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impressed the clerk. With a yawn, the fellow said, "I've seen plenty of those
before you. You can't expect me to recognize everybody." But he did condescend
to look and see if John had any messages. With a grudging grunt, he passed the
officer from the east a scrap of paper. "Here you are."
"Thank you so much," John said. The desk clerk proved immune to sarcasm, too.
I might have known
, John thought. When he unfolded the scrap of paper, he brightened. "Oh, good.
It's from Marshal Bart."
That at least kept the scrawny little man behind the desk awake enough to ask,
"What has he got to say?"
"We're going to have supper here tonight," John answered before he realized he
didn't have to tell this annoying creature anything. Gathering himself, he
added, "You'd better inform the kitchens so they can
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fix up something extra fine for the Marshal of Detina."
But the desk clerk only sneered. "Shows how much you know. Whatever he orders,
Marshal Bart'll want it with all the juices cooked out of it. He always does.
Cooking fancy for him is just a waste of time."
Defeated, John the Lister went off to his room. He emerged at sunset, to meet
Bart in the lobby. If he hadn't worked with the Marshal of Detina in Rising
Rock, he wouldn't have recognized him. As things were, he almost didn't. Bart
wore a common soldier's plain gray tunic with epaulets fasted on very much as
an afterthought: no fancy uniform for him. His boots were old and muddy. His
face? He could have been a teamster as readily as the most eminent soldier
Detina had produced in the past three generations.
"Good to see you, Brigadier," Bart said, an eastern twang in his voice. "Your
men have done some fine work, and I know they'll do more once they get to
Croatoan and link up with General Hesmucet."
"Thank you very much, sir," John replied. "Shall we go into the dining room?"
"I suppose so," Marshal Bart said. "Have to eat, I reckon." He sounded
completely indifferent. That nasty, nosy little desk clerk, gods damn him, had
had it right.
In the dining room, the blond waiter fawned on Bart and, incidentally, on John
the Lister as well.
Basking in reflected glory, John chose a fancy seafood stew and a bottle of
wine. Bart ordered a beefsteak.
"Don't you care for anything finer, sir?" John asked.
"Not me." Bart turned back to the waiter. "Make sure the cook does it up gray
all the way through. No pink, or I'll send it back." The blond nodded, and
hurried away. To John, Bart said, "I can't abide the sight of blood. I never
have been able to."
"Uh, yes, sir," John said, reflecting that that was an odd quirk for a man
who'd commanded most of the bloodiest fights in Detinan history.
As if thinking along with him, Bart remarked, "I've seen too much blood
already. I don't need to look at more on my plate."
"Yes, sir," John said again. The waiter brought the wine and filled his
goblet, then set the bottle on the table between the two officers. John
reached for it. "Shall I pour you some?"
"No, thanks," Marshal Bart answered. "I will take a drink every now and again,
but only every now and again. I used to like it too well I daresay you'll have
heard about that so now I'm very careful about how much I pour down."
John felt self-conscious about drinking when the Marshal of Detina wouldn't,
but Bart waved for him to go on. His first taste of the wine removed his
lingering hesitation. The House of the Rat had an excellent cellar. The cooks
worked fast, too. The waiter fetched John's stew and a beefsteak that looked
as if it had just come from a long stay in the hottest of the seven hells.
Bart attacked the beefsteak with gusto, though it was so thoroughly cooked, he
had to do some serious work with his knife to hack through it. He said,
"You'll know Joseph the Gamecock is operating against
General Hesmucet in Palmetto Province. Operating as best he can, I should say,
because Hesmucet outnumbers him at least three to one. Your job will be to go
up to Croatoan by sea, hit Joseph in the rear or in the flank as opportunity
arises, and join forces with Hesmucet. Then, if the war has not ended before
you get there, you will come up to Pierreville and help me finish off Duke
Edward of Arlington."
That made John take another big sip of wine. "Finish off Duke Edward of
Arlington," he echoed, awe in his voice. "That hardly seems real."
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"Oh, it real, all right," Bart said. "Real as horseradish. We are going to
whip the traitors, and we are is going to do it pretty quick. I have no doubts
about that, none at all."
He'd never had any doubts about that, which made him unique among King Avram's
officers. And he'd been right. Time and time again, he'd been right. He didn't
look like much. He didn't sound like much.
But he won. That was why Avram had made him Marshal of Detina. And he'd kept
hammering till even
Duke Edward and the Army of Southern Parthenia were visibly coming to the end
of their tether.
Doubts
, John thought. Then he heard himself saying, "Doubting George isn't very
happy with you, you know."
"Yes, I do know that." Bart paused to take another bite of his leathery
beefsteak. Once he'd choked it down, he went on, "I am sorry about it, too.
George is a good man, a sound man. When it comes to holding off the foe, there
is not a better man in all of Detina. But when it comes to going after him . .
. When it comes to going after him, George is too gods-damned slow. That is
the truth. I am sad to say it, but it is the truth. There at Ramblerton, he
should have struck Bell two weeks before he did. He would have won."
Since John the Lister thought the same, he could only nod. That sufficed,
anyhow. If he said unkind things about Doubting George, Bart would see it as
backbiting. Instead, he spooned up a plump, juicy oyster.
Better this than burnt meat
, he thought.
At a table not far away, a good-looking young man began cursing King Avram,
careless of the many gray-clad soldiers in the dining room. John the Lister
scowled. "Who is that noisy fool?" he asked.
To his surprise, Bart seemed unconcerned. "That is Barre the actor," he
answered. "He is Handsome
Edwin's younger brother. He loves lost causes, so naturally he adores false
King Geoffrey."
"Does he?" John the Lister said in a voice as neutral as he could make it.
"How serious is he about adoring Geoffrey? Should he be doing it inside a cell
somewhere instead of in the dining room of the
House of the Rat?"
"Folks who know him better than I do say he is nothing but wind and air, and
that he would not harm a fly," Bart answered. "Putting him in prison would
stir up more trouble than he is likely to cause, so he stays loose."
"I see," said John, who liked none of what he saw or heard.
Barre went on ranting. He didn't sound like an actor. He sounded like a crazy
man. "Thus always to tyrants!" he shouted, and thumped his fist down on the
table in front of him.
"Maybe they could lock him up for being a lunatic," John said hopefully.
Marshal Bart shook his head with just the hint of a smile. "You have been in
the east a long time, John.
Things are . . . different here in Georgetown. It took me a while to get used
to it, too. A lot of men here favor Geoffrey. King Avram does not get upset
about it as long as they keep it to talk, and they mostly do. There were serfs
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