A sentry stuck his head into Lieutenant General George’s office. “Beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but Major Alva would like to see you, if you’ve got the time.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve got the time,” George replied. “By the Thunderer’s beard, to the seven hells with me if I can think of anything I’ve got more of.”

The sentry withdrew. A moment later, Major Alva came in. He looked preposterously young to be a major. But, for one thing, a lot of officers in this war were preposterously young. And, for another, he was a wizard, and so an officer at least as much by courtesy as because he was expected to command soldiers in the field.

Major Alva, in fact, was short on just about everything that made soldiers what they were. His gray wizard’s robe hung from his scrawny frame. His beard hadn’t been combed any time lately. He plainly needed to remind himself to salute Lieutenant General George.

But he was also far and away the best wizard in Doubting George’s army-maybe the best wizard in any southron army. Before the war, southron mages had done most of their work in manufactories, which didn’t suit them for battle magic. Wizards in the north had worked hard to keep the serfs in line and overawed, which did. In the early years of the war, northern prowess at wizardry had helped hold back southron numbers. Now…

Now Doubting George hoped it wouldn’t any more. Nodding to Alva, he said, “What can I do for you, Major?”

“Something’s going on,” Alva said. Lieutenant General George folded his arms across his broad chest and waited. Alva was swarthy, but not swarthy enough to keep his flush from showing. “Uh, something’s going on, sir.”

Back in the days when Alva was a mere lieutenant, he wouldn’t have had the faintest idea what George was waiting for. Now he knew, though he still plainly thought the idea of military courtesy absurd. George didn’t care what Alva thought. He cared what Alva did. “Do you have any idea what’s going on, Major, or where it’s going on?” he inquired.