Hooked, sure enough, Thraxton thought. Aloud, he said, “Whiskery Ambrose has been making a nuisance of himself for some time now, southwest of us in Wesleyton. I purpose detaching your force from the Army of Franklin and sending you forth to lay siege to him there or to drive him from our land altogether.”
Earl James frowned. “I see the need for doing it,” he said at last, “but I have to say, your Grace, that I question the timing.”
“How do you mean?” Thraxton always bristled when anyone questioned him.
“Do you really want to detach a large part of your force when the southrons are bringing fresh soldiers into Rising Rock?” James asked. “If you were going to send me against Wesleyton, you might have done better to try it just after we won at the River of Death.”
“Back then, you were all for my moving men east of Rising Rock, not to the southwest,” Thraxton reminded him in tart tones.
“I was all for your doing something, your Grace,” Earl James said. “I was all for your doing anything, as a matter of fact. Sitting in front of Rising Rock frittering away the time does King Geoffrey’s cause no good.”
Count Thraxton glared at him. Sacking James of Broadpath wouldn’t be easy. Thraxton didn’t care to squabble with Duke Edward of Arlington, who was even more likely than he to have the king’s ear. But he could send James away. He could-and he would. “I judge a move against Wesleyton to be in our best interest at this time. Too many would-be betrayers in western Franklin take aid and comfort from having Whiskery Ambrose and his army close by.”
“That’s so,” James said. Had he denied it, Thraxton would have called him a liar on the spot. Most of Franklin was and had been strongly for Geoffrey, but the mountainous west, where there were few estates of any size and only a handful of serfs, remained a hotbed of Avramist sentiment.
“Well, then,” Thraxton said, as if it were all settled.
But James of Broadpath persisted, “They can’t hurt us here. A screen of unicorn-riders could keep Whiskery Ambrose away if he got a rush of brains to the head and tried to move on Rising Rock. Ned of the Forest was doing fine there. Shouldn’t we settle more important business in these parts before we go on to the less?”
“I want Wesleyton taken,” Thraxton said. “I want Whiskery Ambrose killed or chased away. And, your Excellency, it is my express command that you undertake this campaign against him.” Because, your Excellency, I want you and your carping criticism as far away from me as possible.
James of Broadpath gave him a precisely machined salute. “Yes, sir,” he said, no expression whatever in his voice. “When is it your express command that my force and I should leave for Wesleyton?”
“Day after tomorrow,” Thraxton answered. “Go down there, settle with Whiskery Ambrose, and return once he is beaten-but not until then. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” James said, as tonelessly as before. “And if you are attacked while I’m operating against Wesleyton?”
“I assure you, your Excellency, this army is capable of defending itself,” Thraxton said. “Our positions are as strong as the craft of field fortification allows them to be. Do you deny that? How could an enemy possibly hope to sweep up the slopes of Proselytizers’ Rise with fierce, alert soldiers shooting at him from the top?”
“I don’t know, your Grace, and the gods grant that we need never find out,” James replied. He saluted Count Thraxton. “If you would have me go, sir, I shall, and do what I can for the kingdom.”
“Good,” Thraxton said, which earned him another sour look from the officer from the Army of Southern Parthenia. Muttering something his bushy beard muffled, James of Broadpath mounted his burly unicorn and rode away.
Once he was gone, Thraxton called for two more runners. To one, he said, “Tell Roast-Beef William I would see him at once.” He told the other, “Order Duke Cabell of Broken Ridge here immediately.” Both messengers saluted and went to do his bidding. Thraxton enjoyed nothing more than sending men to do his bidding.
Roast-Beef William, who’d taken over for Leonidas the Priest, reported to Thraxton fast enough to keep even that sour-tempered soldier reasonably sweet. His other nickname was Old Reliable; he’d written the tactical manual on which both Geoffrey’s army and Avram’s based their evolutions.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked now. His fondness for big chunks of meat had given him his more common sobriquet, but he also had a red, red face.
“I would sooner wait for the duke,” Thraxton replied. “Then I need say this only once.” Roast-Beef William just shrugged and nodded. He got on well with almost everyone. He got on well enough with Thraxton, which proved the point if it wanted proving.
Cabell of Broken Ridge strode up to Thraxton’s headquarters only a couple of minutes later. He now commanded the wing Dan of Rabbit Hill had led before. Count Thraxton had hesitated more than a little before naming him to the post, not least because his blood was higher than Thraxton’s. When old King Buchan died, there’d been some talk in the north of raising Cabell to the throne, though Geoffrey soon solidified his claim to rival Avram. Cabell seemed content as one of Geoffrey’s officers. Thraxton, who was never content himself, mistrusted that, but found no better choice despite his misgivings.
“At your service, your Grace,” Cabell said now, bowing courteously. He was a darkly handsome man with a round face and long, dark mustachios that swept out like the horns of a buffalo.
“Good,” Thraxton said. Cabell hadn’t got there fast enough to suit him, but hadn’t been so slow as to disgrace himself, either. And Thraxton was much more cautious about offending a duke than he would have been with an earl or a baron or a man of no particular breeding like Roast-Beef William.
“What’s in your mind, sir?” Old Reliable asked now.
“I have ordered James of Broadpath south and west to strike against Whiskery Ambrose at Wesleyton,” Thraxton answered. “After he has beaten Ambrose, he will return here or strike farther south, as opportunity presents itself.”
“That’s a bold strategy, sir,” Cabell of Broken Ridge said.
“Bold, yes. Bold but risky.” Roast-Beef William plucked at his graying beard. “We could find ourselves in trouble if the southrons strike while James is away. Dividing your force in the face of the enemy… It’s how Guildenstern came to grief, you know.”
“But Guildenstern did not know where we were.” Thraxton pointed down toward Rising Rock. “We see everything the southrons do at the moment they do it. They cannot possibly surprise us.”
“With our position, we can hold them anyhow,” Cabell said.
“I hope you’re right, your Grace,” Roast-Beef William said.
“Of course I am.” Cabell of Broken Ridge had no doubts whatever.
Thraxton always had doubts. More often than not, he had doubts about the men who served under him. He said, “We can hold, and we shall hold, provided that my wing commanders stay alert to any movement the southrons might seek to prepare.” He spoke as if expecting to discover Cabell and Roast-Beef William snoring in their tents: if he couldn’t find a quarrel any other way, he would make one.
Roast-Beef William only shrugged; he never had been a quarrelsome sort. But Duke Cabell, predictably, bristled. “Why did you pick us to command the wings, if you didn’t think we could do what you wanted?” he demanded.
Hearing the question made Thraxton regret his choice. He snapped, “That’s my concern, not yours.”
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” Roast-Beef William said in some alarm as Thraxton and Cabell glared at each other. “Remember, gentlemen, the more we fight among ourselves, the happier General Bart will be down there in Rising Rock.”
Duke Cabell of Broken Ridge nodded and half bowed. “That is well said, sir, and I shall try to take it to heart.”