The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  “On my signal,” she said, “march pace, forward. Align on me. March!”

  The drums started again, slower this time, and the column shuffled into motion. Without the distraction of trying to move sideways, and with only three men per rank to contend with, the march wasn’t terrible. Winter walked in front of the first rank, who adjusted slightly to stay behind her, letting her steer the long column like a snake.

  She found what she wanted, a hundred yards away. Another company, in the usual three-rank line, was practicing the Manual of Arms while a sergeant barked orders. A lieutenant stood beside them, looking bored. Their backs were to her and her men.

  Winter led the column in that direction, glancing over her shoulder occasionally to make sure her company was still in good order. There was a moment’s hesitation as they closed with the other company. She took the opportunity to step sideways, out of their path, and shout, “Forward! Charge pace!”

  The drums thrilled faster. The men in the front ranks, when it became clear what they’d been ordered to do, went to it with surprising gusto. No one in the other company noticed until it was far too late. There were a couple of startled squawks, and then the long column collided with the rear of the line at a dead run. Winter’s men bowled through, knocking the others sprawling, until someone in the opposing company started fighting back. A punch was thrown, somewhere in the press, and a moment later the whole of the two companies was a mass of fistfights and roughhousing, going at it with all the sudden energy of discipline released.

  Winter, standing at the edge of the melee with the horrified drummers behind her, looked over her handiwork with a satisfied expression. The lieutenant of the other company, a fat man with a scraggly beard, bore down on her while his sergeants tried in vain to restore order. Winter saluted and forced her face to assume a blank expression.

  “What in all the hells do you think you’re doing?” the lieutenant said, vibrating with anger.

  “Sorry, sir. Following orders, sir!”

  “Whose orders?”

  “Lieutenant d’Vries, sir! Said to keep the men at it. Didn’t mean to run into you, sir!”

  The lieutenant eyed her, uncertain of what attitude to take. He settled on contempt. Winter struggled to maintain her facade of amiable idiocy.

  “Well, you’d better sort this out,” he said. “If your damned men aren’t out of my company and off this drill field in five minutes, the captain will hear of it, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir!” Winter spun back toward the mess she’d created. “Corporal Forester!”

  The boy had extracted himself after the initial rush, wriggling eel-like to the edge of the press, and was looking on nervously. At the sound of Winter’s voice, he whirled and snapped to attention.

  “Let’s get these men off the drill field!” She gestured at the lieutenant behind her. “Right away, he says!”

  She could tell he was having trouble suppressing a smile, too, as understanding dawned. “Yes, sir!”

  • • •

  The brief punch-up seemed to have dissipated all the exhaustion of the previous few hours, and the men streamed off the field in a raucous crowd, laughing and shouting to one another. The carnival atmosphere continued once they were back at the camp. Someone produced a handball from somewhere, and soon two impromptu teams were scrimmaging up and down the line of tents, while spectators laughed and cheered from the sidelines.

  Winter couldn’t see where they found the energy. The release of tension had left her feeling shaky and drained, and she wanted nothing so much as a few hours of oblivion. Under the exhaustion was a dull sense of dread. Her little ruse, which had seemed so clever in the moment she’d thought of it, now felt ridiculously transparent. D’Vries wouldn’t care if she’d had contradictory orders or not—he would only see that his demand had not been obeyed, and she’d bear the brunt of his anger. He’d bust her back down to ranker, send her back to Davis.

  She pushed her way into the cooler semidarkness of her tent. On the little desk sat the papers—long marches had left her little time to work on settling the accounts, so an intimidating stack still remained. She knew she should address them, but at the moment the thought of picking up the pen made her feel ill.

  Instead she slumped onto the bedroll, and stretched out, not even bothering to take off her boots. Surely I’m tired enough now. If I just close my eyes for a moment . . .

  • • •

  Warm, soft lips on hers, fingers running along the small of her back, the heat of a body pressed against her. Jane’s hair, dark red and soft as sin, spilling down over Winter’s bare shoulder like a velvet curtain. A brief flash of her eyes, as green as emeralds.

  Jane pulled away from the embrace, stepping back. She was naked, the most beautiful thing Winter had ever seen.

  “You have to get away,” Jane said. “Not just away from the Prison. Away from all of it. Away from everyone who wants to tie you up and take you back . . .”

  Winter could say nothing. Her throat felt thick.

  Jane raised one hand. A dagger glittered, flashing silver. “Take the knife,” she said, as though instructing a friend on how to carve a roast. “Put the point of it about here”—she raised her head and put the tip of the dagger on her throat, just under her chin—“and press in, upward, as hard as you can.”

  “Jane!” Winter’s scream sounded distant in her own ears.

  The knife slid in, smooth as silk. Jane’s emerald eyes were very wide. She opened her mouth, but no words emerged, only a tide of thick, sticky blood.

  Winter jerked awake, pulse pounding in her temples, ears full of screams in the dark. They took a long time to fade. She lay perfectly still, feeling the ache in her limbs and staring at the blue fabric of the tent.

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

  There was a rap at the tent post. Winter sat up, pathetically eager for a distraction.

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me,” said Bobby from outside. Winter glanced guiltily at the stack of reports, but it was too late to do anything about them now.

  “Come in.”

  The boy ducked inside. He was rubbing one hand with the other, and Winter could see a bruise blossoming along his knuckles. She felt a brief pang of sympathy.

  “Sorry about that,” Winter said.

  “About what?” When she indicated his hand, he smiled broadly. “Oh, this? It’s nothing, sir. One of the men of Third Company was inconsiderate enough to obstruct my fist with his jaw. I’m fairly sure he got the worst of it.” Bobby looked suddenly uncomfortable. “That was all right, wasn’t it, sir? A corporal is not permitted to involve himself in brawling with the rankers, but under the circumstances—”

  “It’s fine,” Winter said. “I take full responsibility. Was anyone badly hurt?”

  “Two of the men had to carry Ranker Ibliss back from the field, sir.”

  “Oh, dear. Will he be all right?”

  “I think so.” Bobby coughed. “Apparently he suffered a blow to an unfortunate area.”

  Winter looked quizzical.

  “Kicked in the nadgers, sir. Probably not on purpose. You know how it is.”

  “I see. I hope Third Company isn’t going to hold a grudge.”

  “Better if they do, sir!” Bobby was smiling again. “The captain of my depot battalion used to encourage fighting between the companies. A good rivalry helps knit the unit together, he always said.”

  “How long were you in depot?” Winter asked.

  “A month. Should have been six weeks, but I was transferred out ahead of time for this expedition. Still, I count myself lucky.”

  “Why?”

  “I had a month,” Bobby said. “Some of the rankers got much less. A few had none at all, straight from the recruiting station to the ships.”

  “No wonder they can barely march,” Winter muttered. “Does the lieutenant know this?”

  “He should, sir. He has all the files.”


  That didn’t mean he’d read them, or that he cared. Winter mulled that over.

  “I meant to thank you, sir,” Bobby said.

  “For that?” Winter said. “It was just a trick.”

  “A clever trick, though. The men will be grateful.”

  “Just wait until d’Vries screams his head off tomorrow. That gratitude may be short-lived.” Winter sighed. “Sorry. I’m not in the best of moods. Did you need to see me for some reason?”

  “Just to say that, sir. And to ask if you wanted your dinner brought in.”

  “I suppose.” Winter looked at the little tent, with the desk full of daily reports and the bed haunted by unpleasant memories. Bobby seemed to read her mind.

  “You’re welcome to eat with us, sir.”

  Winter made a face. “I wouldn’t want to put anybody off.”

  “You wouldn’t—”

  “Oh, come on. You must know how it is. You can’t have the same kind of talk when the sergeant is listening in.” That was how it had always been in Davis’ company, anyway, although Winter had rarely been a part of the conversation.

  “Come and join us,” Bobby said. “I think you’ll feel better for a little talk, sir.”

  Winter chuckled. “Only if you promise to stop calling me ‘sir,’ Bobby.”

  “Yessir!” Bobby snapped to attention, eyes shining, and Winter couldn’t help but laugh.

  • • •

  Dinner was cooking when they emerged. In theory, the company was subdivided into six sections of twenty men, each led by a corporal. These units were more commonly called “pots,” since the main feature of each one was the iron cookpot in which the communal meals were brewed. In the Seventh, the boundaries between the pots were apparently pretty fluid, and all six vessels were gathered around a common fire. The men ate from whichever they liked and sat where they wanted, on the ground, on rocks, or on empty boxes of supplies. Mostly they gathered in circles, talking, laughing, and playing at dice or cards.

  Bobby led Winter to one such circle, where she recognized Corporal Folsom among seven or eight other men. They opened up obligingly to make a space on a makeshift bench of hardtack crates, and someone handed Winter a bowl full of the steaming broth that was the standard evening meal when time and supplies allowed. Chunks of mutton floated in it, and the surface was slick and shiny with grease. Winter accepted a cracker of hardtack from another man and let it absorb the juice until it was soft and sodden, then gobbled it down. She hadn’t realized she was so hungry.

  At first Winter’s fears seemed to be justified. The men had been talking and laughing until she arrived, but under the eyes of their sergeant they ate in awkward silence. Bobby called for a round of introductions, which produced a half dozen names that Winter promptly forgot. Then another silence fell, more uncomfortable than the first.

  It was Corporal Folsom, oddly, who provided the first crack in the wall. He broke his usual quiet to comment, apropos of nothing, “Didn’t realize there’d be so many streams here. They always told me Khandar was a desert.”

  Bobby seized eagerly on this scrap of conversation. “I heard the same thing. When you read about it, it’s always sand dunes and camels. I haven’t even seen a camel yet.”

  “This is the wet part,” Winter offered. “We’re only a dozen miles from the coast, so it gets a little rain now and then. And we’re coming up on the Tsel valley. If you walked twenty or thirty miles south, you’d be in the Lesser Desol, and there’d be no water for days in any direction.”

  “What about camels?” said one of the soldiers, whose name was either George or Gerry.

  “No camels,” Winter said. “Not here. Camels aren’t native to Khandar, actually. The Desoltai use them, but they live out in the Great Desol, to the east of the Tsel.”

  “Are they the ones who wear steel masks all the time?” said another man.

  Winter laughed. “Not all of them, just their leader. He calls himself Malik-dan-Belial, which means ‘Steel Ghost.’ Nobody knows what he really looks like.”

  “Seems like a pretty cowardly way to go about to me,” another soldier said. “What about this city we’re marching toward, Ashe-Katarion? Is it as big as Vordan?”

  “Not even close. Barely a town, really.”

  “Any chance of getting a decent drink?” someone said, and there was a round of laughter.

  Winter smiled. “There was the last time I was there, but that was before the Redeemers turned up. A bunch of crazy priests. Apparently they don’t like drinking, or good food, or anything that’s any fun.”

  There was a snigger. “Sounds just like our lot, then.”

  “Maybe in a Sworn Church,” someone else offered. “In depot the Free Chaplain could drink half a squad under the table.”

  They went on in that vein, and bit by bit the tension melted away. Most of the men were taller than Winter, so as often as not she was looking up into their broad, well-scrubbed faces, but for all that she suddenly felt how much older she actually was. There wasn’t a man in the circle older than eighteen. They were all boys, barely off their farms or away from the Vordan City tenements, and underneath their smiles and bravado there was a nervous core that Winter recognized.

  And she was the one they looked to for reassurance. She was the one who knew how things worked, here in Khandar and in the army. It was simultaneously touching and terrifying, bringing with it the full realization of what they expected of her. When they got to the subject of how she’d extracted them from drill that morning, none of them thanked her, as Bobby had. They seemed to consider it a matter of course, part of the duties of a sergeant, to stand between the rankers and the insanities of the higher echelons. There were quite a few japes at the expense of d’Vries. The first was offered hesitantly, but when Winter laughed as loud as the rest of them, that hurdle fell away as well.

  “So what about this Colonel Vhalnich?” said the one Winter was almost certain now was George. He was a large young man with mousy hair and freckles. “The talk says he’s mad.”

  “He must have done something horrible, to get this command,” said Nathan. He was short and bespectacled, and considered himself something of an expert on matters military.

  “I heard he volunteered,” said one of the others, whose name Winter still hadn’t caught.

  “Then he must be mad,” George said.

  “What do you think, Sergeant?” Nathan said.

  Winter shrugged uncomfortably. “I’ve never met the colonel, but Captain d’Ivoire is an Old Colonial. He won’t let this Vhalnich do anything too crazy.”

  “So where the hell are we marching, then?” George said.

  Opinions differed on that point. Nathan was certain that the Redeemers would flee for the hills as soon as it became clear that the Vordanai were in earnest. George continued to insist that Colonel Vhalnich was going to get them all killed, although he seemed curiously unconcerned by the prospect. Bobby said that they were merely providing an escort for the prince, who would negotiate with the rebels until they reached a settlement. But it was Folsom who provided the most thoughtful answer. When the big corporal cleared his throat, the circle fell silent.

  “I figure,” he said, “Colonel Vhalnich’s got to show that he tried, doesn’t he? He can’t just take us all back home to Vordan. He’s got to fight at least once, or else the ministers will have a fit. That’s where we’re going.” He shrugged. “That’s what I figure, anyway.”

  After that, they got back on the subject of Lieutenant d’Vries, and Winter took the opportunity to excuse herself. She tapped Bobby on the shoulder as she stood, and the boy looked up at her.

  “Can I have a word?” Winter said.

  They walked away from the little circle. The sun had gone down and the sky was darkening fast, already purple-gray. Winter stared upward pensively, where the stars were beginning to glitter. To someone raised in the smoky, torch-lit warrens of Vordan City, the nights of Khandar had been a revelation. Instead of the occasional twinkle,
the stars marched across the sky in their uncounted thousands, and when the moon rose it seemed clear enough that she could reach out and touch it.

  It had been a long time since she’d noticed the night sky like that. But it occurred to her that Bobby and the other recruits would only just have seen it for the first time. She wondered if any of them had spent a night staring up slack-jawed in wonder, as she had.

  She wanted to thank the corporal for dragging her out of her tent, but she couldn’t think of a way to begin. When she glanced at Bobby’s face, shadowed as it was in the fading light, it was clear that the boy understood. Winter gave a grateful sigh.

  “I had an idea,” she said, “while we were talking. It might get us into trouble, though.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Bobby said cheerfully.

  “The key is going to be timing.” Winter chewed her lip thoughtfully. “We’ll need to spread the word tonight, so we can get everyone rounded up quick once the march ends tomorrow . . .”

  • • •

  “Load!”

  Winter had dispensed with the drumbeat that the regulations prescribed. It was essential for drillbook perfection that every soldier perform the twenty-six numbered movements from the Manual of Arms in unison, synchronized to the beat of the drum, but in practice she found that it only confused the men. Instead she walked up and down in front of the triple line, letting her footsteps serve as cadence.

  The rankers, already grimed with sweat, struggled with their weapons. Winter sympathized. Loading was a complicated process. First you took your paper cartridge, filled with premeasured powder and the lead musket ball, and tore it in half with your teeth, holding the ball end in your mouth and keeping the end with the powder in your hand. Then you opened the lock, tipped a little powder into the pan, and closed it again. The rest of the powder went down the barrel, which required you to ground the butt of the weapon and hold it against your boot. The cartridge scraps went in with it, for good luck. Finally, you spat the musket ball and the rest of the cartridge into the barrel, grabbed the iron ramrod from the rings that held it slung under the weapon, and jammed the whole mess home with two or three good strokes.