But he was not happy now, and the world had no intention of leaving him alone. The world, in fact, was demanding things of him, and demanding things in a loud, piercing voice. The world, or at least what seemed like all the southrons in it, had spent the whole day doing their best to destroy his army, and their best had proved alarmingly good. Sentry Peak was lost, and Thraxton had no idea how to get it back.

“We haven’t enough men,” he grumbled.

“We might have, if you hadn’t sent James of Broadpath away to hells and gone,” Cabell of Broken Ridge said, his tone sharpened by the flask of brandy in front of him on the table.

Thraxton glared at his wing commander. “I suppose you will tell me next that Wesleyton does not need retaking,” he said icily.

“I didn’t say that,” Cabell replied, and took another swig. “But if we lose here, what difference does it make whether Earl James takes Wesleyton or not? If we cannot hold our position, he won’t be able to hold his.”

“In that case, it is incumbent upon us not to lose here,” Thraxton said. “Or would you disagree with me? Would you care to comment on how the southrons drove the men of your wing from Sentry Peak?”

“I can give it to you in half a dozen words, your Grace,” Cabell of Broken Ridge snapped. “We did not have enough men. Is that plain enough?” His voice rose to a shout.

Thraxton growled something down deep in his throat. He turned away from Duke Cabell to Roast-Beef William, remarking, “Our right had no trouble holding, I will have you note.”

“Our right is anchored on Funnel Hill, sir, I will have you note.” Cabell put very little respect into Thraxton’s title. “The ground I was charged to defend, unfortunately, did not offer us any such advantages.”

Roast-Beef William coughed. In the firelight, his face looked not much ruddier than Duke Cabell’s. A sheen of dried sweat did a good job of counterfeiting grease, though. He said, “Begging your pardon, sir, but my wing didn’t have such an easy time as all that holding on to Funnel Hill. The gods-damned southrons look to have come up with a mage who’s actually good for something.”

“A showman. A mountebank,” Thraxton said contemptuously. “I saw some of his little illusions from my headquarters here. He is good for frightening children; I have no doubt of that. But for doing anything that should seriously disturb a fighting man?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant General, but no.”

With another cough, Roast-Beef William also shook his big head. “And I’m sorry, too, Count Thraxton, but that’s not what the mages attached to my wing say. As far as they’re concerned, he’s the nastiest son of a bitch to ever wear gray. Haven’t you got their reports?”

“I’ve had more reports than I ever want to see,” Thraxton said. “Since your wizards succeeded in neutralizing this terrible, terrible southron, I assume he couldn’t be all that devilish, and I have other things to worry about.”

“Such as what, your Grace?” Duke Cabell asked. “Such as what? What is the world coming to when the southrons assail us with sorcery and we do little or nothing to strike back? You are supposed to be a famous thaumaturge in your own right, are you not? Such talents are better seen than talked about, if anyone cares in the least for my opinion.”

Thraxton knew that people who didn’t care for him called him Thraxton the Braggart. Every once in a while, somebody like Ned of the Forest would do it to his face. Duke Cabell hadn’t, not quite, but he’d come too close-especially since, with his rank, he was immune to most of the reprisals Thraxton might use.

And, to make things worse, Roast-Beef William coughed once more and chimed in with, “If we ever needed some good, strong sorcery, now is the time.”

“I shall give you everything that is in me,” Thraxton said. “I have always given King Geoffrey everything that is in me. Our land would be better off if more folk in it could say the same.”

“A free Detinan may say anything his heart desires,” Cabell of Broken Ridge observed. “Whether it be the truth or something else, he may speak as he pleases.”

William coughed again; he was beginning to sound like a man with a bad catarrh. “Your Grace, I do not think such comments aid our cause.”

“Very well, Lieutenant General,” Cabell said. “With your commendable” -he made the word into a sneer- “grasp of matters tactical, what do you think would aid our cause? How, being badly outnumbered as we are, do we lick the southrons?”

His sarcasm stung. But he’d asked a real question, an important question, even so. Count Thraxton leaned forward, the better to hear what Roast-Beef William would say. He hoped Roast-Beef William had an answer. If he does, I’ll steal it, he thought without the slightest twinge of guilt.

But William only coughed yet again and muttered to himself. At last, impatiently, Thraxton coughed, too. Roast-Beef William said, “I’m sorry, your Grace. The only thing that occurs to me is that we might beat them with sorcery. Our manpower will not do the job, not even with the advantage of ground we hold.”

Duke Cabell said, “That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard in this conference.” He took another swig from his brandy flask.

“It’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard in this conference,” Thraxton said. “Certainly more than all the countless, senseless complaints I’ve had aimed at me.”

“If you like, your Grace, we can continue this discussion through our friends,” Cabell said. “Although you do not act like a gentleman, by blood you are one.”

“As you undoubtedly know, regulations prohibit an officer of lower rank from challenging his superior,” Thraxton said. “Nevertheless, however, I will be happy to give satisfaction at your convenience following the battle, if in truth that be your desire.”

He spoke with a certain gloating anticipation. Duke Cabell licked his lips, suddenly not so sure of himself. He had a reputation as a redoubtable swordsman, but so did Thraxton. And who but a fool would challenge a mage to a duel? All sorts of… interesting things might go wrong.

“Gentlemen, please!” Roast-Beef William said. “I’m sure nobody meant any offense whatsoever. We’re all just trying to lick the enemy as best we can, and we’d do well to remember that, in my opinion.”

“Quite right.” Cabell of Broken Ridge bowed to Count Thraxton. “My apologies, your Grace, and we can worry about carving each other’s livers another time.”

“Very well,” Thraxton said. “I accept your apology, your Grace.” Cabell looked unhappy; Thraxton offered no apology of his own. Doing so never crossed his mind. As usual, he didn’t think he’d done anything to cause offense. He went on, “Our colleague is probably correct. We do need magecraft as both shield and spear against the southrons. I shall have the necessary spells prepared by the time fighting resumes in the morning.”

“Can we rely on it?” Duke Cabell asked. He might not have known he was offending Count Thraxton with his question, but Thraxton was acutely aware of it.

Still, the commander of the Army of Franklin said only, “You can.”

“May it be so.” That soft murmur wasn’t from Cabell. It came from Roast-Beef William, and hurt all the more as a result. William probably remembered Pottstown Pier and Reillyburgh, fights where Thraxton’s sorcery hadn’t done all it might have, where-however little he cared to recall the fact-it had come down on the heads of King Geoffrey’s men, not on the accursed southrons.

“I do know what I am doing, gentlemen,” Count Thraxton said. “Did I not prove as much in the fighting by the River of Death? Without my magic, we should never have won our victory there.”

We should have won more than we did. Neither Duke Cabell nor Roast-Beef William said it out loud. But they both thought it very loudly; Thraxton could tell.