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Doubting George did some more muttering. "No good deed goes unpunished," he
said. He'd saved
Avram's hopes in the east with his stand at the fight by the River of Death.
He'd smashed Lieutenant
General Bell in front of Ramblerton, wrecked the Army of Franklin beyond hope
of rescue or repair, murdered false King Geoffrey's chances east of the
mountains . . . and what had he got for it? His command pruned like a potted
plant, and very little else.
Colonel Andy came up to him. George set his teeth. Andy was going to be
sympathetic. George could tell, just by the way his adjutant carried himself;
by the way he pursed his lips; even by the way he took a deep breath and then
let it out, as if he stood by a sickbed and didn't want to talk too loud.
"You'll have heard, I suppose?" Andy said.
"Oh, yes." Doubting George nodded. "Hard-Riding Jimmy's scryer has gone and
done great things."
Andy frowned. "His scryer
, sir? I don't understand."
"Never mind," George said. "But isn't it remarkable how a man becomes a
genius a paladin the instant he escapes my command?"
"What's remarkable," Andy said, swelling up in righteous wrath, "is how
Marshal Bart keeps nibbling away at your command. Remarkable and disgusting,
if anyone wants to know what think."
I
No one did no one who mattered, anyhow. Doubting George knew as much. Colonel
Andy surely did, too. The only opinion that counted was Bart's, and Bart
didn't want George in charge of anything much
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any more. King Avram could have overruled Bart, but Avram hadn't raised up a
Marshal of Detina to go around overruling him afterwards.
"With me or without me, Colonel, we are going to whip the traitors," George
said. "I console myself with that."
Colonel Andy nodded. "Yes, sir. We are. But you ought to play a bigger part.
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You've earned the right, by the Lion God's talons."
"I think I have, too." Doubting George sighed. "Marshal Bart doesn't, and he
and King Avram are the only ones who matter. Bart thinks I'm slow because I
waited for all my men before I hit Bell and the
Army of Franklin. I think I was just doing what I had to do. And we won, gods
damn it."
"That's right, sir. We sure did." Colonel Andy still had plenty of confidence
in George. The only trouble was, Colonel Andy's confidence didn't matter.
Bart's did. And Bart had decided other men could do a better job. He was the
Marshal of Detina. He had the right to do that. And if George didn't care for
it, what could he do? Nothing. Not a single, solitary thing.
"Baron Logan the Black," George muttered. At least he'd been spared that
humiliation. To be ousted by a man who wasn't even a professional soldier . .
. But it hadn't happened. He had gone forward. He had
won. He had got no credit for it. Nor, by all appearances, would he ever.
He found out exactly how true that was at supper. He'd just sat down to a big
plate of spare ribs (though he doubted the pig they'd come from had thought
them spares) when a scryer came in and said, "Sir, Marshal Bart wants to speak
to you right away."
"He would." Doubting George didn't want to speak to the Marshal of Detina.
What a mere lieutenant general wanted in such circumstances mattered not at
all. "Well, run along and tell him I'm coming." He cast a last longing glance
at the spare ribs before heading off to the scryers' pavilion.
There was Bart's image, staring out of a crystal ball. Bart wasn't an
impressive man to look at. In a crowd, he tended to disappear. But no one
could deny he had a driving sense of purpose, a refusal to admit he could be
defeated, that had served Detina well. "Good evening, Lieutenant General," he
said now when he spotted George. "How are you?"
"Hungry, sir, if you want to know the truth," George answered. "What can I do
for you at suppertime?"
If the barb bothered Bart if Bart even noticed it was a barb he gave no sign.
He said, "I want you to move your force to Wesleyton in western Franklin as
soon as is practicable. The less delay the better.
You must be in place there in two weeks' time."
"Move the force I have left, you mean," Doubting George said.
"Yes, that's right," Bart agreed, again ignoring the sarcasm. "I have an
important task for you there."
"Do you?" George said. "I thought my sole and entire function in this army was
to stay where I am and grow moss. What else am I supposed to be doing?"
"Before too long, I aim to commence operations against Duke Edward of
Arlington," Bart replied, still impassive. "If he is dislodged from the works
covering Pierreville, he is likely to retreat eastward. Your men in Wesleyton
will keep him from using western Franklin as a refuge, and you will be able to
hold him until I can catch up with him with the bulk of my force and destroy
the Army of Southern
Parthenia."
He was as calm as if talking about the qualities of pine boards. But he meant
every word of it. Of that
Doubting George had no doubt at all. The idea left him slightly no, more than
slightly stunned. Ever
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since the beginning of the War Between the Provinces, the Army of Southern
Parthenia had been a fearful prodigy to all of King Avram's generals and
armies that had to face it. It had been . . . but it was no more. Bart had its
measure.
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And for that, Doubting George admitted to himself, the nondescript little man
who wouldn't believe false King Geoffrey's armies could beat him deserved to
be Marshal of Detina.
Whether he deserved it or not, though, what he had in mind failed to delight
George. "You want me to go to Wesleyton and sit there, just in case Duke
Edward happens to come my way?"
"That's right." Bart nodded, pleased that he understood. "Of course, since you
will be there with your army, Edward's less likely to come that way. He's
slippery as a barrister, Edward is, and so we've got to make sure he's shut up
tight."
"I . . . see," George said slowly. "Isn't there anything more useful I could
be doing than sitting around in
Wesleyton impersonating a cork?"
"I don't believe so," Bart answered. "It's a useful thing to do, and the other
pieces of your army are off doing different useful things in other places.
This seems a good enough thing for the men you still have with you to do."
"A good enough thing," Doubting George echoed. "Gods damn it, Bart, we were
more than 'good enough' not so long ago."
"Finally, yes. But you could have whipped Bell sooner. You should have whipped
Bell sooner. Instead, you had King Avram and me half out of our minds with
worry that the Army of Franklin would get around you and head for the Highlow
River."
"Well, Marshal, if his Majesty thought that and especially if you thought
that, you were out of your minds, and not just halfway, either," George said.
"Bell wasn't going anywhere, and neither was his army. He'd come as far as he
could. If you'd had a look at his men, you could have seen that for yourself.
I did. And I knew what I saw, too," George said.
Did something glint in Marshal Bart's eyes? George wasn't sure. The marshal
had perhaps the deadest pan in Detina, too. Bart said, "You are entitled to
your opinion, Lieutenant General. I am also entitled to mine. My opinion is
that sending you to Wesleyton is the best thing I can do right now, given the
way the war is going. Carry out your orders."
"Yes, sir," Doubting George said woodenly. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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