He’d heard that story since he was a little boy. For the first time, he paused to wonder if it was so. From some of the things Alva had said, the wizard believed the gods were a lot less powerful than most people thought. A solid conservative, George doubted that, but the Thunderer hadn’t smitten Alva with any lightning bolts. And, if the Inward Hypothesis somehow turned out to be true, how much room did it leave for the action of the gods in the world? Less than George would have wanted, plainly.
To his relief, Colonel Andy brought him back to the mundane world of battles: “Could you make Marshal Bart happy and attack the traitors now?”
“I suppose I could,” George replied, “but we’d have more of a chance of coming away with a bloody nose if I did. When I hit them, I want to hit them with everything we can get our hands on. For that, I need those last two brigades from the east side of the Great River to get here.”
“What if Bart replaces you before they do?” Andy asked nervously.
“Why, then I suppose they send me off to hunt blonds out on the steppe. I already told Bart I’d go.” George spoke with equanimity. In fact, he doubted anything so dreadful would happen. He was a brigadier in the regulars, and he wouldn’t have lost a battle like Guildenstern or John the Hierophant. Odds were he’d just spend the rest of his career in Georgetown counting crossbow quarrels or something equally useful.
Andy… If I remember rightly, Andy is a captain of regulars, George thought. His adjutant probably would get sent to the steppe, and to one of the less prepossessing forts there. No wonder he seemed nervous.
“Don’t fret,” George told him. “If you let anything but what you need to do prey on your mind, you’re in trouble. I know what’s going on here. Marshal Bart doesn’t, regardless of whether he thinks he does.”
“But he’s the one who can give the orders,” Andy said.
“Well, yes, he can,” Doubting George admitted. “But he’d be wrong if he did.”
“By the gods!” Colonel Andy burst out. “When in the hells has that ever stopped one of our generals, or even slowed the stupid son of a bitch down?”
“Do bear in mind, Colonel, that you are presently talking to one of those stupid sons of bitches,” George said. Andy had the grace to look embarrassed, though George suspected he wasn’t, or not very. The general commanding continued, “And I don’t happen to think I’m wrong in delaying. If I did, I wouldn’t.” He listened to himself to make sure he’d said what he meant there. After a bit of thought, he decided he had.
Andy, however, still looked unhappy. “Maybe we ought to move forward now, sir. If Bell gets reinforcements-”
“Where?” George broke in, shaking his head. “What are the odds of that? Whatever he can scrape up, he’s got.”
“I don’t know where he’d get them,” Andy said petulantly. “I just think we ought to hit him as hard as we can as soon as we can.”
“And we will,” George said. “But that isn’t quite yet, in my opinion. And mine is the opinion that counts.”
“Not if Marshal Bart removes you,” his adjutant said.
“He won’t.” Doubting George sounded more confident than he felt.
“What if, while you’re waiting for your brigades, Bell comes up with a new strong wizard?” Andy asked.
“From where?” George asked again. “If the northerners have any decent mages who aren’t already wearing blue robes, you can bet your last piece of silver it’s news to Bell and Geoffrey both. Besides, even if Bell does come up with one, Alva will handle him.” He patted Andy on the shoulder. “Cheer up. Everything will be fine.”
“I doubt it,” Andy said, in exactly the tone George would have used. George found himself with no reply.
Brigadier of the regulars. The words-and what they betokened-sang within John the Lister. Up till he could use those words about himself, he’d almost dreaded the end of the War Between the Provinces. He enjoyed being a brigadier, and he thought he’d proved he did a good job at that rank. To drop down to a captain’s meager command would have been hard. To drop down to a captain’s meager pay would have been even harder.
He didn’t have to worry about that any more. He would hold brigadier’s rank till he died or retired. He wouldn’t have to go out to some steppe castle in the middle of nowhere and listen to wild wolves and wilder blonds howling outside the walls. Doubting George had said he would recommend him for promotion, and he’d kept his promise. Marshal Bart and King Avram had recognized what John did at Poor Richard. Now all the southrons had left to do was finish squashing Lieutenant General Bell and the Army of Franklin.
For some reason John couldn’t fathom, Doubting George didn’t seem to want to do that. There the traitors were, out on ridges in plain sight of Ramblerton. They didn’t even have enough men to stretch their line all the way across the neck of the loop of the Cumbersome River in which the capital of Franklin laid. As far as John the Lister could see, outflanking them and rolling them up would be the easiest thing in the world.
Why didn’t George want to move?
John knew he wasn’t the only one who had trouble finding an answer. Most of the officers inside Ramblerton kept scratching their heads, wondering what George was doing-or rather, why he wasn’t doing it. And the rumors that came out of the scryers’ hall…
Rumors like that came out all the time. More often than not, soldiers had the sense to ignore them. This time… John the Lister shook his head. How could you ignore rumors that Bart was threatening to sack Doubting George? How could you ignore rumors that Bart was threatening to leave the siege of Pierreville and come east, either taking command in Ramblerton himself or appointing George’s replacement?
You couldn’t. It was that simple. Whenever two officers-hells, whenever two soldiers-got together, the gossip started up afresh. Some people started saying John the Lister ought to take Doubting George’s place. When a colonel did it in John’s hearing, he rounded on the man. “I am not going to replace Lieutenant General George,” he growled. “I don’t think George needs replacing. Do you understand me?”
“Uh, yes, sir,” the man answered, his eyes wide with surprise.
“You’d better, Colonel,” John said. “If I hear you’ve been spouting more of this disruptive gossip, I won’t be the only one who hears about it. I hope I make myself plain enough?”
“Uh, yes, sir,” the unhappy colonel said again, and retreated faster than General Guildenstern had fallen back from the River of Death.
That wasn’t enough to satisfy John the Lister. He went and told Doubting George what had happened, though he named no names. He finished, “Sir, I don’t want you to think I’m intriguing against you.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” George replied. “Now the question is, do you want me not to think that because you’re not doing it or because you really are intriguing against me but you want to keep me in the dark?”
“What?” John the Lister needed several heartbeats to work through that. When he did, he stared at the commanding general with something approaching horror. “That’s the most twisted bit of thinking I do believe I’ve ever run into, sir.”
“Thank you,” Doubting George replied, which only flummoxed John further. George continued, “Now answer the question, if you’d be so kind.”
“Sir, I am not intriguing against you, and that is the truth,” John said stiffly. “If you don’t believe me, go fetch Major Alva and let him find out by magic.”
He didn’t fear what might happen if Doubting George did that. He’d told the general commanding the truth: he’d shown no disloyalty in word, deed, or manner. On the contrary. That didn’t mean he would have been unhappy if Marshal Bart booted George out of the command and set him in George’s place. Again, on the contrary. Ambition, he told himself, was different from disloyalty.