Harry Turtledove: Advance and Retreat

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Harry Turtledove is known for his historical fantasy and alternate history. His novels include The Case of the Toxic Spell Dump, Sentry Peak, Marching Through Peachtree, The Guns of the South, and the Great War and World at War series. A Hugo winner and Nebula finalist, he lives in Los Angeles.

Off to the north and west, an army loyal to King Avram marched through crumbling northern defenses in Peachtree Province toward the Western Ocean. Due west, in Parthenia Province, another southron army loyal to Avram laid siege to Pierreville. If the great fortress fell, Nonesuch, the capital of the rebel Grand Duke Geoffrey-he called himself King Geoffrey, a title no one but his fellow traitors acknowledged-would also fall, and in short order.

General Hesmucet led the soldiers marching through Peachtree. Marshal Bart led the soldiers besieging Pierreville.

Doubting George? Doubting George sat in Ramblerton, twiddling his thumbs.

The war between brothers in the Kingdom of Detina was deep into its fourth year now. When King Avram ascended to the throne, he’d let the world know he intended to make citizens of the blond serfs who labored on the nobles’ great estates in the northern provinces. And Geoffrey, his cousin, had promptly led the nobles-and the rest of the north-into rebellion, declaring Avram had no right to do any such thing.

A few southron men, reckoning provincial prerogative more important than the true succession-or sometimes just wed to northern women-had thrown in with the uprising against Avram. And a few northerners, reckoning a single Kingdom of Detina more important than holding the serfs in bondage, had remained loyal to the proper king, the rightful king. Lieutenant General George was one of those men. Geoffrey had promptly confiscated his estates in Parthenia.

That was how the game was played these days. Duke Edward of Arlington, who commanded Geoffrey’s most important force, the Army of Southern Parthenia, had had his estates close by King Avram’s Black Palace in Georgetown. Avram had confiscated them as soon as his soldiers overran them in the early days of the war.

I got the same punishment for being loyal as Duke Edward did for being a traitor, George thought. Is that fair? Is that just?

“I doubt it,” George said aloud. He used the phrase a lot, often enough to have given him his nickname. He was a burly man in his early forties, with a typical dark Detinan beard, full and curly, that gray was just beginning to streak.

He muttered to himself: not words, but a discontented rumble down deep in his throat. The Lion God might have made a noise like that when he contemplated chewing on the souls of sinners.

“No good deed goes unpunished,” Doubting George said when the mutters turned into words again. He’d done as much hard fighting as any southron officer in the war. If it hadn’t been for his stand, there on Merkle’s Hill by the River of Death, the whole southron cause in the east might have unraveled under the hammer blows of Count Thraxton the Braggart’s sorcery.

And what was his reward? How had a grateful kingdom shown him its appreciation for all he’d done, for all he’d sacrificed?

More words emerged: “Here I am in Ramblerton, twiddling my gods-damned thumbs.”

Ramblerton was the capital of Franklin. It lay by the bank of the Cumbersome River, in the southeastern part of the province. Doubting George might have been farther out of the fight down in New Eborac City, but not by much. He’d done the work, and others had got the glory. The war looked well on the way toward being won. He was glad of that. He would have been even gladder to have a bigger part in it.

A sentry stuck his head into Lieutenant General George’s office. “Beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but Major Alva would like to see you, if you’ve got the time.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve got the time,” George replied. “By the Thunderer’s beard, to the seven hells with me if I can think of anything I’ve got more of.”

The sentry withdrew. A moment later, Major Alva came in. He looked preposterously young to be a major. But, for one thing, a lot of officers in this war were preposterously young. And, for another, he was a wizard, and so an officer at least as much by courtesy as because he was expected to command soldiers in the field.

Major Alva, in fact, was short on just about everything that made soldiers what they were. His gray wizard’s robe hung from his scrawny frame. His beard hadn’t been combed any time lately. He plainly needed to remind himself to salute Lieutenant General George.

But he was also far and away the best wizard in Doubting George’s army-maybe the best wizard in any southron army. Before the war, southron mages had done most of their work in manufactories, which didn’t suit them for battle magic. Wizards in the north had worked hard to keep the serfs in line and overawed, which did. In the early years of the war, northern prowess at wizardry had helped hold back southron numbers. Now…

Now Doubting George hoped it wouldn’t any more. Nodding to Alva, he said, “What can I do for you, Major?”

“Something’s going on,” Alva said. Lieutenant General George folded his arms across his broad chest and waited. Alva was swarthy, but not swarthy enough to keep his flush from showing. “Uh, something’s going on, sir .”

Back in the days when Alva was a mere lieutenant, he wouldn’t have had the faintest idea what George was waiting for. Now he knew, though he still plainly thought the idea of military courtesy absurd. George didn’t care what Alva thought. He cared what Alva did. “Do you have any idea what’s going on, Major, or where it’s going on?” he inquired.

“Something to do with the traitors… sir,” the wizard answered.

“I had suspected that, yes.” Doubting George’s voice was dry enough to make Alva flush again. “I doubted you’d have come to me with news of a barge wreck on the Highlow River-although you never can tell.”

“Er, yes,” Major Alva said, visibly off-balance. Like a lot of mages, he conceived of generals as a stiff, stodgy lot. Evidence to the contrary, which Doubting George gave now and again, flustered him.

“And how do you know what you think you know?” George asked.

With a lot of wizards, that would have spawned an endless epistemological discussion. There was one vice, at least, of which Alva was free. He said, “I feel it in my bones, sir.”

George would have thrown most wizards out of his office after an answer like that. With some, he wouldn’t have bothered opening the door first. He paid Alva a high compliment: he took him seriously. “What else can you tell me?” he asked.

“Not much, sir, not yet,” Major Alva said. “But the northerners are stirring, or thinking about stirring. And when they come, they’ll come hard.”

“Best way,” Doubting George agreed, which flustered the young wizard all over again. George went on, “Do you think you could find out more if you did some serious sorcerous poking around?”

“I don’t know for certain, sir,” Alva replied. “I could try to find out, though.”

“Why don’t you do that, then?” George said. “Report back to me if you find anything interesting or important.” Alva was one of those people you needed to remind of such things. Otherwise, he was liable to forget.

He nodded now. “All right. I’ll do that. Snooping is fun. It’s not like General Bell has any wizards who can stop me.” He certainly owned all the arrogance a good mage should have.