Adrecht groaned and held up one hand to block out the light. “Good God,” he said, raising his head from the silk cushion where it rested. “What do you think you’re doing? It’s much too late for this kind of nonsense.”
“It’s early, not late,” Marcus said. There was another lamp on the other side of the tent, and he lit it as well.
“When did you turn so pedantic?” Adrecht groped with one hand until he came up with a heavy gold pocket watch, which he clicked open. “See? It’s two in the morning. What kind of time is that to be waking me up?”
“It’s dawn,” Marcus said.
“Is it?” Adrecht blinked at him. “You’re sure?”
“Most of us can tell by looking.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” He shook the gold watch, then snapped the cover shut. “My watch has stopped. I thought I was just drunk.”
“You were drunk.”
That was a guess, Marcus had to admit, but an educated one. By the light of the lamps he could see that there were several empty bottles strewn across the rug-covered floor of the tent. A trunk in one corner held three rows of cotton-padded compartments, suitable for transporting fine liquors. More than half the slots were empty. Another pair of trunks, tumbled haphazardly between the tent poles, spilled a mess of clothes, books, and papers that looked as though it had been thoroughly rummaged.
There was little else, not even a bedroll. Adrecht had gotten rid of the uncomfortable army-issue camp furniture at the first opportunity, replacing it with fine hand-carved pieces purchased in Ashe-Katarion. Marcus had forced him to leave it all behind when they’d fled, lest some gilt-encrusted armoire take up wagon space needed for food. That argument had led to a week of strained relations.
“It’s really dawn?” Adrecht said again, looking up with eyes filmed by a gathering hangover.
“Yes,” Marcus snapped. “Get up.”
With some effort, Adrecht managed to lever himself into a sitting position, legs crossed in front of him. His fine white linen trousers were stained purple where he’d spilled something across them. He looked down mournfully at the splotch, then up at Marcus.
“I need a drink,” he proclaimed. “You want a drink?”
“Water,” Marcus said. “Do you have any water around here?”
“Water!” Adrecht made a double circle over his heart with one hand, the ancient Church ward against evil. “Don’t say that so loud. God may hear you and strike you down. Water!” He snorted. “I made good progress last night, but if I recall there was a little something left in the purple bottle . . .” He fumbled with a bottle, which glugged the last few swallows of its contents into the carpet. Adrecht shrugged and tossed it aside. “Oh, well. There’s still a few more.”
Marcus located a carafe of lukewarm water and handed it over. Despite his protests, Adrecht drank greedily, without bothering to locate a cup. He swirled the final mouthful around, then swallowed it thoughtfully.
“I don’t remember drinking any gun oil,” he said. “But now my mouth seems to be coated with the stuff. Are the lads playing pranks, do you think?”
“Adrecht . . .” Marcus looked for somewhere to sit, but after a survey of the rancid carpet he decided against it. He squatted instead. “Adrecht, where were you yesterday?”
“Yesterday?” He blinked slowly. “Yesterday . . . yesterday . . .”
“Drinking somewhere?”
“Oh, yes. One of the quartermasters invited me to spend the march in his wagon, since I offered to share my spirits with him. Great fellow, absolutely wonderful. He—I can’t recall his name, actually, but he was kindness itself.”
“You were at it all day?”
“Not all day. I wouldn’t call it all day. Just . . . you know . . .” He shrugged. “So what?”
“You should have been with your men.”
“Why? For moral support? They know what they’re supposed to do. It’s just marching, after all.”
“When I called for emergency square—”
Adrecht snorted. “Why would you do a damfool thing like that?”
“If there’d been an attack, we might all have been killed.”
“If there’d been an attack . . . ,” Adrecht said mockingly. “Come off it, Marcus. Sit down and have a drink with me.”
“Damn it, Adrecht,” Marcus said. “What in hell is wrong with you?”
There was a long pause while Marcus tried to regain control of his temper. Adrecht was a good officer and a good friend. He was smart enough, God knew—at the War College his help had gotten Marcus through a half dozen examinations. And in the field he was personally brave almost to a fault. He was prone to black moods, however, and a bad one could last for weeks, especially when it was exacerbated by drink.
“I should think that would be obvious,” Adrecht said. He staggered to his feet, using one of the tent poles to aid him, and started toward the liquor chest. Marcus moved to intercept him, and Adrecht leaned back and glared at him with exaggerated irritation.
“I’m trying,” he said, “to become a monk. Obviously. The Preacher has finally convinced me that the time of the Beast is upon us. Only I have to get rid of all my worldly possessions first, d’you see? You gave me a good head start”—he narrowed his eyes—“but there was still the liquor to think of. Not really fair to tip it out, I thought. So I’m working my way through the lot. Once I’m done, then”—he clapped his hands—“it’s off to the monastery with me.”
“It’s going to be off to the Vendre with you,” Marcus shot back. “And in irons. We have a new colonel, if you haven’t noticed. If you keep this up, sooner or later—”
“Please, Marcus,” Adrecht said with a chuckle. “The Vendre? Really? You don’t believe that, do you?”
“You’d be lucky to get the Vendre. More likely it’d be a firing squad. Dereliction of duty—”
“I’d be happy to die by an honest Vordanai bullet,” Adrecht said. “At least if I’m allowed to get drunk off my ass beforehand. It’ll make me better off than the rest of you.” He shook his head. “Come on, Marcus. Do you honestly think any of us are going home, in irons or otherwise? The Redeemers don’t exchange prisoners; they eat them.”
“We’re not prisoners yet,” Marcus said.
“We might as well be. Or has the colonel explained his secret plan to you? I’m curious to hear it.”
Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “The colonel doesn’t explain his plans to me. But he’s not just marching off to be a brave sacrifice for king and country, if that’s what you mean.”
Adrecht snorted. “We ought to have gotten right back aboard those ships. This is a death march, and most of the men know it. Can you blame them if they’re not responding well?”
“The other battalions still obeyed orders.” Eventually.
“I always did have more than my share of smart ones.” Adrecht caught Marcus’ expression and sighed. “Marcus—”
“I’m trying to help you,” Marcus said. “If you’re not up to the job anymore, best say so now.”
“Oh, very clever, Doctor-Professor d’Ivoire. Play on Captain Roston’s pride, maybe that’ll get him back into the firing line.”
“Damn it—”
“All right, all right!” Adrecht held up a hand. “I’ll be at the drills. That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?” He shook his head again. “Though it’s a hell of a thing to force a man to spend his last few days on earth sweating and shouting orders.”
It’s really bad this time. He’s already given up. There was something bright and brittle in Adrecht’s eyes, as if a dark, cynical humor was the only thing keeping him on his feet. The only time Marcus had ever seen him like this was five years ago, when he’d first got word he was shipping out to Khandar. Saints. Maybe Mor was right. If this Lieutenant Orta is any good, maybe we should keep him in charge.
That would mean getting rid of Adrecht, though. Unless Janus could be persuaded to accept his resignation, the only way for a captain to leave h
is company was in disgrace. He’d never do it. And Marcus owed him whatever help he could manage.
“Well?” Adrecht said. “Was there anything else, Senior Captain?”
“No.” Marcus turned to leave, but paused at the tent flap. “I really am trying to help, you know.”
“Oh?” Adrecht snapped. “Why?”
Sometimes I have no idea. Marcus shook his head and slipped out.
Chapter Five
WINTER
The day was typical for spring in Khandar—that was to say, merely unbearably hot, rather than actually lethal as the summer heat might have been. The sun was a physical presence, a weight pressing down on the shoulders. It blasted any exposed skin and left uniforms soaked and heavy with sweat. Even after three years, it could catch Winter by surprise. The men in the ranks had it worse—for one thing, they didn’t have the luxury of officer’s caps—and some them were already swaying on their feet. Winter hoped d’Vries would call a halt before anyone actually collapsed.
She’d nearly collapsed on that first day’s march. The hundred miles or so from Ashe-Katarion to Fort Valor was the longest trek the Colonials had ever undertaken, and before that, Winter’s experience with marching had been limited to a few parades in honor of Prince Exopter.
On the retreat, they’d covered the distance in a fortnight, and they’d been accompanied by so many wagons the soldiers hadn’t even carried their own weapons. The return journey was apparently going to be much faster. None of the recruits had seemed surprised when they received orders for a fifteen-mile march, carrying not only muskets but full packs, but Winter had nearly groaned aloud. She’d made it, barely, but the pains in her legs and shoulders afterward had been an uncomfortable throwback to her days at Mrs. Wilmore’s. The old woman had firmly believed that backbreaking labor was a cure for immorality.
The second day’s march had been cut short by the fiasco of an alarm, and the poor performance of the troops had apparently made an impression on someone. The officers had announced that the third day’s march would be only five miles, and that they’d be in their new camp by noon. By this time Winter had rediscovered the muscles in her legs and found them not too badly decayed from the old days, and she was beginning to think she could handle this after all.
She should have known better. God only ever answered her prayers when He was plotting something worse. The word had come down that the remainder of the day would be reserved for drill. The recruits accepted this as a matter of course, but the Old Colonials swore and grumbled.
The announcement had brought the lieutenant back from his usual position at the head of the column. Apparently eating dust alongside his men didn’t fit his mental picture of an officer’s duties, but putting them through snappy evolutions on the drill field did. Winter had seen him only a couple of times over the past few days, and it was only now that she had the chance to make a detailed inspection.
Lieutenant Anton d’Vries wore a tailored blue uniform as regulation-perfect as any of those sported by his soldiers. He was a small, wiry man, with dark eyes and a pouting mouth under a luxuriant mustache. His hair was carefully combed and stiffened with powder in what was presumably the latest fashion from Vordan, though the effect was rather ruined by the regulation officer’s cap. He wore a sword, the leather of the scabbard still polished and shining, and carried a thin walking stick that whistled through the air when he pointed with it. Winter flinched every time he stood beside her, in fear of an accidental blow to the side of the head.
Drill, she had discovered, was worse than marching. When the column had been in motion, at least they’d had the feeling of accomplishing something, even if it was only sweeping another few miles underfoot. They’d been allowed to fill their canteens when they passed a stream, and to talk or even sing as they walked. Most of all, no one had been judging them. The only measure of success was whether you staggered into camp before nightfall.
Now the hundred and twenty men of the Seventh Company stood in a solid block, three men deep and forty across. Each was accoutered just so—cartridge box on the left hip, doubled straps across the chest with sheathed bayonet, musket held against the right side with fingers curled around the butt in a nerve-deadening position. They were required to wait, under d’Vries’ narrowed, sunken eyes, until he ordered them to move.
Winter stood in front of them, facing the center of the company, beside the lieutenant. Her task was to relay his orders to the troops, and make certain they were obeyed. Not an enviable position. Not only did she have d’Vries’ special attention, but she could feel the dull resentment of every man in the company. Sweat trickled down her face and soaked her hair, and every inch of skin seemed to be itching at once. They had been at it for two hours so far.
D’Vries tapped his stick against his leg and watched his men with a haughty distaste. He cleared his throat and looked back and forth along the triple line with an undisguised scowl.
“Right,” he said. “We will try that again. On the signal, right oblique, double pace!”
He spoke in a conversational tone. Winter had to repeat those orders loud enough to carry to the ends of the line. Her throat was already ragged, but she summoned up the energy. It came out as more of a croak, but d’Vries didn’t appear to notice.
The company drummers struck up the double pace, heartbeat-fast. The line shuffled into motion, and almost immediately it became obvious that little progress had been made.
Long ago, in what felt like a different lifetime, Winter had been a girl younger than any one of the rankers. All she’d known of the military life was the stories she’d read of great battles, in which unflinching men marched precisely through their evolutions while their ranks were torn by ball and shot. Since her unorthodox method of self-recruitment had prevented her from spending the weeks in depot where the men presumably learned such stoicism, she’d done her best to make up for it, acquiring a copy of the Manual of Arms and the Regulations and Drill of the Royal Army of Vordan and working hard to memorize both. The knowledge had turned out to be almost useless, of course, but some of it remained with her years later.
Consequently, she knew what was supposed to happen. At the first beat of the drum, each man would take a step with his right foot, placing it exactly one standard pace—thirty-six inches, according to some hallowed measuring stick in the bowels of the Ministry of War—in front of the other. The next step would be on the next drumbeat, and so on, so that the company moved forward in perfect order, each man remaining stationary with respect to his fellows.
This would be hard enough, but d’Vries had called for an oblique advance, which meant that with each pace forward every man was supposed to move a half pace sideways, producing a sort of diagonal sidle. From the faces of the soldiers, Winter was sure that many of them hadn’t understood this, or at any rate didn’t remember until it was too late.
The result was about what Winter expected. Some men started with their left foot instead of their right, which meant they bumped into the man beside them. Others forgot to move obliquely, with similar results. Still others stepped too far, or not far enough, and then trying to maintain their place lost the beat of the drum and fell out of step. Two men in the rear rank somehow entangled the straps of their packs and collapsed in the dust when they tried to move in opposite directions, thrashing like a couple of inverted turtles.
Within twenty yards the neat three-rank block had dissolved into a blob of red-faced, shoving men. When Winter called for a halt and the drummer stopped playing, they stumbled a few more steps from sheer inertia, then scrambled to push their way back into the correct files. It was a full five minutes before some semblance of order had returned.
Thus it had gone every previous time as well, and d’Vries’ lips had tightened with each successive failure. Now his patience was apparently exhausted. He turned to Winter, cold with anger.
“Sergeant!” he snapped.
Winter saluted. “Yessir!”
“I’ve seen enough.
I want you to keep these fellows at it”—he raised his voice—“until they get it right or they damn well drop dead on the field! Do you understand me?”
“Ah, yessir.”
The lieutenant’s lip quivered. “Right,” he managed, and stalked off, walking stick snapping out to flick impudent bits of gravel from his path. Winter watched him go, feeling the pounding of the sun on her shoulders, and tried to figure out what she was supposed to do next.
Her eyes found Bobby in the first rank. The boy was red-faced, from either embarrassment or the sun, and he was visibly trembling with fatigue. Winter had been in Khandar for two years, as d’Vries had not, and she knew that dropping dead in the field was far from simply a rhetorical possibility. Too much more of this and the heatstroke cases would overflow the infirmary.
She looked across the dusty scrap of land that was serving as the regimental drill field. It was scrub plain, like all the land they’d marched over. Occasional rocks or knots of tough, wiry grass broke the monotony of endless parched earth. The only color came from a tiny stream meandering through on its way to the sea, which winked and sparkled in the middle distance. A dozen companies were currently occupied in various exercises, being put through their separate paces according to the whims of their officers. Winter watched one lieutenant berating his men as though they were disobedient mules, and inspiration struck.
“Right,” she said, turning on her heel. Raising her already ragged voice, she managed, “Company, quarter-right!”
The men, who’d been watching her with some apprehension, gave a kind of collective sigh and straightened up again as best they could. They turned in place through ninety degrees, which converted a block of men forty long and three deep into a column three wide and forty long. Winter stalked over to what was now the front, drummers hurrying behind her.
The Thousand Names Page 11
