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the Lister. "He'd better be careful," John called after them. "He might run
into another southron coward and not live through it."
None of them answered, which he thought mean-spirited.
If one southron can whip one northerner, how many southrons do we need to
whip all the northerners in the Army of Franklin? John wondered. Fewer than
we've already got, I think.
Most of the other southron officers in Ramblerton came up with the same
answer. Doubting George had a different one. He was in command, and so his
answer was the one that counted.
But how long would he stay in command? What sort of answer would Logan the
Black come up with when he got here from the west? John the Lister had no
trouble figuring that out. Logan would attack. He would probably win, too. And
whatever glory there was would go to him.
If it doesn't go to George, it ought to go to me. John had thought that
before. It did him exactly no good. He wasn't the one who got to apportion
such things. Marshal Bart was, and Bart had chosen Baron Logan.
He can give out glory, John thought wonderingly. If that doesn't make a man a
god on earth, what would?
Then he shook his head. Bart could give out the chance for glory. There was
no guarantee Logan the Black could seize it. But after John looked north
toward the Army of Franklin's curtailed lines, he let out a long sigh. If
Logan couldn't whip Lieutenant General Bell ifanybody couldn't whip Lieutenant
General Bell now, he didn'tdeserve glory.
A man in a gray robe came out of a building on the far side of the street: a
tall, skinny, graceless man who looked as if he would fall over in a strong
breeze. John the Lister waved to him. "Major Alva!" he called.
After a moment of blinking and staring and obviously trying to recall who
this person wanting his attention was, Alva waved back. "Hello, sir," he said,
and trotted across the street toward John. An ass-drawn wagon full of barrels
bore down on him. The teamster aboard the wagon jerked the reins hard. Braying
resentfully, the asses stopped less than a yard from Alva. The teamster cursed
like . . .like a teamster , thought John, who was too horrified at the sight
of the best southron wizard east of the Green Ridge Mountains and very
possibly west of them, too barely escaping destruction to indulge himself with
fancy literary figures.
What was even more horrifying was that Alva himself had no idea he'd just
escaped destruction. The braying jackasses and cursing teamster? The rattling
wagon full of barrels? As far as he was concerned, they might have been in New
Eborac City or on the far side of the moon. That meant he was liable to do
something else just as idiotic this afternoon or day after tomorrow, and luck
and a foul-mouthed teamster might not be enough to keep him safe then.
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"Is something wrong, sir?" he asked, which meant that John the Lister's
horror must have been even more obvious than he thought.
"You should be more careful when you cross the street, Major," John got out
after considerable effort.
"You're right," Alva said gravely. That cheered John till the mage went on,
"I almost stepped in a couple of mud puddles there. Only fool luck I didn't, I
suppose."
"Mud puddles," John muttered. He shook his head. "The gods must watch over
you, because you certainly don't seem to be able to take care of it for
yourself."
"What do you mean, sir?" Alva asked. John spread his hands. It wasn't that he
couldn't explain. But he could see explaining would be as useless as
explaining the facts of life to a bullfrog. Then Alva brightened. "Whatever it
is, I hope it can wait. I've been meaning to congratulate you on your
promotion, and this is the first chance I've had."
"Er thank you." John wouldn't have bet that Alva knew the difference between
a captain and a brigadier. His attitude toward subordination argued against
it.
But the wizard said, "You're welcome. Making brigadier in the regulars will
set you up for after the war."
He'd already shown he was thinking about what he would do once the War
Between the Provinces finally ended. Maybe he was thinking about what everyone
would do once the war ended. John nodded and said, "I hope so, anyhow. Are the
traitors up to anything sorcerous that's strange or out of the ordinary?"
"What an interesting question, sir," Major Alva said. "As a matter of fact, I
was checking on them yesterday afternoon. You never can tell about those
people."
"Well, no," John the Lister said. "We are fighting a war with them, if you
recall. What did your check show?"
"Nothing," Alva replied. "Oh, not a great big glow-in-the-dark Nothing, the
kind that can only mean somebody's hiding a great big ugly, nasty Something
behind it. But as far as I can tell, Bell's mages are just doing the usual
kinds of things mages in an army do healing, scrying, investigating for a
what-do-you-call-it. . . ."
He didn't explain. "A what-do-you-call-it?" John asked.
"You know, where they try to find out whether a son of a bitch really is a
son of a bitch," Alva said helpfully.
However helpful he meant to be, he wasn't. And then, all of a sudden, a light
went on inside John's head. "A court-martial!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, one of those." It was, plainly, all the same to Alva. The wizard went
on, "Anyhow, uh, sir, they're doing that kind of thing, but I don't see them
doing anything much else: nothing that they're showing, anyhow." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]