Up came the southrons. They shot a few bolts at the men in the trenches. Joseph the Gamecock’s men shot back. A few southrons fell. The rest drew back. They wouldn’t press home attacks against earthworks, either. Cowards, Bell thought. Nothing but cowards.
Major Zibeon’s thoughts were going down a different glideway line. He asked, “How are we going to keep the southrons from reaching the Hoocheecoochee at a point beyond our lines? If they manage that, we’re in trouble.”
There, for once, Bell felt some sympathy with Joseph the Gamecock. “Patrols of unicorn-riders,” he answered. He approved of such patrols. They were aggressive, and anything aggressive met with his approval.
But Zibeon said, “Patrols of unicorn-riders are all very well, sir, but gods damn me if I think Brigadier Spinner’s the right man to lead our mounted men. I wish we had Ned of the Forest here.”
“Everyone wishes for Ned of the Forest,” Bell told him. “There’s only one of the man, though, and he’s over by the Great River. Spinner is capable enough.”
“The southrons can afford to get by with men who are capable enough,” his aide-de-camp said. “They have room to make their mistakes good. If we make a mistake, they’ll land on us with both feet. What we need is a genuine, for-true genius of an officer leading unicorn-riders. We only had two in all the north: Jeb the Beauty, who was over in Parthenia-”
“And who, I hear, got killed not long ago,” Bell broke in with a sigh. “It’s a hard war, and it’s not getting any easier.”
“Jeb the Beauty, who’s dead,” Zibeon agreed, “and Ned of the Forest. We need him here, at the point of decision, not off running a sideshow in the east.”
“He and Count Thraxton had a row, as I recall. That’s what got him transferred,” Bell said. “I don’t know all the details; that wasn’t long after I turned lopsided.” He waggled his stump a little, even though it hurt. If he could laugh at his own mutilations, no one else would have the nerve to laugh at them.
Zibeon’s bushy eyebrows climbed almost to his hairline. “A row? You might just say so, sir. If what people say is true, Ned came out and said he would challenge Thraxton, except he didn’t suppose Thraxton was enough of a man to accept it.”
From what Bell had seen before his wound by the River of Death, Count Thraxton, whatever else one said about him, was a proud and touchy fellow. His own eyebrows rose. “And the count let that go by without taking the challenge and without punishing Ned of the Forest?”
“He did indeed,” Zibeon said solemnly. “I have seen Ned of the Forest in a temper, sir. He’s not a man anyone at all would care to take lightly.”
Zibeon was a pretty hard case himself, and not easily impressed. If he found Ned formidable, formidable Ned was. Even so… “How could Count Thraxton possibly live down the disgrace?”
“What disgrace, sir?” the aide-de-camp replied. “Thraxton is King Geoffrey’s friend, as you must know. When was the last time you heard of a king’s friend who disgraced himself to the point of making people notice?”
That bit of cynicism made Bell’s face twist with pain which, for once, wasn’t physical. Zibeon had the right of it there, sure enough. If Geoffrey decides Joseph the Gamecock must go-no, when he decides it, for he surely will-won’t he replace him with his friend? And if he does, what becomes of me?
He began to regret his own letters. Yes, he’d had weakening Joseph’s position in mind. But he hadn’t intended to strengthen anyone’s but his own. Could he serve under Count Thraxton if the warrior mage returned to command? Everyone, not just Ned of the Forest, had trouble serving under Thraxton the Braggart.
Can I write letters of a different tone? Bell wondered. After a moment’s thought, he shook his head. Too late now, gods damn it.
All he could do now was fight as well as he could and hope Joseph the Gamecock wouldn’t suffer some irremediable disaster while Count Thraxton was down here on his watching brief. He would have fought hard anyhow, for his pride’s sake, and for his kingdom’s sake, too. So he told himself, at any rate. But now he also had solid personal reasons.
Zibeon said, “Maybe this will work out all right, sir. We do have a good position to defend.”
“So we do,” Bell said. He couldn’t afford to malign Joseph, he realized, not even to his aide-de-camp, not for the time being.
“Of course, I have to hope we’ll get the chance to defend it,” Major Zibeon added.
“How not?” Bell asked in real, obvious perplexity.
“Outflanking. We were talking about this, sir.” Zibeon spoke with what sounded like exaggerated patience.
“My gods-damned shoulder is hurting again,” Bell mumbled. And it always did. But he was such a straight-ahead fighter, he’d already forgotten Hesmucet didn’t have to be. He took a big swig of laudanum. “There. I’ll think better now,” he declared. Zibeon said not a word.
VI
Captain Gremio was no general. Gremio hadn’t been a soldier at all before the war, or a domain-holding noble-the closest peacetime equivalent-either. But, like so many others, he’d had plenty of experience since the fighting began in Karlsburg harbor more than three years before.
He said, “These are splendid works, and I hope Hesmucet tries to storm them. He’d bloody his southron nose, the way he did at Commissioner Mountain.”
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Thisbe said. “But even though he lost on the mountain, he got that little bridgehead over Snouts Stream, and look at how much trouble he caused with it.”
Had Hesmucet not got that bridgehead, the Army of Franklin might well have still been defending the line of the mountain and the stream. Gremio gave Thisbe a half mocking bow. “Very neat, Sergeant,” he said. “You agree with me in your first two words, then proceed to show I’m wrong. Very neat indeed.”
Thisbe turned red. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Don’t apologize,” Gremio told him. “You got me fair and square. I wish I could do so well in front of the judges a lot of the time.”
“Now you’re joking with me, sir,” Thisbe said. “I don’t much care for that.” He was, as so often, almost painfully serious.
“No such thing. I meant every word of it.” Gremio raised his hand above his head, pointing to the mountain beyond the sky, as he would have in a lawcourt. “By the Thunderer, I swear it.”
“All right.” Thisbe looked back over his shoulder. “Are we supposed to make a stand with our backs to a river? If the southrons do beat us here, it would go hard for us.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Gremio said. “But do you really think Hesmucet can storm us out of this position?”
The sergeant considered. “You’re probably right, sir. You usually are, from everything I’ve seen.”
Now Gremio felt himself blushing. “That’s kind of you, Sergeant-kinder than I deserve, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“No, sir,” Thisbe said. “If ever there’s somebody who knows what’s what, you’re the one.”
“If I knew what was what, would I be here?” Gremio asked with a wry laugh.
That made Thisbe laugh, too, but, as usual, his answer was thoughtfuclass="underline" “I suppose it depends on how important you think this is for the kingdom.”
If we don’t win here, or at least keep the southrons from winning, Geoffrey won’t have a kingdom, Gremio thought. Since he didn’t feel like voicing words of ill omen aloud, he replied, “When we were coming down out of the hill country towards the Hoocheecoochee, I could see Marthasville.” He craned his neck. “Can’t quite do it now, but I know the place is there. Maybe that makes this pretty important business after all.”