“Indeed it does,” Oliver said. “Indeed it does. I rejoice that the gods have put a sufficiency of truth into your heart, sir, even if not its very fullest measure, the measure that would make you recognize all of mankind, regardless of outer seeming, as your brethren.”
He still preaches too gods-damned much, Doubting George thought. But he’s a pretty fair soldier himself, even so. Aloud, he said, “I don’t want to recognize all of mankind as my brethren. If I did, I’d miss watching pretty girls, and that would be a shame.”
Hesmucet chuckled. John the Lister laughed out loud. Oliver clicked his tongue between his teeth and looked pained. Oh, dear, George thought. He doesn’t approve of watching pretty girls, either. Well, too bad for him.
Perhaps finding it a good time to change the subject, John the Lister asked General Hesmucet, “Sir, do I understand correctly that we don’t intend to try storming Marthasville?”
“Not right now, anyhow,” the commanding general answered. “We might take it-I think we would take it, but I also think a direct assault would be expensive, and the mourning boxes in the papers down south are long enough already. Let’s see how Bell likes having the place torn down around his ears without his being able to do anything about it.”
“Let’s see how he likes that after false King Geoffrey charged him to hold the town, too,” Doubting George added.
“That did cross my mind, yes,” Hesmucet said. “I wouldn’t want to have dear Geoffrey screaming at me right now. But then you, Lieutenant General, would know more about such things than I do, wouldn’t you?”
“Not much, sir,” George replied. “I knew I would serve a united Detina as soon as Palmetto Province pulled out. Geoffrey confiscated my lands as soon as Parthenia went with it and I declined to join him. To the seven hells with him, but only from a distance. It’s been years since I last saw him face to face.”
“May the next time we see him be when he meets the headsman.” Hesmucet took a flask from his belt, yanked out the cork, raised the flask high, and drank. That done, he loudly smacked his lips and passed it to Doubting George.
General Guildenstern had been in the habit of carrying a flask on his belt, too. He’d also been in the habit of getting drunk from it. Bart, now, Bart had sternly stayed dry, for he’d been known to wet himself to the drowning point. George had seen Hesmucet drink, but he’d never seen him anywhere close to drunk. He drank, too, in the same mostly moderate way. He took the flask and swigged sweet fire. “Ahh!” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Peachtree Province peach brandy. What could be better?”
“Thank you kindly, sir,” John the Lister said when George offered him the flask. He took a pull and gave it to Brigadier Oliver.
The one-armed man shook his head. “No, thank you. I have never drunk spirituous liquors. I do not believe it to be virtuous.”
“Why not?” Doubting George asked, genuinely curious. “I can see not drinking on account of you don’t want to get drunk, but why not enjoy it if you’re a man who can hold it?”
“We are enough like beasts as things stand, sir,” Oliver said. “Such drink only brings us closer to them.”
“I’m not worried about getting close to the beasts,” George said. “What I want to do is get close to Marthasville.” He, Hesmucet, and John the Lister all laughed and all swigged again. Brigadier Oliver also laughed, politely, but stuck to water.
Smoke was a stench in Lieutenant General Bell’s nostrils. Every firepot that burst and spread new flames in the streets of Marthasville seemed a personal reproach. He went through even more laudanum than he would have on account of his wounds. It didn’t do much to blur his sense of guilt, but it did do something.
“Sir?” Major Zibeon said, and then again, louder: “Sir!”
“Eh?” Bell came out of the laudanum haze. “What is it, Major?”
“Sir, there’s a delegation of citizens who’d like to speak to you for a few minutes waiting outside,” his aide-de-camp replied.
“Citizens?” Bell echoed irritably. “What in the hells do a pack of citizens know? Not bloody much, that’s what.” Zibeon didn’t say anything. He only waited. Bell scowled. “What do they want? Do they want me to surrender to that bastard of a Hesmucet? I won’t do it. What would King Geoffrey do to me if I did?”
Geoffrey was much less happy with him now than on naming him commander of the Army of Franklin. Gods damn it, I did what he wanted, Bell thought petulantly. I went out there and I fought. I did all I could. I almost won. Joseph the Gamecock couldn’t have done any better. I’m sure of that. Nearly sure.
Zibeon shook his head. “No, they don’t want surrender. But they are looking for some sort of relief, any sort of relief, from the infernal bombardment the southrons are making us take.”
“What would they have me do?” Bell demanded.
Zibeon’s dour face got no lighter. “Sir, I don’t know,” he answered, shrugging. “To find that out, you’d have to talk to them.”
“Oh, very well,” Bell said sourly. He wanted to talk to civilians about as much as he wanted to lose his other leg, but sometimes there was no help for a situation. His repeated attacks against Hesmucet’s army had shown him that. That he might not have made those attacks never, ever, occurred to him. “Who are these sons of bitches, anyhow?” he asked, not bothering to keep his voice down.
“One is called Jim the Ball, sir; the other is Jim of the Crew,” Zibeon replied. “They are both merchants of some considerable wealth.”
With a martyred sigh, Bell yielded to necessity. “Very well, Major. You may send them in, and we shall see what sort of wisdom they offer.” He rolled his eyes to show how little he expected.
One look told him how Jim the Ball had got his name; the man was nearly spherical, and his tunic and pantaloons contained enough material for a couple of tents. Jim of the Crew, by contrast, was tall and slim and muscular-the crew to which he belonged was probably that of a river galley. He bowed to Bell. Jim the Ball might have done the same, but he was so round, Bell had trouble being sure.
“Good day, gentlemen,” Bell said, wishing he were somewhere else-preferably, at the head of a victorious army, halfway down to the border with Franklin. “What can I do for you today?”
“Sir,” Jim the Ball said, “the southrons are-destroying Marthasville-one piece-at a time.” He was so very fat, he had to pause and sip air every few words.
“We want you to let them know how barbarous it is to pound a city to pieces with civilians still in it,” Jim of the Crew added. He could speak a whole sentence without needing several breaths to finish it.
“Why do you suppose General Hesmucet would pay the least attention to such a plea?” Bell asked.
“Why do you-think he wouldn’t?” Jim the Ball replied, again putting a caesura in his sentence.
“You said it for yourself, sir: he is a barbarous man,” Bell said.
“What, by the gods, have we got to lose?” Jim of the Crew said. “If we go to him under flag of truce and he sends us away, we’re no worse off than we were. But if he says yes, we save what’s still standing, anyhow.”
Bell plucked at his beard. A letter cost him nothing; these fellows were right about that. And complaining to Hesmucet might make him look better in the eyes of the world. The north could trumpet about Hesmucet’s cruelty and iniquity if he kept on pounding Marthasville after being begged to stop. The world outside Detina-the kingdoms on the far side of the Western Ocean-had been trying to pretend the north didn’t exist. No one recognized Geoffrey as a sovereign among sovereigns. It was humiliating. It was infuriating. And the north could do not a thing about it.