Now the commanding general shook his head slightly, as if to divert the conversation away from himself. “Once we have the road to Bridgeton secured,” he said, “once we make certain we shall not be starved out of this place, and once all our reinforcements have arrived, I believe we can lick Count Thraxton clean out of his boots. Don’t you agree?”
“Do you know, sir, I think I do.” With General Guildenstern in command, George would have had his doubts. With General Bart… “I don’t care how good a wizard Thraxton is. I don’t think his spells would faze you a bit.”
“Well, I hope not,” Bart said. “In the long run, wizardry strikes me as being like most other things-it will even out.”
“May the gods prove you right, sir,” George said. That was in large measure his view of things, too, though a good many southron generals had a different opinion. As a general working rule, the mages who backed King Geoffrey were stronger than those who’d stayed loyal to King Avram. Thraxton the Braggart, for instance, had more power than any one southron mage George could think of.
But Bart said, “If wizards were so much of a much, the traitors would be over the Highlow River in the east and pressing down toward New Eborac in the west. They may have fancier mages than we do, but we’ve got more of them, the same as we’ve got more soldiers and more manufactories. We can use that to our advantage. We have used that to our advantage-otherwise, we wouldn’t be up here on the northern border of Franklin. We haven’t done everything we might, but things aren’t so very bad.”
“If we’d done everything we might, we’d be marching up toward Marthasville today, not penned here in Rising Rock,” George replied.
“That’s true.” Bart nodded. “But we can do more. We will do more. When Thraxton beat us there by the River of Death, he showed us we needed to do more. And we can-it’s as plain as the nose on your face that we can. Thraxton won’t get any more soldiers: where would they come from? But we’ve already reinforced this army, and we’ve got lots more men on the way. Once they’re here, we’ll take care of business the right and proper way.”
George studied him. Bart didn’t shout and bluster, as General Guildenstern had been so fond of doing. But the new commanding general’s quiet confidence made him more believable, not less. When he said his army would be able to do something, he left little room for doubt in the mind of anyone who heard him. He might have been a builder talking about a house he intended to put up. How could you doubt a builder when he said the walls would stand so, the doors would be there and there, and the windows would have shutters in the latest style?
Thoughtfully, George said, “I do believe you’re right.”
“I hope so. I wouldn’t be trying it if I didn’t think I was.” Bart might have been saying, Yes, this house will stand up to a storm. He raised a forefinger. “Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve taken the liberty of attaching a couple of your regiments to the force Bill the Bald will lead. They were conveniently situated, and could join in his movements without drawing the northerners’ notice.”
“Whatever you think best, of course,” Doubting George replied. Had Guildenstern done such a thing without telling him, it would have irked him. He found himself meaning what he’d said to General Bart.
“I’m glad it’s all right with you.” Bart sounded genuinely relieved. As if explaining why he’d used stone instead of brick, he went on, “When I strike a blow, I always try to strike the hardest one I can.”
“Good!” George said. “That was what cost us so much not long ago. We were spread out over the whole landscape, and could hardly strike at all.”
“I suspect that wasn’t your idea.” Before George could answer, Bart held up a hand. “Never mind, Lieutenant General; never mind. I don’t need to know every gory incident, and General Guildenstern isn’t around any more to give his side of things.” His eyes twinkled, just for a moment. “Can’t say I’m sorry about that. I expect I would have heard about it in great detail.”
King Avram’s army was full of backbiting. So was King Geoffrey’s. So, no doubt, was every army back to the beginning of time, or perhaps before that-the gods were supposed to squabble among themselves, too. Rarely, though, had George heard such a good-natured snide remark.
Just for a moment, he even stopped doubting and said, “If we can keep on like this, sir, I think we’ll do fine. One of the things we need to do is believe in ourselves, and you make us do that.”
“I don’t make us do a solitary thing except for what I order,” Bart said.
Now George laughed. “Oh, I doubt that, sir.”
But General Bart ignored the joke-which he’d hardly even heard before-and went on as if George hadn’t spoken: “I do believe a united kingdom is stronger than a divided one can hope to be. That may give us an edge against the traitors. I hope it does. But what good is an edge unless you go out and take advantage of it? None, not that I can see.”
That was nothing but good, hard common sense. Good, hard common sense had been in moderately short supply in this camp lately: one more thing about which even Doubting George entertained no doubts. He came to stiff attention and saluted. “With you in charge in these parts, I think we’ll grab every edge we can find.”
“No, no,” Bart said mildly. “You don’t grab the edge. You grab the hilt and give the enemy the edge.” He chuckled.
So did George, rather dutifully. He’s fond of foolish jokes, he thought, and then decided it didn’t matter much. He’d known worse commanders with habits much more obnoxious than that.
Out in the street, a newly arrived regiment of Avram’s soldiers tramped by, band blaring and thumping at their head. “More reinforcements,” George said happily. “Even with the roads as bad as they are, even with the traitors where they are, we’re bringing in what we need.”
“So we are,” Bart agreed. After some hesitation, he inquired, “Ah… what tune are they playing there?”
Now Doubting George doubted he’d heard correctly. “Why, the Battle Psalm of the Kingdom, of course,” he replied.
“Oh.” General Bart let out another chuckle, this one aimed at himself. “I only know two tunes, you see. One’s the Royal Hymn, and the other one-the other one isn’t.”
Another foolish joke. George laughed again, too. Then, seeing the wistful look on the commanding general’s face, he wondered if Bart had been joking.
Rollant yawned enormously. He’d been doing that ever since Sergeant Joram gave him a boot in the backside and got him out of his bedroll. Beside him, Smitty was yawning, too. They weren’t the only ones unhappy at having to make a night march. Everyone in the whole regiment seemed no better than half awake.
“This had better work,” Smitty grumbled. “If they made me lose sleep on account of some gods-damned brainless noble’s brainstorm, I’m really going to be hot.”
Such talk still faintly scandalized Rollant, even though the former serf had been living in the free and easygoing south for some years. Back in Palmetto Province, no one-and especially no blond-would have mocked the nobility so. He tried to hide his feelings with raillery of his own: “I’m sure all the dukes and counts and barons are trembling in their boots, Smitty.”
“They’d better be.” Smitty sounded as if he meant it. “It’s us commoners who do most of the work and make most of the money, and the bluebloods don’t remember it nearly often enough.”
That scandalized Rollant, too, and more than a little. He took the nobles and their privileges for granted; he was just glad to be out from under Baron Ormerod. “How would we run things if there weren’t any nobles?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but I expect we’d manage,” Smitty said. “Free Detinans can do whatever we set our minds to do.”