Martial music rang out-the call for Earl James’ army to gather together. As the trumpeters played, they eyed James reproachfully. He knew why; Count Thraxton’s army wouldn’t have fallen to pieces had James given them the news before anyone else got it. He wagged his finger at them again. One of them missed a note. That made the others eye their comrade reproachfully. They took pride in what they did. James nodded at that; anything worth doing was worth doing well.

Soldiers in blue tunics and pantaloons-and some in blue tunics and in gray pantaloons taken from southrons who didn’t need them any more-hurried from their tents and huts to the meadow where they gathered to hear such announcements as their commander chose to give them. They formed by squads, by companies, by regiments, by brigades, by divisions. At the head of one of the three divisions stood Brigadier Bell, a fierce smile brightening his pain-wracked face. Unlike the trumpeters, he had a pretty good notion of what James would say.

James strode out in front of the crossbowmen, the pikemen, and the unicorn-riders he commanded. As he ascended to a little wooden platform, he was very conscious of the thousands of eyes upon him. That sort of scrutiny made most men quail. Whatever else James was, he wasn’t modest. He relished the attention.

When he held up a hand, complete and instant silence fell. Into it, General James boomed, “Soldiers of the Army of Southern Parthenia, soldiers of my wing, King Geoffrey has given us the duty of coming to the rescue of our beset comrades in the east. As you will know, Count Thraxton has been forced from Rising Rock, forced from Franklin altogether. He is-the kingdom is-counting on us to come to his aid, to help him drive the invaders from our sister province. The Army of Southern Parthenia is the finest force of fighters in Detina-in all the world. When we go east, shall we show Thraxton-shall we show General Guildenstern, may the gods curse him-how soldiers who know their business make war?”

“Aye!” his troopers roared, a great blast of sound.

“Good,” James said. “Tomorrow morning, then, at dawn, we march to the glideway port at Lemon’s Justiciary. From there, we fare forth to Peachtree Province, and from there we help Count Thraxton bring Franklin back to its proper allegiance. Is it good?”

“Aye!” the men in blue roared again.

Earl James saluted them as if they were his superiors, which made them cheer louder than ever. But when he raised his right hand, the cheers cut off as if at a swordstroke. They’re fine men, he thought. No commander could ask for better. More, perhaps, but not better. “Dismissed!” he called to them. “Be ready to move when your officers and underofficers give the word.”

As the soldiers streamed back toward their encampment, Brigadier Bell came up to James. The lines of agony from Bell’s crippled arm would probably never leave his face, but his eyes shone. “A new chance,” he breathed. “A chance to strike the southrons the blow we’ve been looking to strike since the war began.”

“A new chance,” James of Broadpath agreed. “Maybe our best chance.”

“Yes!” Bell said. “We have never shifted men from the Army of Southern Parthenia to the east. Guildenstern won’t expect it.” His lip curled. “Guildenstern hasn’t the mother wit to expect much.”

“Maybe our best chance,” Earl James repeated. His spirit wanted to soar. Bell’s eagerness and the way the men responded to the transfer order tried to make it soar. But the war-the war he, like so many of Geoffrey’s followers, had gaily assumed would be won in weeks-had ground into its third year with no end in sight. And so, instead of scaling his hat through the air in glee, he added, “Maybe our last chance, too.”

The divisional commander stared at him. “Your Excellency, this is your scheme,” Bell reminded him. “Have you no faith in it?”

“With the way the war has gone, my view at this stage of things is that any man who has faith in anything but the gods is a fool,” James answered. “What I have is hope, a more delicate, more fragile flower.”

He might as well have started speaking the language of the camel-riding desert barbarians of the western continent, for all the sense he made to Brigadier Bell. Well, that was the advantage of being a superior officer. Bell didn’t have to see the sense in his words. All he had to do was obey. And he could be relied upon for that.

Getting James’ effects ready to move took some doing: he had a great many more effects than his troopers did. Even with some serfs from Broadpath helping knock down the pavilion and load it and its contents into a couple of wagons, he felt rushed and harried. But he couldn’t very well require of the men what he did not match himself. And so, mounted on his big-boned unicorn, he led the march out of camp at sunrise the next morning.

Lemon’s Justiciary was named after the stone fortress where an early Count Lemon had had his courthouse. A little town had grown up around the fortress after the local blonds were subdued, a little town that had got bigger when the glideway went through and the port was built a stone’s throw from that frowning stone keep.

For ages, men had dreamt of flying. Those camel-riding desert barbarians had tales of flying carpets. But that was all they were: tales. Modern mages in Detina and in the kindred kingdoms back across the Western Ocean had finally persuaded carpets to rise a couple of feet off the ground and travel along certain sorcerously defined glideways at about the speed of a galloping unicorn. It wasn’t what poets and storytellers had imagined-but then, the real world rarely matched poems and stories. It was a great deal better than nothing.

Or it would have been, had any carpets waited at the Lemon’s Justiciary glideway port. James and his men were there. Their conveyances?

James set hands on hips and roared at the portmaster: “Where are they, you worthless, stinking clot?”

“Don’t blame me, your Excellency,” the portmaster answered. “By the gods, you can’t blame me. Something must have got buggered up somewheres further north-in Nonesuch its ownself, or up in Pierreville north of there. I can’t give you what I don’t got.” He spread his hands. He went further than that: he pulled out the pockets of his pantaloons to show he had no traveling carpets hidden there.

Cursing did no good. James cursed anyway. Setting his hand on the hilt of his sword did no good, either. That didn’t stop him from half drawing the blade. He said, “I can’t travel on what I haven’t got, either. And if I can’t travel, I can’t save the kingdom. The longer I have to wait here twiddling my thumbs, the longer the army has to wait here twiddling its thumbs, the greater the risk the war in the east will be lost past fixing. Well, sirrah, what do you say to that?”

With a shrug, the portmaster answered, “Only one thing I can say, your Excellency: I can’t do nothing about it.”

The fleet of carpets finally glided into Lemon’s Justiciary nearer to noon than to sunrise. By then, James of Broadpath was about ready to murder the mages who piloted it. But that would only have made him later still getting to the northern border of Peachtree Province. And those mages, once he got a good look at them, proved plainly weary unto death. The southrons, being tradesmen ever ready to ship their goods now here, now there, had gone into the war with far more glideways and far more wizards able to exploit them than was true in the provinces that had declared for King Geoffrey. They’d got good use from them, too. Till he had to do it, Earl James hadn’t really worried about how hard it was to move and feed large numbers of soldiers. Glideways and their mages helped.

A few days before, he could have got to Peachtree Province by a relatively straight route through eastern Parthenia. But, as Duke Edward had said, one of Avram’s armies now bestrode that glideway path, which meant James’ men had a far more roundabout road to go. Once all his troopers-and their animals, and their catapults, and the fodder for the beasts and the darts and firepots for the engines-were finally aboard the carpets, they had to travel north through Parthenia, through Croatoan (which was supposed to mean something filthy in the language of the blond tribes that had dwelt by the shore of the Western Ocean when the Detinans first came from overseas), and into Palmetto Province before finally swinging east toward Marthasville in Peachtree Province… from which they would finally be able to go south toward the border and Count Thraxton’s waiting army.