The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  Her fingers curled through her hair. Why now, Jane? Three years . . . Fingernails tightened on her scalp, to the point of pain, hands tightening to claws. What more do you want from me?

  With some difficulty, Winter forced her hands into her lap and sat back. Her heart thumped a fast tattoo, matched by answering pulses in her temples.

  Red hair, dark and slick as oil, slipping through my fingers . . .

  Can you be haunted by someone who isn’t dead?

  There was a rap at the tent pole. Winter opened her eyes and took a long, shaky breath.

  “It’s me, sir. Bobby.”

  “Come in.”

  The corporal entered cautiously, obviously determined not to embarrass his sergeant again. He carried a platter with a steaming tin bowl, which filled the tent with the smell of spiced mutton, and a couple of hardtack crackers. Winter took it from him, set it on the desk on top of the accounts, and attacked it with genuine enthusiasm. The retreat had wreaked havoc with the army’s supply trains, and the quality of food had seriously declined since their Ashe-Katarion days. The new officers had obviously put things back in order. The mutton was in a sort of soup, not quite a proper stew, and the hardtack absorbed the juices and softened to something approaching an edible consistency.

  It wasn’t until she was mostly finished that she noticed the folded slip of paper on the platter beside the food. Catching her expression, Bobby gave a polite cough.

  “It’s a message for you, sir. We had a courier just now from the lieutenant.” He paused, torn between curiosity and propriety. He obviously hadn’t risked a peek.

  Winter nodded and picked up the paper, breaking the blobby wax seal. The contents were short and to the point, although the scribbled signature was illegible. Winter read the note again, just in case she’d gotten something badly wrong.

  “Sir?” Bobby prompted, watching her face.

  Winter cleared her throat. “We’re ordered to strike tents at first light tomorrow, and be ready to march by ten o’clock. Can you inform the men?”

  “Yessir!” Bobby said, saluting. He turned, obviously pleased with this responsibility, and left the tent.

  Ready to march? Winter gratefully let this new worry banish both the account book and her memories. Where? Down to the fleet? That was possible, of course, although she’d have thought the ships would need longer to replenish their supplies. But if not there, then where? Against the Redeemers? She allowed herself a smile. She couldn’t believe even a colonel would be mad enough to try that.

  MARCUS

  Marcus awoke to the groans and curses of the First Battalion soldiers as their lieutenants rousted them from their tents. He dressed hurriedly, had a brief conference with Fitz, then went in search of Janus.

  He found the colonel waiting by the gate, watching the men break camp. Aside from his horse, which stood quietly with all the well-bred dignity befitting Vordan’s finest, he was alone. All around the courtyard, tents were coming down and stacked arms were being reclaimed by their owners. The First Battalion, entitled to the place of honor at the head of the march, was already starting to form up.

  The regiment, Marcus thought, resembled a snake. At rest it was coiled tightly around itself, forming a more-or-less orderly camp with lines of tents, horses, and artillery parks. The work of picking up all the accoutrements would go on for some time, even as the head of the column started out. Each battalion had its assigned tasks in making or breaking camp, depending on its place in the order. The First would march out, dragging the Second after it, and so on, until the snake was fully extended and crawling down the road.

  It was the tail that worried him. The Preacher’s guns could keep up, more or less, but on the retreat the ox-drawn supply carts had ended up strung out over miles of rough track, straggling in well after dark. Now, Marcus looked at the route ahead and imagined every rock hiding a Desoltai scout, and every defile a gang of Redeemer fanatics.

  The sound of hooves from behind him took a moment to penetrate his gloom. Janus glanced back and said, “Ah. I believe this is our chief of cavalry. Captain, would you be so kind as to provide an introduction?”

  “Of course, sir.” Marcus waited while the horseman dismounted, spurs jingling. “Colonel, may I present Captain Henry Stokes? Captain, this is Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran.”

  “Sir!” The captain saluted, with his usual ferocity. Henry—that was what Marcus called him to his face, although he was more commonly known to officers and men alike by the nickname “Give-Em-Hell”—was a short, bandy-legged man with a pigeon chest and a peacock’s disposition. His weapons were always brightly polished, and Marcus didn’t doubt that he’d given them an extra rubdown today. He wore an expression of fierce concentration.

  A major contributor to Henry’s inferiority complex, in addition to his height, was that the Colonials hardly had any cavalry. Members of that branch of the service were generally wealthier and better connected than those in the infantry, and thus less prone to—or at least more able to get out of—the kind of official disapproval that got a man sent to Khandar. To add insult to injury, the great Vordanai stallions and geldings so beloved of the horsemen fared poorly in the arid climate, so by now most of the captain’s hundred or so troopers were mounted on smaller, sturdier Khandarai breeds.

  “Captain,” Janus said. “I regret that we have not had the chance to meet before now. Matters have, unfortunately, been busy.”

  “Sir!” Henry was practically vibrating with excitement. “Think nothing of it, sir! Just glad to be on the march again, sir!”

  “Indeed. I’m afraid there is a great deal of hard work ahead for you and your men.”

  “Sir!” The cavalryman’s chest was so puffed up he looked in danger of leaving the ground. “Just point the way, sir, and we’ll give ’em hell!”

  Janus coughed. “I’m sure you will. At the moment, however, I require them to serve in a more reconnaissance-oriented capacity.”

  Henry deflated a little. “Yessir.”

  “You’re to range ahead of the advance, make sure the road is clear, and report on any potential opposition.” Janus had obviously picked up on some of the captain’s attitude, because he added, “That’s report, not engage. And make sure your men travel in groups. I understand the Desoltai delight in ambushes.”

  Henry looked sour. That was light cavalry work, and Marcus knew his heart was in the cut-and-slash of the cuirassiers. He saluted anyway.

  “If anyone’s out there, sir, we’ll find them.”

  “Excellent. Once you’ve gone fifteen miles, or thereabouts, detail some men to start laying out a campsite.”

  “Yessir!” Henry turned and remounted. Janus watched him ride away.

  “He seems a most . . . enthusiastic officer,” the colonel said, once the captain was out of earshot.

  “Yes, sir,” Marcus said. “Very keen.”

  “I must say, a little more cavalry would be a comfort.” Janus sighed. “Ah, well. We must work with what we’re given.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Janus shot him a penetrating glance. “You seem dissatisfied, Captain.”

  “No, sir,” Marcus said stiffly. “Just a little bit anxious, sir. That matter we discussed last night.”

  “Ah.” Janus shrugged. “If it helps relieve your mind, we’re hardly likely to run into any opposition this far out. Any raid they could mount would have only nuisance value.”

  Marcus nodded. In the courtyard, the march had begun, and the snake was uncoiling and on the move. Standing beside the colonel, Marcus was forced to see his men through an outsider’s eyes, and the perspective made him wince.

  It was easy to see, even at a distance, the distinction between the recruits the Colonel had brought with him and what everyone already called the “Old Colonials.” Rather than break up existing companies, Janus had simply installed the new men as additional units onto the regiment’s four battalions. The old companies, being lower-numbered, led the way on the ma
rch, which meant that the long blue snake appeared to be suffering from some sort of skin disease that started from the head. The Old Colonials had done their best, digging long-forgotten blue jackets out of trunks or wheedling them from the quartermasters, but their shirts and trousers didn’t match, and everything was ragged and worn. Here and there a flash of color marked a man who’d refused to give up some treasured bit of silk.

  The recruits, by contrast, were an unrelieved mass of blue, broken by the sparkling steel and brass of polished weapons. They marched in the vertebrae-shattering, knee-smashing style dictated by the Manual of Arms, rather than the world-weary slouch of veteran soldiers. Even their packs were all identical, tied up with the bedroll behind the neck, just so. The Old Colonials looked more like a pack of beggars, with clothes tied around their heads to keep off the sun and extra waterskins dangling from their belts.

  Before too long, the tramp of thousands of pairs of boots raised such a cloud of dust that the men were nearly obscured. Marcus derived a slight satisfaction from the knowledge that all those bright blue uniforms and all that flashing steel wouldn’t be quite so pristine by day’s end. The leaders of the march—Marcus’ own First Battalion—had already passed through the gate and up the road, and the companies of the Second were forming up. The sound of drums came through faintly, under the rumble of thousands of footsteps.

  “Musicians,” Janus said, apropos of nothing in particular.

  “Sir?”

  “I knew I had forgotten something. One always does, when leaving on a long journey.” He smiled at Marcus. “The Colonials lack a regimental band, do they not?”

  “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, we don’t have one. I suppose it’s hard to earn yourself a tour in Khandar as a musician. We make do with the battalion drummers.”

  “Music can have a fine effect on troops on the march. De Troyes wrote that, in his experiments, merely including bands reduced straggling by up to thirty percent, and that he was able to extend the daily distance by almost a mile.” He trailed off, looking thoughtful. Marcus cleared his throat.

  “Hadn’t we better mount up, sir?”

  “Yes,” Janus said, shaking his head. “Don’t mind me, Captain. Sometimes I find myself . . . distracted.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Chapter Four

  MARCUS

  Rank, Marcus thought, has its privileges. And in an army on the march, any little bit of comfort was to be savored.

  In this case, the privilege was having someone else to erect his tent. It had been carried with the rest of the First Battalion baggage and put up for him at the center of the area allotted to his men. No doubt Fitz had supervised the furnishings, such as they were—camp bed, folding desk, a pair of trunks, and the leather portfolios full of paperwork.

  Marcus sat down heavily on the camp bed, keeping his boots well clear so as not to dirty the sheets. He stared dully at his bootlaces, trying to remember how they functioned.

  Fifteen miles. Not so far, in the scheme of things. Scarcely a journey to notice, in a well-sprung carriage, and certainly nothing a good horseman should complain of. Marcus was many things, but a good horseman was not one of them, and he ached from thighs to shoulders.

  He could not even blame his mount, since he’d chosen her himself. He had purchased the mare a year or so earlier, after making a search of the Ashe-Katarion markets for the calmest, most stolid, least demanding mount that could be had. The sort of horse frail old ladies rode to church, or whatever it was that Khandarai old ladies did. He’d named her Meadow, on the theory that this might help.

  And it had, in a way. Meadow was as unflappable an animal as had ever been bred, which meant that Marcus had to confront the fact that his frequent equine misadventures were solely the result of his lackluster horsemanship. The upshot was that up to now Meadow had led an extremely comfortable life and was hardly ever called upon to do any actual work, while Marcus walked or rode on carts whenever he could and saddled up only when it was absolutely unavoidable.

  But senior officers were expected to ride while on the march. And not just in a straight line, either, but up and down the column, watching for problems and encouraging the men when their spirits flagged. Janus had set the example here, eschewing his black sun cape for full dress uniform to let the men get a good look at him. Marcus, perforce, had to follow, with the result that it felt like he’d ridden closer to thirty miles than fifteen.

  For all that, the men in the ranks had it worse. Fifteen miles was a good day’s walk under the best of conditions, but it was hellish with a full pack and the Khandarai sun blazing down. The Old Colonials, toughened by years of trudging through the heat, had grumbled and produced all manner of unorthodox headgear to keep off the vicious rays. The recruits, feeling they had something to prove, had shuffled gamely in their veteran comrades’ wake and dropped like flies from exhaustion and heatstroke. Give-Em-Hell’s cavalry were even now ranging back along the route of march, gathering up the stricken and delivering them to the regimental surgeon to be given a cold compress and a jot of whiskey.

  Fifteen miles. Damn the man. It was Janus who’d insisted on the pace. At least the Redeemers had the courtesy to start their revolution in April instead of August. Even in spring, in spite of the coastal breezes, the Khandarai heat was trying. By high summer, the coast would be baking, and the inland desert would become a bone-dry furnace. Be thankful for small graces.

  A rap at the tent pole made Marcus raise his head. That would be Fitz, ideally with dinner. He shifted, gingerly, to a sitting position and said, “Come in.”

  Fitz entered, but not alone. Val was as dusty and sweat-stained as Marcus, but didn’t look half as exhausted. An aristocrat’s son, Captain Valiant Solwen had learned to ride about the time he’d learned to walk, and no doubt considered the day’s journey merely a bracing jaunt. He was short and broad-shouldered, giving him an almost apish appearance when not on horseback. His looks were not improved by a ruddy face that hinted at his ability to consume truly heroic amounts of alcohol. He adorned his upper lip with a pencil-thin mustache, which he claimed gave him a rakish air, and he spent an inordinate amount of time maintaining it. In Marcus’ opinion it made him look like a penny-opera villain.

  “I’m sorry,” Val said, with a half smile. “I didn’t realize you were going to bed straightaway.”

  “Just resting my eyes,” Marcus muttered. He turned to Fitz. “Have they got dinner going yet?”

  “Yessir,” the lieutenant said.

  “Mutton again, I suppose?”

  “More than likely, sir.” Khandar was rich in sheep, if little else. “Shall I fetch you something?”

  “Please. Val, will you join me?”

  “I suppose so,” Val said, without enthusiasm.

  Marcus swung his legs down and unlaced his riding boots, letting his feet emerge with an almost audible creaking as his bones flexed back into shape. He stood up in his socks and winced.

  “Always meant to get new boots,” he said. “A hundred boot makers in Ashe-Katarion, there’s got to be one who can get it right. Kept putting it off, though, and now here we are.” He grinned at Val. “There’s a lesson in that, I think.”

  “‘Make sure you’ve got decent boots, because you never know when a pack of bloodthirsty priests are going to take over the place’? Doesn’t sound very widely applicable.”

  “More like, ‘Don’t put things off too long, because you may never get a chance at them.’” Marcus went to one of his trunks, flipped it open, and rooted amongst his assorted rags until he found what he wanted. He held the bottle up to the lamp. The wax seal over the cap was still intact, and amber liquid glistened seductively inside the lumpy glass. Bits of green stuff floated on the surface. Herbs, Marcus hoped. “I’ve been saving this one. Damned if I know why. Scared to drink it, maybe.” He held the bottle out to Val. “Join me?”

  “Gladly,” Val said. While Marcus hunted for his tin cups, Val added, “Adrecht has the same idea, I thi
nk. He’s convinced that we’re all going to die, so he’s drinking his way through that liquor chest of his.”

  “Serve him right if he falls off his horse and hits his head,” Marcus said.

  “Small chance of that. Last I heard, his head already hurt so badly he was riding in a wagon and cursing every bump in the road.”

  Marcus laughed and came up with the cups. He broke the seal, poured, and offered one to Val, who took it gratefully.

  “To Colonel Vhalnich!” Val proclaimed. “Even if he is mad.”

  He emptied his cup and made a sour face. Marcus only sipped from his. The sensation on his tongue made him think Val had the right idea after all. He frowned.

  “Mad?”

  “What else, marching us out here like this?” Val leaned forward. “That’s what I came to ask you. You’ve been spending a lot of time with him. Has he let you in on the big secret?”

  Marcus thought for a moment of Miss Alhundt and Janus’ feud with the Last Duke. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “The plan!” Val gestured violently with the cup, spraying a few drops of liquor against the tent wall. “He can’t be planning to just march up to Ashe-Katarion and knock on the gates, can he? You know as well as I do what’d happen next. The Redeemers have a goddamned army in the city. What are we supposed to do against that with one regiment?”

  “I know,” Marcus said, downing the rest of his drink in one brutal swallow.

  “But does he? In other words, is he ignorant, stupid, or deluded?”

  “He knows,” Marcus said. Then, echoing his words to Fitz, “He’s clever.”

  “Clever! Clever’s the worst. God save us from clever colonels.” Val shook his head. “Have you talked to Mor?”

  “Not recently.”

  “He’s not happy.”

  “I can imagine.” Captain Morwen Kaanos was irascible at the best of times, which these hardly were. And his dislike of anything related to the nobility was well-known. He and Val had a long-simmering feud on the subject, based on nothing more than Val’s being a distant cousin to some peer or other. Janus was an actual count, and taking his orders was certain to send the captain of the Third Battalion into a rage.