“I don’t know,” Gremio said-not the most common admission for a barrister to make. “As I told you before, I hope our generals do.”
“Well, I hope so, too,” Ormerod said. “I hope for all kinds of things. But hoping for ’em doesn’t mean I’m going to get them. If Count Thraxton doesn’t know what in the hells he’s doing, he could have fooled me.”
Lieutenant Gremio raised an eyebrow. But he was too smooth to contradict his superior too openly. Instead, he changed the subject: “If you had everything you hope for, what would it be?”
“Why, for us to have our own kingdom,” Ormerod answered at once. “For us to whip the southrons out of our land. That’s what we’re fighting for, isn’t it?”
“And after we’ve won the war?” Gremio asked.
“All I want to do is go back to my estate and go on like nothing ever happened,” Ormerod said. “That’s what we’re fighting for, too.”
“Well, so it is.” But Gremio had an ironic glint in his eye that Ormerod neither liked nor trusted. The barrister from Karlsburg asked an innocent enough question: “How likely do you think that is?”
Ormerod didn’t like to reflect any more than he had to. “If we can lick the southrons, why shouldn’t things go back to the way they ought to be?”
“They might,” Gremio allowed. “They might, but I wouldn’t count on it. And if they don’t, it’s Avram’s fault, the gods chase him through the seven hells with whips forever.”
Even Ormerod figured out what he was talking about. “You mean the serfs, don’t you? With King Geoffrey running things, they’ll fall back into line soon enough, you wait and see.”
“I hope you’re right,” Gremio said. “As I say, though, I wouldn’t count on it. Avram’s told the blonds they can be free, and they aren’t going to forget. Ideas are corrosive things.”
“Chasing the serfs through the fields with whips will bring them back into line,” Ormerod said. “They’ve risen up before. We’ve whipped them every fornicating time they tried it. If we have to, we can bloody well do it again.”
“We’ve done such a good job of sitting on them-the past hundred years especially-that most of them forgot things could be any other way,” Gremio said. “It won’t be like that any more.”
“We can do it,” Ormerod repeated, but he didn’t sound quite so sure of himself any more. “Or we could do it, anyway, if the southrons didn’t keep stirring up trouble in our land. That’s another reason to have our own kingdom: to keep them from bothering the blonds, I mean.”
“Yes, but can we?” Gremio asked. “If they don’t respect provincial borders, why should they care about the bounds between kingdoms?”
With a grunt, Ormerod studied a new idea. The more he studied it, the less he liked it. As Gremio said, ideas were corrosive things. They kept a man from resting easy with the way the world had always worked. “We’d have to conquer the southrons, beat ’em altogether, to keep ’em from meddling. That’s what you’re saying.” He sounded accusing. He felt that way, too.
“We can’t conquer the southrons, not in a thousand years,” Gremio said. “The south is bigger than we are.”
He was right. Ormerod knew it. Keeping Avram’s men from conquering the north was hard enough-more than hard enough. “You’re saying we’ll never have peace!” Ormerod cried in dismay.
Gremio shrugged a barrister’s shrug. “I didn’t say that. You did.”
For a moment, Ormerod accepted the remark. Then he wagged a finger at the lieutenant. Voice sly, he said, “I know what you barristers do. You trick a man into saying what you wanted him to, and then you act like it wasn’t your fault at all.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” Gremio did his best to sound innocent. His best wasn’t quite good enough, for he also ended up sounding amused.
“A likely story,” Ormerod told him. “If you don’t think we’ll ever have peace even if we do lick the southrons, why’d you join the army in the first place?”
“On the off chance I might be wrong,” Gremio replied-and to that, Ormerod had no answer whatever.
When he walked off shaking his head, he heard Gremio quietly chuckle behind him. The lieutenant had won this round in their ongoing skirmish, and they both knew it. Ormerod stared south toward Rising Rock. He would have relished a fight with the southrons just then. When he was fighting, he didn’t have to think. Encamped-becalmed-here on the lower slope of Sentry Peak, he couldn’t do much else. And, little by little, the Army of Franklin had stopped being the force besieging the town. These days, it felt more as if they were the besieged.
He wondered if Rollant was down there somewhere, or if the runaway serf had perished during the fighting by the River of Death. Rollant had been fighting under Doubting George, who’d made the stand on Merkle’s Hill. He’d had plenty of chances to come to grief. Ormerod hoped he had. No serfcatcher would bring the blond back to Palmetto Province, not from out of the south. Even before the war, the southrons had laughed at the runaway-serf laws intended to bind blonds to the land. They surely wouldn’t pay those laws any attention these days.
“Bastards,” Ormerod muttered under his breath. There weren’t so many blonds in the south and the southeast; the real Detinans there could afford to pretend blonds were as good, or almost as good, as anybody else. Up in the north, that would never do. Ormerod was as sure of it as he was of the power of the gods. But King Avram, that gods-damned fool, couldn’t see it, and so…
And so my crops have gone to the hells these past three seasons, Ormerod thought resentfully. And so I’m here in the middle of nowhere, instead of taking care of my estate the way I ought to. He shook his fist in the direction of the southrons down in Rising Rock. Why don’t you go away and leave us alone?
But they wouldn’t, and so they had to be driven away. Ormerod shook his fist at mist-shrouded Rising Rock again. Then he turned and shook his fist at Proselytizers’ Rise, too, and at Count Thraxton’s headquarters there. If Thraxton had pursued, maybe…
Ormerod heard a thud behind him. He whirled, hand flashing toward his swordhilt. Shaking your fist at a mage wasn’t always a good idea, even when the mage couldn’t-or wasn’t supposed to be able to-see you. And Thraxton the Braggart had always been a bad-tempered son of a bitch. If he somehow knew, if he’d somehow shaped a sending…
“Sorry, sir,” the blue-clad soldier in back of Ormerod said sheepishly. “Kicked that gods-damned rock hard enough to hurt. I expect I’d trip over my own two feet if there was nothing else handy.”
“Heh,” Ormerod said, still jumpy. The soldier sketched a salute and ambled away. He didn’t know what he’d done to his company commander’s peace of mind. Ormerod hoped he never found out, either.
One of the sergeants was doing a good, thorough, systematic job of chewing out a man who’d forgotten something the underofficer thought he should have remembered. The soldier was giving about as good as he got, denying everything and loudly proclaiming that the sergeant hadn’t told him about whatever it was and had no business bothering about him anyway, as it shouldn’t have been his job in the first place.
Instead of spraying flames all over the place like a firepot, the sergeant said, “Ahh, to the hells with it. What we both want to do is rip another chunk off the gods-damned southrons. Till then, we’re just chewing on each other on account of we can’t get at them.”
“Gods-damned right,” the common soldier said. “We’ll tear ’em a new one when we do, though.” The sergeant grunted agreement. Neither had the slightest doubt in his mind.
And their certainty made a small, tender, flickering hope live in Captain Ormerod.
General Bart eyed his wing commanders and brigadiers. “Gentlemen, we are just about ready to attack,” he said. Some of them really were gentlemen-Doubting George, for instance. Bart was a tanner’s son. But he had the rank. That was all that mattered. If he did the job right, he would keep the rank and keep on giving orders to his social betters. If he didn’t, he would deserve whatever happened to him. That was how things worked. It struck him as fair. But things would have worked the same way even if it hadn’t.