“No,” Rathar said, admitting what he could hardly deny. He’d wondered whether Vatran had slept with Ysolt-or perhaps the better way to phrase it was whether she’d slept with Vatran. Now he knew.
“You didn’t answer me, Marshal,” she said reprovingly as she brought General Vatran a steaming mug of tea and a little pitcher of milk beside it on the tray. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, that’s all right,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“Well,
“Doesn’t bother me,” Vatran said as Ysolt went back to her cooking. “Cursed sight better than no milk at all, even if the bloody Gyongyosians would shit their drawers about it.” He poured some into the tea, then nodded.
“The Zuwayzin drink their tea without milk,” Rathar remarked. “They pour in the honey instead.”
“That’s not my problem-and if I took off my clothes in this weather, it’d freeze right off,” Vatran answered. “I can’t use it as often as I did when I was your age, but I’ve still got a blaze left in the stick every now and again.”
“Good for you,” Rathar said. Like him, Vatran also had a wife somewhere far away from the fighting. Considering what Rathar was doing, he hardly found himself in a position to criticize the general. His attention went back to the map. “They aren’t getting over the Wolter now, by the powers above.”
Carrying his mug, Vatran came to stand by him and study the situation, too. “That’s the truth, unless they scramble down the bank to the river and hop from one ice floe to the next.”
“We’ve got plenty on the other side to stop ‘em if they try it.” Rathar took another pull at his ale. “And they’re still in play here in the city, so they won’t.” He clicked his tongue between his teeth. “The ice doesn’t make it any easier for us to get reinforcements and supplies up here, but I’m cursed if I know what to do about it.”
“It’ll all freeze solid before too long,” Vatran answered. “It’s already doing that farther south. And that’ll solve the problem-if it’s still a problem then.”
“Aye. If.” Rathar made a discontented noise, down deep in his throat. “Even if they can’t break into the Mamming Hills, powers below eat the Algarvians for pushing as far south as they have. Do you know what a demon of a time we’ve had moving things from hither to yon?” He traced what he meant with the blunt, dirty, callused forefinger of his right hand.
“I wouldn’t be worth bloody much if I didn’t know it, would I?” Vatran said. “Haven’t I been screaming at the crystallomancers and at every dunder-headed officer they’ve managed to raise for as long as you have? Haven’t I been screaming even louder than you have? Do you think there’s one officer between here and Cottbus who doesn’t want to wear my guts for garters?”
“I can think of one,” Rathar said. Vatran gave him an indignant look. But then the marshal jabbed a thumb at his own chest. “That’s me. You’ve been a workhorse, and I thank you for it.”
“Considering that you could have sacked me after Durrwangen went down the drain, I’m the one who ought to thank you, and I do,” Vatran answered. “But do you know what it is?” Rathar shook his head, waiting to see what the older man would say. Vatran went on, “We’re too cursed stubborn to quit-you, me, the king, the whole kingdom. When the redheads kicked Valmiera and Jelgava in the balls, the blonds just folded up and died. We’ve done a lot of dying-we’ve done way too bloody much dying-but we never did fold up. And we could have.”
“I know,” Rathar said. “And we’re lucky. If the Algarvians had used a little more honey, if they’d had the wit to prop up a Grelzer noble in Herborn. .”
“They didn’t think they needed to,” Vatran said scornfully. “They figured they could do whatever they pleased, same as they did in the east. Now they’ve found out they were wrong-but it’s a little fornicating late for that, wouldn’t you say?”
“Here’s hoping,” answered Rather, whose greatest fear all along had been that the Unkerlanter peasantry, after more than twenty years of King Swemmel’s rule, would prefer any other overlords, even ones with red hair. But that hadn’t happened, and it didn’t look like happening now. He pointed to the map, north and east of Sulingen. “Before too long, maybe we can start giving them back some of their own.”
“Ground’s not frozen hard enough yet,” Vatran observed.
“I said, ‘before too long.’ “ Rathar sighed. “Do you know what I’ve had more trouble about than anything else?”
“Of course I do,” Vatran answered. “Keeping King Swemmel from ordering us to do things before we’re ready to do them.” He lowered his voice. “If Kyot hadn’t been the same way, Swemmel never would have won the Twinkings War.”
“I know.” Memories of that confused, vicious struggled crowded forward in Rathar’s mind. He shoved them down again; none taught much about the general’s art. “But we’ve managed it this time-so far, anyhow. Easier when I’m away from Cottbus than when I’m there.”
“Aye-his Majesty’s not bending your ear so much,” Vatran said. “Only question is, who’s bending his ear while you’re down here?”
“I do wonder about that every now and then: when I have time to wonder about anything except what the Algarvians are doing, I mean,” Rathar said. “We haven’t had any trouble so far.”
“So far.” Vatran freighted the words with ominous import, as if he were a fortune-teller seeing doom ahead.
“His Majesty wants this war won,” Rathar said. “Till you understand that, you understand nothing about him. He is as inflexible now as he ever was in the days when Kyot offered to split the kingdom.”
“All right.” Vatran leaned forward and spoke in a very, very low voice: “Where d’you suppose we’d be if Kyot had won the civil war?”
“You and I?” Rathar didn’t need long to think that over. “We’d be dead. Kyot didn’t love his enemies any more than Swemmel did-does. They were twins, after all, like as two peas in a pod.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you bloody well know it,” Vatran said. “Where would the kingdom be? Better? Worse? The same?”
“How can you judge?” Rathar answered with a shrug. “Not much different, odds are. The faces would be, but not Unkerlant. Or do you think otherwise?”
“No, not really.” Vatran sighed. “It would be nice if we could be efficient without talking about efficiency all the time, if we could be a proper Derlavaian kingdom instead of a great slapdash
“I know what you’re saying, all right,” Rathar answered. “Anybody who’s ever led troops against Algarvians knows what you mean: either he knows or he gets killed before he can find out. But I’ll tell you something, General.”
“What’s that?” Vatran sounded like a man who’d drunk himself sad, even if he’d had nothing stronger than tea.
“The more we fight the Algarvians, the more efficient we get,” Rathar replied. “We have to. Either that, or we go under. And I’ll tell you something else, too: the redheads never figured we’d last this long. We’ve already given ‘em one surprise. Now we find how many more we’ve got.” He nodded, liking the sound of those words. “We find out pretty soon, by the powers above.”
“Come back here, you miserable, cursed thing!” Skarnu called to a sheep that had broken away from the flock. The sheep showed no interest in coming. It had found some good grass near the edge of the woods, and its thick woolly coat, which hadn’t been sheared in a while, shed the cold, nasty rain that pelted down out of a sky gray to begin with and now darkening toward evening.
Skarnu’s hooded cape shed rain, too, but not so well. He squelched toward the sheep, temper fraying with every step he took. He hefted his crook. When he got close enough to the infuriating animal, he intended to teach it who was boss, and in no uncertain terms.
But the sheep might have known what he had in mind-and it certainly knew just how far he could reach with that crook. Nimble as if it had grown up hopping from crag to crag in the Bratanu Mountains, it skipped away from him again and again. He wondered if it would try to jump the fence and cross the road so it could get in among the oaks and forage for acorns like a wild boar.
