“Yes, and yes, and yes,” Bell said. “Yes, but how can we move till we gather supplies? Harvest time is long past. We can’t live off the country. Whatever we eat, we’ll have to take with us. The mages won’t be able to conjure it up-that’s certain. And we need more than food, too. Too many men in this army have no shoes on their feet. They’re wearing pantaloons and tunics they’ve taken off of dead southrons-either that or they’re wearing rags. We have to be ready before we march. Winter isn’t far off, and it can get cold down in Franklin.”

Brigadier Patrick mournfully clicked his tongue between his teeth. “Mighty fine does this sound, your Generalship, sir, but are you sure there’s sense to it? For won’t the southrons, may they find themselves in the hells or ever the gods know they’re dead, the scuts, won’t they be mustering and resupplying faster nor we could ever hope to? If I was in charge of this army, now, I’d-”

That was too much for Lieutenant General Bell’s always fragile patience. “You are not in command of this army, Brigadier,” he said in a voice like winter. “Nor are you ever likely to be. And you know why, too.”

“I do that.” Patrick matched him glare for glare. “I’m not in good odor in stinking Nonesuch, is why, the reason being I was man enough to tell King Geoffrey the plain truth, the which he cared to hear not a bit.”

“Put pikes and crossbows in the hands of our blond serfs?” Bell shook his head. “We can’t win the war with such so-called soldiers.”

“The gods-damned southrons use ’em, and too many of our own brave lads dead in the dirt they’ve stretched,” Patrick said. “You tell me we can’t win the war with such soldiers? Well, I tell you this, Lieutenant General Bell, the which is the gods’ own truth: we can’t win the war without ’em. And that said, your Excellency, gods give you a good day.” He bowed stiffly and stomped out.

“Miserable bog-trotting hothead,” Lieutenant General Bell muttered. No, it was no wonder at all that Patrick the Cleaver would never enjoy a higher command.