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much more obnoxious than that.
Out in the street, a newly arrived regiment of Avram's soldiers tramped by,
band blaring and thumping at their head. "More reinforcements," George said
happily. "Even with the roads as bad as they are, even with the traitors where
they are, we're bringing in what we need."
"So we are," Bart agreed. After some hesitation, he inquired, "Ah . . . what
tune are they playing there?"
Now Doubting George doubted he'd heard correctly. "Why, the Battle Psalm of
the Kingdom, of course," he replied.
"Oh." General Bart let out another chuckle, this one aimed at himself. "I
only know two tunes, you see. One's the Royal Hymn, and the other one the
other one isn't."
Another foolish joke. George laughed again, too. Then, seeing the wistful
look on the commanding general's face, he wondered if Bart had been joking.
* * *
Rollant yawned enormously. He'd been doing that ever since Sergeant Joram gave
him a boot in the backside and got him out of his bedroll. Beside him, Smitty
was yawning, too. They weren't the only ones unhappy at having to make a night
march. Everyone in the whole regiment seemed no better than half awake.
"This had better work," Smitty grumbled. "If they made me lose sleep on
account of some gods-damned brainless noble's brainstorm, I'm really going to
be hot."
Such talk still faintly scandalized Rollant, even though the former serf had
been living in the free and easygoing south for some years. Back in Palmetto
Province, no one and especially no blond would have mocked the nobility so. He
tried to hide his feelings with raillery of his own: "I'm sure all the dukes
and counts and barons are trembling in their boots, Smitty."
"They'd better be." Smitty sounded as if he meant it. "It's us commoners who
do most of the work and make most of the money, and the bluebloods don't
remember it nearly often enough."
That scandalized Rollant, too, and more than a little. He took the nobles and
their privileges for granted; he was just glad to be out from under Baron
Ormerod. "How would we run things if there weren't any nobles?" he asked.
"I don't know, but I expect we'd manage," Smitty said. "Free Detinans can do
whatever we set our minds to do."
He did mean it. Rollant didn't know whether he was right or wrong, but he did
mean it. Most Detinans thought that way. They were convinced they were going
somewhere important, and they all seemed eager for the journey. Rollant, now,
Rollant had his doubts. But he'd grown up on an estate where the only place he
could go was where Baron Ormerod told him to. That made a big difference.
Nobody had an easy time telling free Detinans what to do. Even here in the
army, they talked back to their sergeants and officers, and tried to come up
with better ideas than the ones the generals had.
"Let's go!" Sergeant Joram bellowed. "Come on! We can do it! We're
gods-damned well going to do it."
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No one talked back to him then. Rollant felt like it. Marching through the
middle of the night wasn't his idea of fun. But nobody asked what his idea of
fun was. People just told him to do things and expected him to do them. He
didn't usually have too hard a time with that; he'd had practice obeying on
Ormerod's estate. Tonight, though, he was very tired.
Tired or not, he marched. So did everybody else the army treated flat-out
disobedience from soldiers even more ruthlessly than northern liege lords
rooted it out among their serfs. "Watch where you're putting your feet,"
somebody not far from Rollant grumbled in the darkness, he couldn't see who.
"How can I watch?" somebody else said maybe the offender, maybe not. "I can't
see the nose in front of my face."
"It ain'tthat dark, Lionel," yet another soldier said, "and you've got
yourself a cursed big nose." Lionel expressed loud resentment of this opinion.
Several other people spoke in support of it.
Rollant thought Lionel had a big nose, too. He thought most Detinans had
pretty good-sized beaks. He didn't join the debate, though. The Detinans were
willing to let blonds fight for them. They were much less willing to hear what
blonds had to say. That didn't strike him as fair, but a lot of things didn't
strike him as fair.
Then somebody stepped on his heel, almost stripping the boot from his foot.
"Careful, there," he said.
"Sorry." Whoever was marching along behind him didn't sound very sorry, but
he didn't step on Rollant any more, either.
They tramped east. It was, Rollant realized little by little, a large column.
Whatever he was part of nobody'd bothered explaining it to him looked to be
something important. He didn't suppose they would have sent out the column on
a night march if it weren't important. He hoped they wouldn't, anyhow.
Somebody rode by on a unicorn. "Keep going, men," he called. "When we get to
the river, we'll give the traitors a surprise." He raised his hat. Starlight
gleamed from his shiny crown.
"That's Bill the Bald!" Smitty exclaimed. "He must be in charge of this whole
move."
"I'd like it better if we had Doubting George in charge of us," Rollant said.
"If he kept us from getting licked by the River of Death, I expect he can do
just about anything." Smitty didn't argue with him.
Dawn began turning the eastern sky gray and then pink. Rollant started to be
able to see where he was putting his feet. He tried to see more than that, to
see where the enemy was. He couldn't, not yet.
Smitty said, "Next thing we've got to find out is if the pontoons make it to
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