Then George shrugged. He would have been happier with his mages if they’d shown better at the little skirmish by the stone fence. He would have been happier with them if they’d shown better at any number of fights in two and a half years of war.

They are trying, he thought. Yes, they’re very trying. The sardonic second thought followed the charitable first as naturally as night followed day.

He could hear them chanting, there in Albertus’ tent. They had fine, resonant voices. He wondered what, if anything, that had to do with the price of brandy. Maybe better music made for better magecraft. He could hope so, at any rate. He’d hoped for all sorts of things from mages, and been disappointed more often than he cared to recall.

All at once, the chanting stopped. The ground shook beneath Doubting George’s feet, as if a troop of unicorns were trotting by not far away. Mages started spilling out of Albertus’ tent. By the way they fled, by their cries of horror and expressions of dismay, the shaking had been worse, a great deal worse, in there. George hadn’t thought there were so many synonyms for earthquake, or so many lewd adjectives that would cling to the term.

Colonel Albertus the Great was the last man out of the tent. George gave him some credit for that, as he would have given the captain of a sinking quinquereme some credit for being the last man off his stricken vessel. “What happened?” George called.

Colonel Albertus’ eyes were wild. So was his beard; instead of doing as he wanted, it stuck out in all directions. He staggered over to Doubting George and managed a sort of a salute. “Sir,” he said, “if you want to find out what’s on the other side of those masking spells, you’re just going to have to do it with soldiers. I’m sorry, but I must report myself… not quite fit for duty.”

He swayed and toppled. As George caught him, the general reflected that he’d got information from the mage-if only he knew what to do with it.

“Well, where are the stinking sons of bitches?” Captain Ormerod demanded. “By the gods, I’m sick of tramping through these endless woods for southrons who might as well be down in New Eborac for all we’ve seen of them.”

“Beats me,” Colonel Florizel replied. The regimental commander didn’t mind complaints, not when he was none too happy about tramping through these pine woods himself. “As far as I’m concerned, if they didn’t know exactly where the enemy was, they should have used mages or bloodhounds to find him, not soldiers. We’ve got better things to do.”

“Or Ned of the Forest’s unicorn-riders,” Ormerod said. “Ned’s a serfcatcher, or he was. He ought to be able to find out where the southrons are skulking if anyone can.”

“Everything started boiling after Count Thraxton paid a visit to Leonidas,” Lieutenant Gremio said. “My guess is, Thraxton wanted Leonidas to do more, and so Leonidas started flailing around every which way.”

“Leonidas the Priest is a very holy man,” Florizel said reprovingly. “The gods love him.”

“They must,” Gremio said. “Otherwise, how could such a dunderhead have become a general in the first place?”

“Now, Lieutenant,” Ormerod said, deliciously scandalized. “Do have a care what you say. Isn’t that libel?”

“Of course not,” Gremio replied with a barrister’s certainty. “Slander, yes. Libel, no. I wouldn’t waste time libeling Leonidas, anyhow-except for hymn books, there’s no proof he can read.”

Something buggy bit Ormerod. He swatted at it. Whatever it was, Gremio had proved he owned a sharper tongue than it did.

Sergeant Tybalt came out from behind a tree. He was buttoning his fly, which gave more than a hint of why he’d gone back there in the first place. Seeing Ormerod, he asked, “Sir, even if we do find the stinking southrons in this miserable country, how in the names of all the gods are we supposed to fight them hereabouts?”

“As best we can, Sergeant,” Ormerod answered. “As best we can.”

Tybalt looked dissatisfied. Ormerod didn’t blame him, but he had no better answer to give. Battles, proper battles, were usually fought in broad plains that gave both sides room to maneuver and to see farther than a few feet. But there were no broad plains here in this miserable country-Tybalt had had the right word for it-by the River of Death, only endless woods, mostly pine, some oak, punctuated by occasional farms and their mean little fields.

Colonel Florizel said, “Our ancestors beat back the blonds and broke them to servitude in country like this. If they could do it, we can do it, too.”

Lieutenant Gremio looked about to say something, too. Before he could, Ormerod contrived to kick him in the ankle. Gremio let out an indignant yelp. Ormerod looked as innocent as he could, which wasn’t very. Knowing Gremio, he had a pretty good idea of what the lieutenant would have said: something that exposed all the historical inaccuracies in Florizel’s remark.

“There’s a time and a place for everything, by the gods,” Ormerod muttered. Maybe Gremio heard him, maybe he didn’t. Ormerod wasn’t going to worry either way. Gremio kept quiet, and Ormerod did worry about that. Contradicting Earl Florizel at a feast where the audience was nobles and wealthy commoners was one thing. Contradicting Colonel Florizel, the regimental commander, and disheartening the sergeant the colonel had been encouraging was something else again. Perhaps because he was an aggressive barrister, Gremio had trouble grasping the distinction.

Before Ormerod could explain it to the lieutenant-not that Gremio, who was convinced he knew it all, would have been likely to listen-a sharp challenge rang out ahead: “Who goes there?”

“Hold up!” Ormerod called to the rest of his company. Then he pitched his voice to carry: “Who are you?”

“Third company, twenty-sixth regiment from New Eborac,” came the reply. “The sign is Avram. Give the countersign, or be known for a traitor and an enemy.”

Rage ripped through Ormerod. “The countersign is, Die you son of a bitch!” he shouted, and yanked his sword from its scabbard. “Come on, boys!” he yelled to his own company. “We’ve found some of the southrons, anyway.”

A crossbow quarrel hissed past his head and buried itself in a pine behind him. More than half its length had vanished. It would have done worse yet had it pierced him. His leg twinged. Yes, he knew what a bolt could do when it tore through flesh.

His men fought the way their ancestors had when attacked by blonds: they scurried behind trees and started shooting from in back of them. In country like this, how else could anyone fight? Captain Ormerod would have loved to come up with a different answer, a better answer, but none occurred to him.

“Geoffrey!” he shouted as he hurried toward a tree, too. He might brandish that sword, but how much good did it do him with no foeman within reach of his steel? “Geoffrey and provincial prerogative!” That was the slogan the northern provinces used to deny that Avram had the authority to make them do anything they didn’t care to do-such as freeing serfs from their ties to the land-unless their nobles consented.

“King Avram!” the southrons shouted back. “King Avram, and to the seven hells with provincial prerogative!” Other cries rose, too, wordless cries of pain as crossbow quarrels from both sides began finding targets.

A soldier near Ormerod went down. His feet drummed and thumped on the pine needles, but he wouldn’t be getting up again, not with a bolt between the eyes. Ormerod looked again at the sword in his hand. If the enemy charged, it would do him some good. Meanwhile… Meanwhile, he scrambled over and scooped up the shot man’s crossbow and pulled the sheaf of bolts off his belt. By the time he got back to his own tree, the soldier had realized he was dead and stopped kicking.