Hesmucet pondered that. He was not a sweet-tempered man, but he was, on the whole, a just one. However much he wanted to scorch Brigadier James for his presumption, he discovered he couldn’t. “Well, gods damn it, you’re right,” he said.

James the Bird’s Eye blinked. “Sir?” Evidently, that wasn’t what he’d expected to hear from the general commanding.

“You’re right,” Hesmucet repeated. “I wish you weren’t, but you are. I sent a boy to do a man’s job, and I had a man ready to hand. That was a mistake. I hope I won’t make the same one again. A good general makes mistakes once. A bad general keeps doing the same stupid gods-damned thing over and over.”

“That’s… probably something worth remembering,” James said.

“So it is-for you and me both,” Hesmucet said. “All right, Brigadier-you may go. It would have been nice if we could have just swarmed into Caesar and ruined Joseph the Gamecock right at the start of this campaign, but if we can’t, we can’t. We’ll try something else, that’s all.”

Saluting, James the Bird’s Eye ducked his way out of the pavilion. Hesmucet paused, thinking how the war had changed since its early days. Doubting George had had it right. Back then, armies on both sides had largely marched where they would. When they happened to collide with an opposing army, they would fight. Now both Marshal Bart and Hesmucet himself had clear goals in mind: Bart to hammer the Army of Southern Parthenia till it could stand no more hammering, Hesmucet to do the same to the Army of Franklin. No one in the first two years of the war could even have imagined such efforts. These truly were campaigns, perhaps the first such that had ever been fought in the Kingdom of Detina.

“What that means is, I’d better not bungle this one any more,” Hesmucet muttered. He stepped out of the pavilion and called for a couple of runners. When the men came up, he said, “My compliments to Doubting George and Fighting Joseph, and ask them to attend me here at their earliest convenience.”

“Yes, sir,” the runners chorused. They put their heads together for a moment, no doubt deciding who would go to which general. Then they loped away.

Lieutenant General George got to Hesmucet’s tent first. The commanding general would have been surprised had it been the other way round. George might not love me, but he does love the kingdom, Hesmucet thought. Fighting Joseph loves Fighting Joseph, and nobody and nothing else.

“Your flanking move didn’t quite work, sir,” George remarked.

“No, not quite,” Hesmucet agreed. “I probably should have used James the Bird’s Eye to demonstrate against the two gaps farther south and sent your bigger army through Viper River Gap against Caesar.”

“I rather thought so at the time, sir, but I doubted whether I should press the point,” George said. “I know you’re keeping that kind of eye on me.”

“Well… yes.” Hesmucet wasn’t easily nonplused, but Doubting George had done the job. “We will manage to work together, though, one way or another, I think. And I’m still figuring out what I can do with all the soldiers I’ve got here. This is a large command. Next time, I’ll manage my moves better.”

“Fair enough, sir,” George said. “I don’t doubt that in the slightest.”

Fighting Joseph rode up just then, a procession of one. Hesmucet, an indifferent rider, had an indifferent unicorn. Doubting George, a good rider, had a fine unicorn. And Fighting Joseph, a splendid rider, had the most glorious unicorn Hesmucet had ever seen: whiter than snow, horn shod with polished silver rather than workaday iron, coat and mane and tail all combed to magnificent perfection.

Fighting Joseph looked moderately magnificent himself. He was a handsome, ruddy man whose hair had gone silver, not mere gray. He looked as if he ought to be a king, not so lowly a creature as a general. Many people-King Avram not least among them-believed he thought he ought to be king, too. Avram had given him command in the west anyhow the year before, willing to gamble victories against the chance of a usurpation after them.

He hadn’t got the victories. Duke Edward of Arlington not only beat but embarrassed Fighting Joseph at Viziersville. Now Joseph commanded a wing here in the distant east, not an army in the vital west. But he still thought well of himself.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said as he dismounted and tied his unicorn to a tree branch. He saluted with a certain reluctance, as if unhappy about acknowledging any man his superior, even if only in a formal sense. “Now that we didn’t break through here, what are we going to try next?”

“Breaking through again, obviously,” Hesmucet said. Fighting Joseph had nerve, throwing his failure in his face like that. But then, Fighting Joseph did have nerve and to spare. What he didn’t quite have was the soldierly talent to go with it.

“Just as you say, sir,” Fighting Joseph replied. “I did it on the slopes of Sentry Peak, and George here did it at Proselytizers’ Rise-with a little help from Thraxton the Braggart, of course.” He chuckled. “I expect we can manage something along those lines for you again.”

Hesmucet glared at him. He’d led troops himself in that fight, but he hadn’t taken Funnel Hill south of Proselytizers’ Rise-the defenses there turned out to be stronger than he and Marshal Bart had believed. To be reminded that his subordinates had done what he hadn’t stung. If he showed the sting, though, he gave Fighting Joseph what he wanted.

And so he said, “I’m sure you’ll do your best.” He pointed westward. “Going through the Army of Franklin won’t be so neat or so cheap as stealing a march on it would have been, but we do what we have to do, not always what we want to do.” I have to put up with you, for instance, not least so King Avram doesn’t have to do it on the other side of the Green Ridge Mountains.

Fighting Joseph peered west, too. So did Doubting George. Fighting Joseph coughed once or twice before remarking, “Those are formidable works the traitors have there.”

“I know,” Hesmucet said. “They set their serfs to digging like moles. If we can force them out of their trenches, though, the advantage swings to us. You and Lieutenant General George will try tomorrow at sunrise.”

Faced with a direct order, Fighting Joseph said the only thing a soldier faced with a direct order could say: “Yes, sir.”

When Hesmucet glanced toward Doubting George, his second-in-command nodded and also said, “Yes, sir.” He added, “I hope we’ll have as much magecraft as possible supporting the attack.”

“You will,” Hesmucet promised. “Now go ready your men.” The two generals saluted again and rode off toward their own encampments. Hesmucet called for two more runners. “Fetch me Colonel Phineas and Major Alva,” he said.

The mages arrived together, both of them aboard asses; for some reason Hesmucet had never been able to fathom, wizards made shockingly bad unicorn-riders. “Good day, sir,” Phineas said. He was round-faced and plump and bald as a turnip. He’d been senior mage in the army since General Guildenstern commanded it. He was excellent at keeping track of things, but, like a lot of southron sorcerers, only moderately good at actual conjuration.

“Good day, Colonel,” Hesmucet returned, every bit as formally. Getting the most out of Phineas involved taking him seriously, or at least seeming to.

“What can we do for you, sir?” That was Major Alva, his young voice cracking with eagerness. He was tall and skinny, with a beard still patchy in spots and with a shock of panther-black hair that wouldn’t lie flat no matter how he greased and combed it, but that stuck out in all directions like the springs from a skinned sofa. He’d been Lieutenant Alva till a few months before, but he was the most potent southron mage Hesmucet had ever found. Phineas kept track of things. Alva did things, and liked doing them.