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Swemmel said, “We had better not rest idle, either. As soon as the ground dries, we want us to move first, before the Algarvians can.” He walked over to the map on the wall by Rathars desk. “You are always talking about flanking attacks. If we can flank them out of Aspang here, their whole position in Grelz crumbles.”

Rathar nodded. The king had been furious for some time because the Unkerlanters hadn’t driven King Mezentio’s men out of Aspang. Having the redheads there didn’t thrill Rathar, either. He’d managed to talk Swemmel out of a headlong assault on the city; Unkerlant had already tried that and bloodily failed. The marshal had no compunction about spending lives but wanted to buy something with what he spent.

And if he’d managed to get the king thinking about flanking maneuvers, he’d accomplished something as important as winning a major battle. “I believe you’re right, your Majesty. I would like to go south and prepare that attack myself. . ..”

But King Swemmel shook his head. “From your own mouth came the words: the Algarvians will not stand idle when the ground dries. What will they do, Marshal? What would you do, did you wear Mezentio’s kilt?”

Swemmel was having a good day. He couldn’t have found a more pertinent question to ask. Rathar did his best to think his way into King Mezentio s mind. One answer emerged: “I would strike again for Cottbus, here in the center. It’s still as important as it ever was. No matter how well we’ve fortified the ground in front of it, the Algarvians will still want it.”

“We agree,” Swemmel said. “And, because we agree, we are going to keep you here in front of the capital, to defend it against the redheads.”

“I obey, your Majesty,” Rathar said glumly. He wished he could fault Swemmel’s logic. But if he was the best general Unkerlant had and Cottbus the vital place likeliest to be endangered, where better to station him than here?

“Of course you obey us,” Swemmel said. “Did you not, we should have got ourselves a new marshal some time ago. Now--ready this assault against the Algarvians around Aspang, pick a general who will run it well, and set it in motion as soon as may be.” The king swept out of the office.

Major Merovec looked inside. When Rathar nodded, his adjutant came in. “What now?” Merovec asked cautiously.

Rathar told him what now. The marshal did not try to hide his frustration. Even if Merovec reported him to the king, Swemmel would have a hard time blaming him for wanting to go out and fight. That wasn’t to say Swemmel couldn’t blame him, but the king would have to work at it.

“Whom will you choose to command in the south, since you may not go yourself?” Merovec asked.

“General Vatran has fought as well as anyone could reasonably expect down there,” Rathar answered, which was true: not even King Swemmel had complained of Vatran. “I’ll leave him there till he proves he can’t do the job--or till a more important one comes along and I promote him into it.”

Merovec thought that over, then nodded. “He seems capable enough. Not like the early days of the fight with the redheads, when generals got the sack about once a week.”

“They got what they deserved,” Rathar said. “One thing war does in a hurry that peace can’t do at all: it sorts out the officers who know how to fight from the ones who don’t. And now, since I can’t go south to lead the attack there, I am going to go to the lines in front of Cottbus, to see what we can do to help Vatran when the attack goes in.”

The lines were a good deal in front of Cottbus these days. A finger’s breadth between two pinholes on the map translated into three hours’ travel in a ley-line caravan car through some of the most ravaged countryside Rathar had ever seen. Neither the Unkerlanters nor their Algarvian foes had asked for or given quarter. Every town and village had been fought over twice, first when the Algarvians

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advanced towards Cottbus and then when they fell back from it. A wall that hadn’t been knocked down was unusual, a building unburnt and intact a prodigy.

About two-thirds of the way to the front, the caravan halted. “I’m afraid you’ll have to get out now, Marshal,” an apologetic mage said. “We haven’t cleared all the Algarvian sabotage from the ley line east of here. We can’t afford to lose you.”

“You’d better have a horse waiting for me, then,” Rathar growled.

“Oh, aye, sir, we do,” the mage said. Sure enough, a groom held a peppy-looking stallion not far from where the caravan car had halted. Rather, no splendid equestrian, would have preferred a gelding, but expected he could manage a more headstrong beast. He was a pretty