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“After all, rarely do the men who orchestrate wars find themselves holding the instruments. It's those holding the instruments, you see, they go and they die, they die at each others hands, and all their familiars and relations they weep and they cry revenge, and then the whole thing's sunk. Then the whole thing is personal, and if it lasts long enough it is cultural, and then for all the original maestros may wish most dearly to cease the thing it is too late, don't you see. The match is lit, the throat, is slit.”
Private Lanson squirmed, still adjusting to his heavy standard-issue boots, belts, and helm. The drawling voice in the shadow had been going in this vein for a good ten minutes and it hadn't helped him settle into his uniform one bit.
“Wars are fought for other people. For crowns and cravats who failed to keep the peace with words. And also for th