Harry Turtledove - Advance and Retreat

Joram nodded his big, heavy-featured head once more. “Don’t blame you a bit. If I were a blond, I’d say the same gods-damned thing. Since I’m not a blond, I’ll say something else instead: don’t expect miracles. The gods don’t dole ’em out very often. If you figure everything’s going to be perfect on account of we’ve gone and whipped false King Geoffrey, you’ll wind up disappointed.”

Now Rollant laughed. “Sir, I’m a blond. It’s a miracle I believe in miracles, if you know what I mean.”

“I think maybe I do.” Lieutenant Joram smacked him on the back, hard enough to stagger him. “Never mind miracles, then. Believe that we’ve won this war whether we go over the Franklin or not, and that we’ll go on from there.”

Everyone kept saying the same thing. It wasn’t so much that Rollant believed it was wrong, for he didn’t. After the fight in front of Ramblerton, no northern army worthy of the name survived east of the Green Ridge Mountains. But he wanted to be in at the death, to see false King Geoffrey’s realm fail. Hearing that it happened somewhere else later on didn’t have the same feel, the same meaning. Yes, I want victory in my own hands , he thought, and then, How very, very Detinan I’m getting .

John the Lister had done a lot of hard and dangerous things during the War Between the Provinces. He’d got his detachment through the battle of Poor Richard, and wrecked the Army of Franklin in the process. His men had played a major role in the victory in front of Ramblerton, and in the pursuit that followed. And now here he was talking, negotiating terms of surrender for… a postmaster?

The postmaster in question, a wizened, bespectacled little man named Ithran, had taken care of letters and parcels going into and out of the town of Warsaw. He’d done that before the war, and he’d done it under the auspices of false King Geoffrey during the war, and he wanted to go on doing it now that King Avram’s authority had come to northern Franklin. What he didn’t want to do was swear an oath of allegiance to Avram.

“Well, that’s simple enough,” John told him. “If you don’t, your town will have a new postmaster fast as we can find one.”

Ithran writhed like a man who needed to run to the jakes. “It’s not fair,” he whined. “With the war just about over, who else would I be loyal to?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to find out. Neither does his Majesty,” John replied. “No penalty will fall on you if you don’t swear the oath. King Avram is a merciful man-more merciful than he ought to be, I often think. But if you cannot swear loyalty to him by the Thunderer and the Lion God and the rest of the heavenly host on Mount Panamgam beyond the sky, you will not stay postmaster in Warsaw.”

“But-” Ithran threw his hands in the air. He must have seen that John the Lister meant what he said. “All right. All right ! I’ll swear. Do I give you my oath?”

“No. You give it to the priests. They’re the proper ones to hold it. Ask in our encampment,” John said. “Someone will tell you where to find them.”

“I’ll do that. Thank you.” Despite the polite words, Ithran sounded anything but grateful. Still fuming, he scuttled out of John’s presence.

John reminded himself to check to make sure Ithran had sworn the oath before letting him open up the post office in Warsaw. Even if he did swear it, John judged he wouldn’t do so with anything even approaching sincerity. He had, after all, already sworn allegiance first to King Buchan and then to false King Geoffrey. After that, how important would he reckon one more oath? But John was not charged with enforcing sincerity, only the law King Avram had ordained.

And, once the oath was sworn, the priests wouldn’t be the only ones holding it. The gods would also keep it in their hands. While that might not matter in this world, it should in the next. Several of the seven hells had particularly… interesting sections reserved for oathbreakers.

That was one reason why John the Lister didn’t fret much about Ithran’s sincerity (though he did wish Major Alva had never told him about the Inward Hypothesis, which made the gods seem weaker than they should). The other was that, as the postmaster himself had said, the war was nearly over, false King Geoffrey nearly beaten. If no one could carry on the fight for Geoffrey, Ithran and all the people like him would have to stay loyal to Avram.

A runner came up to John and stood at attention, waiting-ostentatiously waiting-to be noticed. When John nodded, the young soldier in gray saluted and said, “Sir, you are ordered to report to Lieutenant General George’s pavilion right away.”

“Oh, I am, am I?” John said. “What’s this all about?”

The runner shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. I was just told to deliver the message, and now I’ve done it.”

“I’m on my way, then.” John wondered if the runner could have told him more than he had. Rumor and gossip always swirled through the camp. John shrugged broad shoulders. He’d find out soon enough.

Doubting George stood waiting for him outside the pavilion. The commanding general didn’t look particularly happy, but then George never looked particularly happy. He returned John’s salute in an absentminded way.

“Reporting as ordered, sir,” John said. “What’s going on? Will we cross the Franklin and chase the traitors after all?”

“No.” Doubting George shook his head. “This army will do no such thing. The new orders I have from Georgetown make that perfectly clear.”

“Oh, dear. Too bad,” John said. “We really ought to finish smashing up the Army of Franklin and Lieutenant General Bell, or whoever’s in charge of it if Bell really has resigned.”

“The chowderhead is gone,” George said. “No doubt about that at all. I don’t know who the traitors will appoint in his place. I don’t know how much it matters, either, not with these orders I’ve got.”

John the Lister frowned. “What are your orders, sir?” Whatever they were, they seemed to have sucked all the vitality out of the commanding general. John couldn’t remember ever having seen him so low, not even after the disaster by the River of Death. George had been a tower of strength then; without him, General Guildenstern’s whole army, and the southron war effort east of the mountains, might well have gone to pieces in the aftermath of the defeat.

Now he said, “Your wing, Brigadier, is to be detached from my army and sent to General Hesmucet in the west, to go to Croatoan and join him after he moves south through Palmetto Province toward Marshal Bart at Pierreville.”

“My… entire wing? With me in charge of it?” John the Lister had trouble believing his ears.

But Doubting George’s heavy, pain-filled nod assured him he’d heard correctly. “That is what the order says. I suppose I should congratulate you.” He held out his hand. “You’ll get to be in at the very end, to see everything false King Geoffrey has left fall to bits.”

Automatically, John took the proffered hand. He said, “But why are they leaving you behind, sir? If anybody’s earned the right to be there, you’re the man.”

“Not according to what the orders say. They’re not happy with me over in Georgetown. No, they’re not happy at all.”

“Why the hells not?” John asked in honest amazement. He knew his own career was rising while George’s stumbled, and he rejoiced that he was moving up in the world and in the army, but this left him baffled. “What could they ask you to do that you haven’t done?”

“Well, for one thing, they’re still grumbling because they think I took too long to hit the Army of Franklin in front of Ramblerton. They don’t seem to care that I shattered it when I did hit it, and they’re annoyed with me for not pursuing harder and not destroying it altogether.”