XII

“What the hells is Bell playing at?” General Hesmucet demanded, going over the reports the scouts brought in about the Army of Franklin’s movements. “If he keeps going in this direction, he’ll be all the way down to Caesar by the time he’s through. That’s where this campaign started, near enough.”

Doubting George perched on a stool in the farmhouse Hesmucet was using for a headquarters. Hesmucet wondered how many farmhouses he’d used for temporary headquarters since the war began. He couldn’t have guessed, not even to the nearest dozen. When the war finally ended, if it ever did, he intended to stay away from farmhouses from then on.

George said, “One thing Bell’s doing: he’s making you dance to his tune instead of the other way round. You imposed your will on Joseph the Gamecock. You haven’t done that with Bell-if you leave Marthasville out of the bargain, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Hesmucet said dryly. “No one would want to talk about Marthasville at all. Bell didn’t care one way or the other what the devils happened to it.”

“That’s not what I meant, sir, or not exactly,” Doubting George said.

Whatever he’d meant, he had a point, or at least a good part of one. As long as the southrons kept chasing Lieutenant General Bell and the Army of Franklin all over southern Peachtree Province, Hesmucet couldn’t do what he really wanted to: make the north regret ever starting a war against King Avram. If I can march to theWesternOcean, that will prove Geoffrey’s king over nothing but air and brags, he thought. I can do it. I know I can.

He sighed. “Turning into a hero would be a lot easier if the bastards on the other side cooperated a little more.”

“I’m sure you’re right, sir,” Doubting George replied. “One thing, though: I’m reasonably sure they feel the same way about you.”

“That’s something,” Hesmucet agreed. “It’s less than I’d like, but you’re right: it is something.”

After his second-in-command left, he summoned Major Alva and asked him, “Can you divine what Bell has in mind trying next?”

“I can do my best,” the bright young mage said. “How good my best will prove depends on how well Bell is warded and how firm his plans are in his own mind. If he doesn’t know what he’s going to do, I can’t very well pick it out of his brain, now can I?… Uh, sir.”

“What brain?” Hesmucet said scornfully. “The next sign of having one in actual working order that Bell shows will be the first.”

Major Alva smiled. “That’s funny, sir. I like it. I like it a lot.”

“Glad to amuse you,” Hesmucet told him. “Now, can you manage this wizardry?”

“As I say, sir, I can certainly try the requisite spells,” Alva replied. “I don’t know how much I’ll learn from them till I do.”

“Get on with it, then,” Hesmucet said. “Report back to me after whatever happens, happens.”

“Yes, sir.” Alva saluted and hurried away.

Only after the mage had gone did Hesmucet realize he hadn’t had to correct him on military deportment even once. Little by little, Alva was learning. If he kept learning, he might eventually turn into a civilized human being, and perhaps even into a tolerable soldier. Hesmucet wouldn’t have imagined either one of those as the remotest possibility a few months before.

Alva came back late the following day. “Well?” Hesmucet barked.

“Well, sir, the wards weren’t so well established as I thought they might be, and Bell is sure about what he wants to do next,” the brash young mage said.

“I’m not surprised they didn’t bother warding him,” Hesmucet said. “They must have figured no one would want to look into such an empty head.” Alva’s laugh was deliciously scandalized. The general commanding went on, “All right-you were able to look around inside the emptiness. What did you find?”

“He intends to strike at Caesar, sir,” the wizard replied. He hesitated, then risked a question: “Uh, is that good news or bad?”

“Depends,” Hesmucet answered. “If we can get there with our whole force before he hits the place, it’s good news for us and bad news for him. If we can’t, it might be the other way round-and he’s ahead of us.”

Alva nodded. “Yes, that would seem to make sense. What do we do if we can’t get there ahead of him?”

“Tell the garrison commander to fight like a mad bastard till we can come up,” Hesmucet said. “Murray the Coarse did it, and he can, too. He’s got a good natural position to defend. Joseph the Gamecock used it to good advantage against us. Now it’s our turn.”

“Can we do it?”

“I aim to find out,” Hesmucet answered.

Commanding the southron garrison was a colonel named Clark the Seamster. When Hesmucet got in touch with him by crystal ball, he said, “Your news is no surprise to me, sir. I’ve just had one of Bell’s men come in under flag of truce demanding our surrender. I’ve seen notes I liked better.”

“Oh?” Hesmucet said. “What does it say?”

“Here, I’ll read it for you.” Colonel Clark paused to set spectacles on his nose, then took a sheet of paper from his breast pocket. “Here we go. Sir: I demand the immediate and unconditional surrender of the post and garrison under your command and, should this be acceded to, all Detinan officers and men will be paroled in a few days. If the place is carried by assault, no prisoners will be taken.” He looked up at Hesmucet over the tops of the spectacles. “Perhaps I should remind you, sir, that I have a couple of regiments of blond troops under my command.”

“You need to know we’re still a couple of days away,” Hesmucet said. “What did you tell him?”

“One moment, sir, and I’ll read you a copy of my answer.” Clark the Seamster found another paper. “Here. I wrote, Your communication of this date just received — which is true; I got it less than an hour ago. In reply, I have to state that I am somewhat surprised at the concluding sentence, to the effect that, if this place is carried by assault, no prisoners will be taken. In my opinion, I can hold this post. If you want it, come and take it.”

“You told Bell that?” Hesmucet said in astonished but delighted disbelief.

“I sure as hells did,” Colonel Clark answered. “I can hold the son of a bitch off, and I’m not about to put men under my command in danger of being murdered or seized and sent back to their old liege lords. They’ll fight like madmen to keep that from happening, and you can count on it.”

“Good for you, Colonel. I admire your spirit. Now I rely on you to make it good.” Hesmucet clapped his hands. He didn’t share Clark’s confidence in the fighting ability of blonds. He remained of the opinion that few of them made good soldiers. But he couldn’t help applauding the bravado the garrison commander had shown.

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Clark said. “I just wonder if the one-legged marvel will even have the nerve to put in a real attack on Caesar. When he tried one at Whole Mackerel, he got his nose bloodied for him.”

“Well, actually, Murray the Coarse was the one who came away from that fight with a bloody face, but I take your point,” Hesmucet said. “Hang on for two days, no matter what he does to you, and then we’ll be there. I swear it by all the gods.”

“I’ll do it, sir. You can count on me,” Clark the Seamster said.

“I do, Colonel.” Hesmucet nodded to the scryer. Colonel Clark’s image vanished from the crystal ball. Hesmucet left the scryers’ tent and shouted for a runner.

“Yes, sir?” one of his bright young men said.

“Go fetch me Marble Bill,” Hesmucet snapped.

“Yes, sir!” The runner saluted and hurried off to find the commander of unicorn-riders. He brought him back even sooner than General Hesmucet had hoped. Pride in his voice, he said, “Here you are, sir.”

“Thank you.” Hesmucet turned to Marble Bill. “Can you get a couple of regiments of riders into Caesar by tomorrow afternoon?”