Harry Turtledove - Advance and Retreat

One other thing of which John was convinced was that the Detinans in the north weren’t about to accept blonds as their equals, no matter what King Avram had to say about it and even if they did lose the War Between the Provinces. The brigadier wondered how that would play out in the years to come. How many soldiers would Avram need to garrison the northern provinces to make sure his will was carried out? Would he keep them there to make sure it was? He was a stubborn man; John knew as much. But the northerners, like any Detinans, were stubborn, too.

Gods be praised, it isn’t my worry , John the Lister thought. All he had to do was carry out commands. King Avram was the one who had to give them, and to figure out what they ought to be. Most of the time, Brigadier John had the same schoolboy fancies as flowered in the heart of any other man. What if I were King of Detina? Wouldn’t it be wonderful, for me and for everybody else?

Looking at what lay ahead for the kingdom, at what King Avram would have to do if he wanted to knit things back together for south and north yet at the same time cling to his principles, John decided the current king was welcome to the job. After he’s straightened things out-then, maybe…

John got so lost in his reverie, he didn’t notice another unicorn coming up beside his. A dry voice snapped him back to the here-and-now: “Well, Brigadier, it hasn’t turned out too bad the past couple of weeks, has it? No matter what those bastards over in Georgetown say, I mean.”

Snapping to attention on unicornback wasn’t practical. John the Lister did salute. “No, sir. Not too bad at all.”

“Glad you agree,” Doubting George said. “Of course, Baron Logan the Black would have done everything a hells of a lot better. He’s sure of it even now, I bet, and so is Marshal Bart.”

Sarcasm like that flayed. John said, “Sir, I don’t see how anybody could have done anything better on this campaign.” Maybe his words held some flattery. He knew they also held a lot of truth.

Doubting George muttered something into his beard, something distinctly un flattering to the Marshal of Detina. Part of John the Lister hoped the general commanding would go into more detail; he liked gossip no less than anyone else in King Avram’s gossip-loving armies. But all George said after that was, “Well, by the Thunderer’s prick, we’ve done every single thing we were supposed to do with the Army of Franklin. We’ve done every single gods-damned thing we were supposed to do to the Army of Franklin, too.”

That wasn’t altogether true. The Army of Franklin still existed, at least after a fashion. George had wanted to expunge it from the field altogether. Thanks more to Ned of the Forest than anyone else, he hadn’t quite managed to do it, though Bell’s force wouldn’t endanger Cloviston, or even Franklin, again. “What now, sir?” John the Lister asked. “Do we go up and down the river till we find a place where we can get our own pontoon bridge across? Do we keep on chasing Bell and whatever he’s got left of an army?”

With a certain amount of regret-more than a certain amount, in fact-George shook his head. “Those aren’t my orders, however much I wish they were. My orders are to hold the line of the Franklin and to garrison the northern part of Franklin against possible further attacks by the traitors.” A chuckle rumbled, down deep in his chest. “I don’t expect that last’ll be too gods-damned hard. A weasel doesn’t come out and bite a bear in the arse.”

“They’d better not, by the Lion God’s talons!” John exclaimed. “Not even Bell could be crazy enough to want to go back to the fight.”

“Ha!” Doubting George said. “You never can tell what that son of a bitch’d be crazy enough to do. I’m sure he wants to fight us some more. He just doesn’t have any army left to do it with, that’s all, at least not so far as I can see. Our job now is to make sure we send him back with his tail between his legs if he is daft enough to try it.” He paused and frowned, dissatisfied with the figure of speech. “How the hells can we send him back with his tail between his legs if he’s only got one leg?”

“If that’s your biggest worry, sir, this campaign is well and truly won,” John said.

“I expect it is.” Doubting George still sounded imperfectly ecstatic. “Did I tell you? I had a call on the crystal ball from his Imperial Bartness the other day, telling me what a clever fellow I was, and how I’d been a good little boy after all.”

“No, you didn’t mention that,” John the Lister replied. He couldn’t help echoing, “His Imperial Bartness?”

“What would you call him?” George said. “We have Kings of Detina all the time-we’ve got too gods-damned many Kings of Detina right this minute, but there’s always at least one. But till Bart, we hadn’t had a Marshal of Detina for seventy or eighty years. If that doesn’t make a Marshal of Detina fancier and more important than a King of Detina, to the hells with me if I know what would. And don’t you suppose a fancy, important rank deserves a fancy, important-sounding title to go with it?”

“To tell you the truth, sir, I hadn’t really thought about it.” John wondered if anyone but Doubting George would have thought of such a thing.

“Well, anyway, like I say, he told me I was a good little boy, and he patted me on the head and said I’d get a bonbon or two for singing my song so nice, even over and above making me lieutenant general of the regulars,” the general commanding went on, not bothering to hide his disdain. “And I rolled on my back and showed him the white fur on my belly and kicked my legs in the air and gods-damned near piddled on his shoe to show him how happy I was about the bonbons.”

John the Lister had an alarmingly vivid mental image of Doubting George acting like a happy, bearded puppy and Marshal Bart beaming benignly out of a crystal ball. John had to shake his head to drive the picture out of it. “You always have such an… interesting way of putting things, sir,” he managed at last.

“You think I’m out of my mind, too,” George said equably. “Well, hells, maybe I am. Who knows for sure, especially these days? But crazy or not, I won . That’s what counts.”

It was what counted. For a soldier, nothing else really did. John nodded and said, “This kingdom’s going to be a different place when the fighting finally stops. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.”

“I’ve been thinking about it myself, as a matter of fact,” Doubting George replied. “I doubt I’m going to be very happy with all the changes, either. But it’ll still be one kingdom, and that’s what counts, too.”

He was right again. That was what counted, too, for King Avram’s side. John the Lister nodded. “Yes, sir.”

What was left of the Army of Franklin straggled into the town of Honey, in the southwestern part of Great River Province. The southrons had given up their pursuit after failing to bag the army in front of the Franklin River. Now Lieutenant General Bell wanted to salvage whatever he could from the ruins of his campaign up toward Ramblerton. He even hoped to salvage what was left of his own career.

That last hope died a miserable death when he recognized the officer sitting his unicorn in the middle of Honey’s muddy main street and waiting for him. Saluting, Bell spoke in a voice like ashes: “Good day, General Peegeetee. How… very fine to see you, your Grace.”

Marquis Peegeetee of Goodlook punctiliously returned Bell’s salute. “It is good to see you, too, Lieutenant General, as always,” he replied, reminding Bell which of them held the higher rank. He was a short, ferret-faced man, a very fine and precise commander who would have been of more use to King Geoffrey if he hadn’t been in the unfortunate habit of making plans more elaborate than his men, most of whom were anything but professional soldiers, could carry out… and if he weren’t at least as touchy as Count Joseph the Gamecock. He went on, “We shall have a good deal to talk about, you and I.”