“How could our unicorn riders tell one way or the other, if they only ran into-ran from-Ned’s riders?” Rollant asked.

“That’s a good question, Corporal,” Griff said. “I haven’t got a good answer for you. I wish I did.”

“We’ve been fighting this war for a long time now,” Rollant grumbled. “Why don’t we have generals who know what the hells they’re doing yet?”

“I think John the Lister has a pretty good idea of what he’s doing,” Griff said. “If that is the traitors’ whole army north of us, we’ve got to slow it down as much as we can. We haven’t got the men to crush it all by ourselves.”

“By the Lion God’s claws, I’d like to try,” Rollant declared.

Lieutenant Griff started to answer, then stopped and gave him a curious look. It wasn’t quite the ordinary curious look he would have given had he been arguing strategy with another ordinary Detinan. It also held a certain amount-perhaps more than a certain amount-of surprise. Rollant had no trouble reading Griff’s thoughts. Here’s a blond who’s more interested in fighting the traitors than the commanding general is. Aren’t his kind supposed to be cowards and weaklings?

Wearily, Rollant hefted the company standard. Even more wearily, he said, “Sir, you didn’t let me keep this because I was afraid to fight the northerners. You didn’t promote me to corporal because I was afraid, either. The more of those bastards we kill, the sooner this gods-damned war’ll be over.”

“My,” Griff said after a long, long silence. “You have got fire in your belly, haven’t you?”

“Who better to have fire in his belly than somebody who grew up bound to a liege lord’s lands and ran away?” Rollant replied. “I really know what we’re trying to knock down. Sir.”

That produced another silence, even longer than the first. Rollant wondered if he’d said too much, if Griff would take him for no more than an uppity blond from now on. At last, the company commander said, “If all blonds had your spirit, Corporal, we Detinans would have had a much harder time casting down the blond kingdoms in the north after we crossed the Western Ocean.”

He means well. He’s trying to pay me a compliment, Rollant reminded himself. He chose his words with care: “When we fight the traitors, sir, we’ve got crossbows and iron-headed pikes and unicorns and siege engines and all the rest, and so do they. What we fight with is even on both sides. If the blonds back in those days had had all that stuff instead of bronze maces and asses hauling chariots, and if they’d known more wizardry, the Detinans would have had a lot tougher time.”

“So you think it was the quality of the equipment and magic, not the quality of the men?” Griff said.

“Of course, sir. Don’t you?”

Again, Rollant wondered if he’d said too much. Griff startled him by laughing. “That isn’t the lesson Detinans learn in school, you know,” he remarked.

“Yes, I know it isn’t. But don’t you think it’s true anyhow?”

Lieutenant Griff didn’t answer right away. Rollant gave him credit for that; a lot of Detinans would have. At last, his voice troubled, Griff said, “There may be some truth in what you say, Corporal. But wouldn’t you agree that the first Detinan conquerors were also heroes for overcoming so many with so few?”

Now it was Rollant’s turn to think before he spoke. He’d never tried to put himself in the place of those first Detinans to cross the Western Ocean. His sympathies lay with the blonds. Only reluctantly did he take the conquerors’ side in his mind. No more than a couple of hundred of them had come on that first expedition to what was now Palmetto Province. They’d pushed inland till they found the blond kingdom closest to the Western Ocean-and they’d shattered it. They might have been villains. They hadn’t been weaklings.

His voice as troubled as Griff’s, Rollant answered, “There may be some truth in what you say, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you,” Griff said, which surprised him. The company commander explained, “I’ve heard blonds-educated men, men who’d lived all their lives in the south and were never serfs-say the first heroes were nothing but bandits and robbers, and should have been crucified for what they did. That goes too far, I think.”

“Maybe,” Rollant said. “But then, I’ve heard Detinans-educated men who’d lived all their lives in the south and were never liege lords-say blonds were nothing but cowards and dogs, and should have got even worse than what the first conquerors gave them. That also goes too far, I think.”

“That’s different,” Griff said.

“How?” Rollant asked. “Uh, how, sir?”

“Why…” Griff stopped. Undoubtedly, he’d been about to answer, Why, because that has to do with blonds, or some such thing. Unlike a lot of ordinary Detinans, he saw that wouldn’t do here. He gave Rollant a lopsided grin. “Have anyone ever told you you can be difficult, Corporal?”

“Me, sir?” Rollant shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. All I want to do is get to the bottom of things.”

“And if that doesn’t prove my point, I don’t know what would.” The lieutenant waved to the low swell of ground ahead. “There’s Summer Mountain.” Not even to Rollant’s eye, trained by the low country of Palmetto Province, did it look anything like a mountain. Griff went on, “As I said before, it’s a good defensive position.”

“Yes, sir,” Rollant agreed dolefully. “I thought the idea was to get out there and fight the enemy, though. I wonder why we’re not.”

“Difficult,” Griff repeated, but he had a smile in his voice.

When they did return to Summer Mountain, Colonel Nahath promptly set the whole regiment to digging trenches and heaping the earth up in front of them for breastworks. Rollant didn’t mind digging. On the contrary-the long campaign up in Peachtree Province the previous spring and summer had taught him, along with the rest of General Hesmucet’s army, the value of trenches.

“Isn’t this fun?” Smitty said, flinging up dirt.

“It’s a lot more fun than getting shot,” Rollant answered. “To the hells with me if I want to stand out there in the open for the traitors to shoot at.”

“Well, there is that,” Smitty admitted. “But it’s a lot of work, too.”

“I don’t mind work,” Rollant said. “This is the kind of work I chose for myself when I volunteered to be a soldier.”

Smitty gave him a quizzical look. “You sure you’re one of those shiftless, no-account, lazy blonds everybody’s always talking about?”

Only a few men in the regiment could ask him a question like that without making him angry. Smitty, fortunately, was one of those few. Rollant paused in his own digging, thought for a moment, and then said, “You’ve got a farm outside of New Eborac City, so you work for yourself, right?”

“For myself, and ahead of that for my old man, yes,” Smitty answered.

“You work hard, then, right?”

“I’d better.” Smitty wiped his sweaty face on his sleeve. “Who’ll do the job if I don’t?”

“Now imagine your boss doesn’t care about you-he just wants to get work out of you,” Rollant said.

“I didn’t know you’d met my father,” Smitty said.

That threw Rollant off his glideway path of thought. He needed some effort to return to it: “Suppose he doesn’t care about you, like I said. Suppose he can do anything he wants to you. Suppose you have to do what he says, no matter what it is. And suppose, no matter what you do, you don’t get to keep a copper’s worth of money from the crop you bring in.”

“Doesn’t sound very good,” Smitty said. “Got any more supposes?”

“No, that’s the lot of them,” Rollant said. “Suppose they’re all true. How hard would you work then?”

“I’d do the least I could get away with, I expect.” Smitty paused, taking the point. “So you’re saying blonds aren’t lazy on account of the gods made ’em lazy. You’re saying they’re lazy on account of the liege lords give ’em the shitty end of the stick.”