“All right, then.” The king seemed to tick off another item on his agenda. “You may choose your second wing commander in your own good time. Getting one man named, though, is important.”
“As you say, your Majesty. Is there anything more?” As far as Thraxton was concerned, there’d been quite enough already.
But King Geoffrey nodded. “It is essential that you drive the southrons from as much of Franklin as you possibly can. Essential, I say. We should be hard pressed to make a kingdom without this province.”
“I understand.” Count Thraxton made himself nod. Making himself smile was beyond him. “I shall do everything as I can to carry out your wishes, your Majesty. Without more men, though…” The king glared at him so fiercely, he had to fall silent. But if the north could not get more men where they were needed most, how was it to make any sort of kingdom, with or without Franklin?
General Bart was not a happy man as the glideway brought him into Adlai, the town in southern Dothan Province closest to Rising Rock. He wasn’t happy that King Avram had had to send him to Rising Rock to repair matters after General Guildenstern met disaster by the River of Death, and he was in physical pain. A few days before, up in the steaming subtropical heat of Old Capet, General Nat the Banker had lent him a particularly spirited unicorn, and he’d taken a bad fall. His whole right side was still a mass of bruises. He could ride again, but walking remained a torment.
His aide, a hatchet-faced young colonel named Horace, strode onto the glideway carpet and said, “Sir, we’re in luck-General Guildenstern is here in Adlai, on his way south after King Avram recalled him.”
“Is he, your Grace?” Bart said, and Colonel Horace nodded. Horace was a duke’s son. That amused Bart, whose father had been a tanner. He knew he took perhaps more pride than he should at giving nobles orders; in the south, what a man could do counted for at least as much as who his father was. That was much less true in the north, where the nobles’ broad estates gave them enormous power in the land.
“He would speak to you, sir, if you care to speak to him,” Horace said.
“Of course I will,” Bart answered. “I wish I hadn’t had to make this trip, and I expect he wishes the same thing even more than I do. It’s good of him to want to talk to me at all, and not to spit in my eye.”
Colonel Horace contemplated that. “Sometimes, sir, I think you’re a little too good at seeing the other fellow’s point of view.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Bart shrugged, which hurt. “Don’t forget, Colonel, I went to the officers’ collegium with these other fellows and served alongside ’em-our officers and the ones who chose Geoffrey. Knowing how the other fellow thinks is a big help in this business.”
“If you say so, sir.” To Colonel Horace, everything that had to do with fighting was simple. You found the enemy, and then you went out and hit him. As far as Bart was concerned, that made him an excellent subordinate and would have made him a very dangerous commander.
“I do say so,” Bart replied. “Well, if Guildenstern wants to talk to me, I’m glad to talk to him, as I say. Bring him aboard.”
“Yes, sir.” His aide’s salute was as precise as if it came straight from a manufactory. Colonel Horace stalked off the glideway carpet, returning a couple of minutes later with the general formerly in command at Rising Rock.
A cloud of brandy fumes preceded and accompanied Guildenstern. General Bart felt more than a little sympathy for his fellow southron officer. He was fond of spirits himself; there had been times in his life when he’d shown himself much too fond of spirits. He fought shy of them these days for just that reason.
General Guildenstern gave him a sloppy salute. “Here you are, sir. I hope you lick the gods-damned traitors right out of their boots.”
“I hope I do, too,” Bart said. “I wish I didn’t have to try it in the wake of your defeat, General.”
“So do I, gods damn it. So do I.” Guildenstern wore a flask on his belt. He liberated it and took a long, healthy swig, then extended it to Bart. “Want a nip?”
Bart’s face froze. He was not a big man, nor a particularly impressive one, save that, when he chose, he could make his eyes extraordinarily cold and bleak. A man seeing him when such a mood took him was well advised to give way, for Bart never would. He’d got more through dogged persistence than other, cleverer, generals had from military genius.
That cold, dark stare got through even to Guildenstern, already elevated from brandy though he was. Smiling a placating smile, he said, “Er, well, maybe not,” and put the flask away in a hurry.
“Tell me of your dispositions,” was all Bart said.
“My disposition? By the Thunderer’s prick, it’s not all it might be,” Guildenstern said, and guffawed. Bart didn’t, and that cold, intent look never left his face. General Guildenstern’s chuckles died away to uneasy silence. At last, he asked, “Have you got a map of Rising Rock and the surrounding country, General?”
“I do.” Bart pulled one from a red leather folder.
“All right, then.” Brandy fumes or no, Guildenstern settled down to business and showed Bart where his men were posted and where Thraxton the Braggart’s lines ran.
“Pity you let them take Sentry Peak,” Bart said. “The top is a prime observation post, and engines on the forward slope can reach south across the Franklin River and just about into Rising Rock.”
“I would be a liar if I said I was very happy about that myself, sir,” Guildenstern replied. “Still and all, though, there are several things you might do, there and elsewhere, to shore up your lines.” Tracing ideas out with his finger, he showed Bart what he meant.
“Those are all good notions,” Bart said when he was through. He meant it; he was not and never had been a man to whom hypocrisy came naturally. All the same, he fixed Guildenstern with that piercing glance once more. “Yes, they’re excellent notions. Why didn’t you use them yourself, instead of saving them up to give them to me?”
Guildenstern stared. He opened his mouth, but not a word emerged. Slowly and deliberately, without any fuss, General Bart put the map back in its folder. By the time he’d stowed the folder in amongst his baggage, Guildenstern found his power of speech once more: “What I did or didn’t do doesn’t matter, not any more. I’m off to the south, along with Thom and Alexander and Negley. Negley can go back to his flowers. The rest of us… If we’re lucky, King Avram will send us out to the eastern steppe and let us chase louse-ridden blond nomads for the rest of the war. If we’re lucky, I say.”
The brandy he’d taken on no doubt helped fuel his self-pity. With a sigh, Bart said, “You could expect better, General, if the four of you hadn’t left the field before the fight was over.”
“We got swept away in the rout,” Guildenstern said hotly. “The whole fornicating army got swept away in the rout. That’s what makes a rout, the whole fornicating army getting swept away.”
“Lieutenant General George didn’t,” Bart pointed out. “If he had, if the traitors had pushed him off Merkle’s Hill, none of you would have come back safe to Rising Rock.”
“To the seven hells with Doubting George!” Guildenstern cried, and stormed away.
General Bart started to go after him, then checked himself. He could understand why Guildenstern was angry and upset. Doubting George had had to fall back from the River of Death, but he’d done it with his chunk of the army in good order, and after fighting Thraxton’s men to a standstill. Guildenstern and the other high-ranking officers had left too soon, and they would have to pay the price for the rest of their careers, if not for the rest of their lives.
When morning came, Bart set out for Rising Rock himself. He didn’t go by glideway, not when the traitors could reach the line into town with their engines. He had to ride a unicorn for those last thirty miles or so. It was one of the less pleasant journeys of his life, since the bruises he’d taken in the fall up north were far from healed; his whole right side, from ankle to shoulder, was black and yellow and purple and, here and there, green.