The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  Next up the road came a dozen guns, pulled at a brisk trot by sturdy Khandarai horses, and accompanied by a double column of gawking artillerymen. Marcus had to grin at that. At least the Preacher knows how to keep his men in order. An infantryman of the Fourth, seeing the approaching cannon, decided he would be safer in amongst them, while a sword-waving lieutenant ran after him to a volley of curses and protests from the gunners.

  All it needs is a fat captain with his pants around his ankles chasing a skinny blonde with a tuba going oompah-oompah, and we’d have a perfect music-hall farce. Marcus jerked Meadow’s reins and turned back toward Janus, steeling himself for the colonel’s reaction.

  Janus was staring at the disorderly scene below. It took Marcus a moment to realize he was laughing, inaudible in the din. When he saw Marcus approaching, he turned on him with a faint but unmistakable smile.

  “Sir!” Marcus barked, trying to make himself heard. Janus brought his horse alongside and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Point taken, Captain,” he said. “Your point is very much taken.” He shook his head ruefully. “Once everyone gets sorted out, you may order a halt for the day. We start drill in the morning.”

  • • •

  A halt was inevitable in any event, as it took most of the rest of the day to get the troops back into something approximating order and untangle the panicked supply trains. Marcus winced when Fitz presented him with the final bill—forty-six men with scrapes and bruises, four horses so badly injured they’d had to be put down, and one wagon that had cracked an axle when its driver had driven it into a ditch. It could have been worse, though. The losses of matériel could be replaced or repaired, and he was relieved to hear that no one had been seriously hurt. And who knows how many lives saved, down the road. As the sun was setting, Marcus headed back to his tent with a cautious sense of optimism.

  He was nearly there when a meaty hand descended on his shoulder. He started, spun to face his assailant, and found himself staring into a wild tangle of hair that failed to conceal a mocking smile.

  “What’s the matter, Senior Captain? You seem a little jumpy.”

  Captain Morwen Kaanos, of the Third Battalion, was a tall, heavyset man with weathered, tanned skin that spoke of years in Khandar. Between a thick goatee, bristly muttonchops, and an unkempt mustache, his face was almost invisible. His eyebrows were bushy as well, giving him the look of a wild man, hermit, or possibly the scruffier class of saint. The hand he’d clapped on Marcus’ shoulder was big enough to be called a paw, and the hair on the back of it was practically fur.

  “It’s been a long day,” Marcus said, irritated by his own reaction. “And I was hoping to get off my feet for a minute.”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” Mor said, in his heavy mountain accent. “Mind if I poke my head in, though? We wants a word.”

  Marcus gave an inward sigh, but nodded. The two of them practically filled the little tent. Marcus sat heavily on his bedroll and started unlacing his boots, while Mor stood by the flap, arms folded across his chest.

  “I hear,” he said, “that we got you to thank for the mess this afternoon.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  Mor tapped his nose, then shrugged. “Ain’t no big secret. Polt’s been telling the story since he put down his drum. Prob’ly ’cause half the Old Colonials seemed inclined to blame it on him.”

  “They’re angry, are they?” Marcus worried at a knot that seemed to have become inextricably glued tight with sweat and Khandarai dust.

  “Some are. You didn’t make them look good back there.”

  “I didn’t make them look bad, either. I’ve seen a pack of wild dogs form a better square.”

  “Hell, your boys in the First weren’t too quick about it,” Mor snapped. “Don’t try to pin this—”

  “It’s on no one,” Marcus said. The knot came free, and he slid his foot out of the boot with a sigh of relief. “It’s a gang of half-trained recruits and a bunch of old grumblers who’ve had it too soft for too long. What do you expect?”

  “What did you expect? Why’d you do it? Don’t tell me you saw some old goatherd on a pony and shat your pants.”

  “I did it,” Marcus said grimly, “because I knew what would happen, but His Lordship didn’t believe me.”

  “Ah.” Mor uncrossed his arms. “Suddenly it all makes sense.”

  Marcus frowned. Mor was always happy to suspect the worst of senior officers, particularly noble officers. As a general rule, the Colonials didn’t dwell on the stories of how they’d ended up in exile, or ask about the disgraces of others, but Mor’s tale was well-known: he’d illegally dueled a nobleman, he said, over the attentions of a young woman, and had accidentally killed the man. Whether that was true or not, he certainly harbored an inveterate hatred of nobility and privilege.

  “He’s not bad,” Marcus said. “I think we can work with him. He just needed a little lesson on what’s possible and what isn’t. If he thinks he’s going to take this lot into battle after a week of forced marches . . .”

  “Battle?” Mor said. “You think it’ll come to that?”

  “Probably. We aren’t marching all this way for our health.”

  “Last time I checked, there were a hell of a lot more of them than there are of us. Has anybody told His Lordship?”

  “I told him myself,” Marcus said. “Fighting isn’t just about counting noses, though.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right about that. Though I’d lay ten to one we come scampering back down this road before the month is out.”

  “Either way,” Marcus said, starting on the other boot, “it’s not our problem.”

  “True. Our problem is currently sprawled in a supply wagon, making a solid try at drowning himself in wine.”

  Marcus swore softly. “Adrecht.”

  “Adrecht. You saw the way his men behaved today?”

  Marcus nodded. Adrecht’s Fourth Battalion hadn’t even managed to stay together, let alone form square. “Where was he?”

  “Search me, but he wasn’t with them. Lieutenant Orta said he rode off around midday and never came back.”

  “Saints and martyrs,” Marcus cursed. “Is he trying to get himself brought up on charges?”

  “Last I talked to him, he was convinced we were all going to end up on Redeemer spikes, so I’m not sure he cares anymore.” Mor gave Marcus a careful look. “What do you want to do?”

  Marcus heard the question under the question. Do we cover for him, he translated, and try to snap him out of it? Or ignore it and let the colonel deal with him? He suspected he knew what Mor’s opinion was. Mor had never had much use for the mercurial, unreliable captain of the Fourth.

  “What do you think of this . . . Orta, was it?”

  Mor shrugged. “He seems competent enough. A little hesitant to cuss an’ shove when he needs to, though. The new lieutenants your colonel gave us are a bunch of spoiled-rotten assholes, and they like to talk back.”

  Marcus wondered if Fitz had the same problem and hadn’t mentioned it. Somehow he doubted it. Fitz had a way of getting what he wanted, though he never raised his voice.

  “Right. Have you got a sergeant with a big mouth you’d be willing to part with for a while?”

  Mor laughed. “You can have your pick of a dozen.”

  “Send one or two of them over to Orta, and tell him to work on getting the Fourth into shape. Hopefully that will buy us enough time to have a word with Adrecht.”

  “I suppose that’s fair enough. It’s going to have to be you that talks to him, though. He’s never paid me much mind, and I doubt he’ll start now.”

  Marcus nodded. “I’ll wait until morning. Hopefully he’ll have dried out a bit by then.”

  “Either that or he’ll still be sleeping it off.” Mor sighed. “I hope he appreciates this.”

  “I’m sure you’re not likely to let him forget.”

  The big man laughed. “Bet your ass.”

  •
• •

  By rights, it ought to have been easy to get to sleep. The day had left Marcus near exhaustion, though more from anxious fretting than physical exertion. On the way back to his tent the only thing he’d been able to think about was collapsing into bed, but now that he was actually there sleep refused to come. He felt alert, even twitchy. If someone had tapped his shoulder he might have jumped a foot. Lying on his side, he could feel the thump-thump of his pulse, fast enough to march to.

  After an hour, he dragged himself up with a silent curse, slipped his boots on without tying the laces, and staggered outside. The sky was a blaze of stars, dimmed only slightly by the torches and fires that still burned amidst the rows of tents. The moon hung huge and horned just above the western horizon, washing the labyrinth of blue canvas in a ghostly light.

  When he started out, Marcus had the notion of taking a walk to convince his body to let him rest, but by the time he passed the last row of tents his steps had acquired more purpose. Beyond where the camp ended, across a few hundred yards of scrub, a line of torches marked the ring of sentries.

  Sentries carried loaded weapons, and on a night like this they were bound to be jumpy. Marcus stopped a good fifty yards from the line, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted, “Sentry, ho! Friends approaching!”

  The torch waggled in response. Marcus crossed the remaining distance at a brisk walk and found a young man with a musket resting on his shoulder and a torch in one hand. The shadows made everyone seem pale and hollow-eyed, but from the deep blue of his uniform Marcus could tell he was a recruit. He straightened up when he saw the captain’s bars on Marcus’ shoulder and tried to figure out how to salute with a torch in one hand and a musket butt in the other.

  “No need, Ranker,” Marcus said. “I’m just taking a quick look at the lines. What’s your name?”

  “Ranker Ipsar Sutton, sir!” He tried to salute again and nearly singed his forehead. “First Battalion, Fifth Company, sir!”

  “One of mine,” Marcus said. “I’m Captain d’Ivoire.”

  “I know, sir!” the young man said proudly. “I saw you at the drill this afternoon.”

  Drill, Marcus thought, is one way to put it. “How long is your shift, Ranker Sutton?”

  “Another three hours, sir!” He gestured with the torch. “Nothing to see so far, sir!”

  “It does us good knowing you’re out here,” Marcus said. “I for one couldn’t sleep otherwise.”

  “Yes, sir!” Sutton stood up even straighter. “Thank you, sir!”

  “Keep up the good work.” Marcus patted him genially on the shoulder and walked on, into the darkness.

  He went along the line of sentries, meeting each man in turn and exchanging a few words of greeting. They were all recruits—apparently this section of the perimeter was held by the Fifth and Sixth companies—and to man they seemed distressingly keen. Getting a word from him seemed to cheer them up immeasurably, and by the time he turned back to his tent Marcus felt like he’d actually done some good.

  It would have been different with the Old Colonials. Familiarity bred contempt, of course, and after the long years in the camp near Ashe-Katarion even the rankers had come to treat officers with a genial disregard. It might have been different if Ben Warus had been the sort of colonel to take offense at insubordinate conduct, but he’d always been an easygoing type, and the others took their cues from him. Seeing the straight postures and bright young faces of the recruits reminded Marcus of his last year at the War College, drilling squads of sweating underclassmen out on the Long Field.

  That was what the army was supposed to be like. Not . . . this. He’d long ago resigned himself to the fact that Khandar wasn’t much of a post. It certainly wasn’t what he’d envisioned when he’d started at the College. But that had been before, when he’d still cared about his career and his standing in the world, before he’d volunteered for service at the edge of the world with the hope that it would let him outrun his ghosts. He’d done his best to enjoy the soft life of a sinecure and not to dwell on the past. Then, during the retreat, he’d been too busy to think. But now, with his comfortable routine broken—

  “Good evening, Captain,” said a woman’s voice from the darkness. Such women as were with the regiment—laundresses, cooks, and whores, those who’d been brave enough to accompany the column when it had marched—would be on the other side of camp, with the supply train. That left a field of one, so Marcus hazarded a guess.

  “You must have eyes like a cat, Miss Alhundt.”

  “Good night vision is essential in my line of work.” She materialized out of the darkness.

  “For peeking in people’s windows?”

  “For poking through dusty old shelves,” she said, toying with her glasses. She pushed them up her nose and looked down at him through the lenses. “You wouldn’t believe the mess back at the Ministry vaults. There are some rooms where we don’t dare risk open flames.”

  “Couldn’t have that. You might set fire to everyone’s secrets.”

  “Secrets are not really my business, Captain. There’s so much to know that isn’t hidden at all.”

  “Fair enough,” Marcus said.

  “What about you?” she said. “Are you out spying on your subordinates? Or is this a surprise inspection?”

  “Just checking over the arrangements,” Marcus said.

  “Very diligent of you,” Miss Alhundt said. “I understand we also have you to thank for that . . . exercise this afternoon.”

  Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “What about it?”

  “Did you intend to embarrass Colonel Vhalnich? Or merely to delay his progress?”

  “Neither. It was a—a demonstration. I wanted to make a point.”

  “The point that the Colonials are woefully unprepared.”

  That was it precisely, of course, but he didn’t want to say so. Marcus shook his head in silence.

  “Do you mind if I ask why?” Miss Alhundt said.

  “I’m not sure why you’re so interested.”

  She cocked her head, one finger touching the bridge of her glasses. Beneath the spectacles, the severe hairstyle, and the mannish clothes, he guessed she was actually quite pretty.

  “Because I’m curious about you, Captain,” she said finally. “You are something of an enigma.”

  “I don’t see why that should be. I’m just a soldier.”

  “A soldier who honestly volunteered to serve in Khandar. An officer. That makes you one of exactly two.”

  Marcus snorted. “Really? Who’s the other fool?”

  “Colonel Vhalnich, of course.”

  “But—” Marcus bit back his response. Jen smiled.

  “He’s talked to you about me, then,” she said. “It’s all right. I won’t insult you by asking to tell me what he said. I’m going to guess it was something like, ‘She’s here because that villain Orlanko is up to something.’”

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  “After a fashion.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “The colonel has a reputation for eccentricity. He also has powerful friends at court. They worked hard to get him this assignment.”

  Janus hadn’t mentioned that. Marcus considered for a moment. “Why?”

  “His Grace would very much like to know.” She tapped her nose. “Therefore, here I am.”

  “I see.”

  She cocked her head. “I don’t suppose you have any light to shed on the subject?”

  Marcus stiffened. “I don’t.”

  “I thought not.” She straightened up. “Just remember, Captain, that when all is said and done, we’re all on the same side here. I want to serve the king and Vordan just as much as you or the colonel.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Marcus said. “And right now, the best way I can serve is to get some sleep. I understand that the colonel wants us to start drilling after the march tomorrow.”

  “Of course, Captain. Don’t let me keep you from your bed.”

 
; • • •

  “Adrecht!” Marcus called, knocking at the tent post. “Get up!”

  If the soldiers of the Fourth Battalion found anything unusual in the sight of the senior captain storming down to their commander’s tent before dawn, they didn’t say anything about it. The sky was lightening in the east, and in the First Battalion camp the men would already be up and about, breaking down their gear and getting it stowed on wagons in preparation for the day’s march. As rearguard, the Fourth Battalion had a bit more time to wait, though in Marcus’ opinion the extra sleep didn’t make up for having to eat the dust of the whole column all day.

  Adrecht’s tent was not the usual faded blue army issue, peaked in the center and barely tall enough for Marcus to stand erect. It was silk, to start with, and much larger, with four foundation posts, while the army tents had only two. Once, it had been elaborately decorated with frilled hangings, ropes of colorful cloth, and colored-glass lanterns that threw fanciful patterns against the fabric—years in Ashe-Katarion had given Adrecht time to exercise his talent for acquiring the trappings of luxury. Now all of that was gone, the fine fabrics either packed in trunks or abandoned in haste on the retreat to Fort Valor.

  And a good thing, too. If they’d had to set up Adrecht’s whole palace every night, they would never have outrun the Redeemers, however halfhearted the pursuit had been. Marcus knocked again, hard enough to sting his knuckles. “Adrecht!”

  “Marcus?” The voice sounded muffled, and not just from the thin silk walls. “’S that you?”

  “I’m coming in,” Marcus announced, and slipped past the tent flap. The broad interior was unlit, and the weak morning light did little to relieve the gloom. Marcus blinked until his eyes adjusted, then spotted a lantern hanging from one of the tent poles. He rummaged in his pockets until he produced a match, then lit the lamp and hung it up again. Its swinging sent the shadows to arcing wildly.