That was how the game was played these days. Duke Edward of Arlington, who commanded Geoffrey’s most important force, the Army of Southern Parthenia, had had his estates close by King Avram’s Black Palace in Georgetown. Avram had confiscated them as soon as his soldiers overran them in the early days of the war.

I got the same punishment for being loyal as Duke Edward did for being a traitor, George thought. Is that fair? Is that just?

“I doubt it,” George said aloud. He used the phrase a lot, often enough to have given him his nickname. He was a burly man in his early forties, with a typical dark Detinan beard, full and curly, that gray was just beginning to streak.

He muttered to himself: not words, but a discontented rumble down deep in his throat. The Lion God might have made a noise like that when he contemplated chewing on the souls of sinners.

“No good deed goes unpunished,” Doubting George said when the mutters turned into words again. He’d done as much hard fighting as any southron officer in the war. If it hadn’t been for his stand, there on Merkle’s Hill by the River of Death, the whole southron cause in the east might have unraveled under the hammer blows of Count Thraxton the Braggart’s sorcery.

And what was his reward? How had a grateful kingdom shown him its appreciation for all he’d done, for all he’d sacrificed?

More words emerged: “Here I am in Ramblerton, twiddling my gods-damned thumbs.”

Ramblerton was the capital of Franklin. It lay by the bank of the Cumbersome River, in the southeastern part of the province. Doubting George might have been farther out of the fight down in New Eborac City, but not by much. He’d done the work, and others had got the glory. The war looked well on the way toward being won. He was glad of that. He would have been even gladder to have a bigger part in it.