hells he’s doing.” He smiled unpleasantly at Thraxton. “And if you try cursing me, your high and mighty Grace, I promise you’ll never see a glideway carpet out of Borders.”

Sure enough, that threat did keep Thraxton from doing what he most wanted to do. No, that wasn’t true: what he most wanted to do right now was escape the Army of Franklin, escape his humiliation, escape his own mistakes, escape himself. And, as the glideway carpet silently and smoothly took him off toward Nonesuch, he managed every one of those escapes… except, of course, the very last.

A runner came up to Lieutenant General Hesmucet in the streets of Rising Rock, saluted, and waited to be noticed while Hesmucet chatted with Alva the mage. Hesmucet could hardly have helped noticing him; he was a big, burly fellow who looked better suited to driving messengers away than to being one. “Yes? What is it?” Hesmucet said.

Saluting again, the runner said, “General Bart’s compliments, sir, and he desires that you attend him at his headquarters at your earliest convenience.”

“When a superior says that, he means right this minute,” Hesmucet said. The runner nodded. Hesmucet turned to Alva. “You must excuse me. There’s one man in this part of the kingdom who can give me orders, and he’s just gone and done it.”

“Of course, sir,” the wizard replied. “I hope the news is good, whatever it may be.”

“Gods grant it be so,” Hesmucet said. Alva smiled a peculiar, rather tight, smile. Hesmucet was almost all the way back to the hostel that had headquartered first Count Thraxton, then General Guildenstern, and now General Bart before he remembered the bright young mage’s remarks about how small a role he thought the gods played in ordinary human affairs. When he did recall it, he wished he hadn’t. He wanted to think the gods were on his side.

Bart sat drinking tea in his room. “Good morning, Lieutenant General,” he said. With him sat Doubting George, who nodded politely.

Hesmucet saluted Bart. “Good morning, sir.” He nodded to George. “Your Excellency.” Hesmucet wasn’t an Excellency himself. If he succeeded in the war, he might become one.

“My news is very simple,” Bart said. “King Avram is summoning me to Georgetown and to the Black Palace, as he said he might. He also told me he intends to name me Marshal of Detina when I arrive there.”

Hesmucet whistled softly. “Congratulations, sir. Congratulations from the bottom of my heart. It’s been-what?-eighty years or so since the kingdom last had a marshal. If any man deserves the job, you’re the one.”

“For which I thank you kindly,” Bart replied. He, Hesmucet, and doubtless Doubting George, as well, understood why Detina so seldom had a soldier of such exalted rank. A man supreme over all the kingdom’s soldiers might easily aspire to the throne himself, and kings knew that. Bart went on, “I intend to deserve the trust Avram is showing me.”

“Of course, sir,” Hesmucet said-what else could he possibly say?

“No one could be reckoned more reliable than General Bart,” George said. He was no particular friend of Bart’s, but he didn’t seem jealous that Bart had ascended to this peak of soldierly distinction. That took considerable character.

“When I become marshal,” Bart went on, “I expect I’m going to have to stay in the west. If the king in his wisdom decides we need a marshal, he’ll want that man to concentrate on trying to whip Duke Edward of Arlington and going after Nonesuch. If you’re in Georgetown, if you’re living in the Black Palace, that will seem the most important thing in the world.”