Marcus grimaced. Here’s where I show that I’m no better than the likes of Davis, after all.
“We must have water,” he said quietly, so the crowd behind the headman would not hear. “I am prepared to make a generous donation to your town and your god in exchange for it, and to purchase food and other necessaries besides. If you refuse, however, we can commandeer these things in the name of the prince, and then you will have nothing.”
“You have no right to do such things.”
I have an army. That’s even better. “The prince disagrees. You may apply to him for compensation.”
“And if we refuse?”
Marcus glanced over his shoulder at Sergeant Davis, who was still glaring daggers at the Khandarai. Then he shrugged, as though it were a matter of indifference to him.
“You will pay,” the headman said, after a moment’s contemplation. “And we will bring wine for your soldiers to drink, so only your animals need to use the fountain. You must pay for the wine, too, of course.”
“Of course.” Marcus’ head was starting to pound in time with the ache in his arm. He wondered how he was going to explain this to Janus. If he even bothers to ask.
• • •
“And did he say where we go next?” Jen said.
“Of course not,” Marcus said, pulling off his uniform jacket one-handed and tossing it into a corner. “He just smiles, as though he expects me to enjoy the sense of mystery. I swear to Karis the Savior the man missed his calling as a stage conjuror.” He picked up the wineskin—a too-sweet vintage generously provided by the villagers of Nahiseh—and took another long pull.
Jen, sitting on his bed, nodded sympathetically. He hadn’t invited her in, exactly, but she’d been waiting for him outside his newly erected tent, and his anger at Janus’ refusal to divulge his plans had come bubbling out almost involuntarily. Now he stood with the skin in one hand, facing her bright, curious eyes behind the thick-lensed spectacles, and wondered if he’d said too much.
She’s still Concordat, when all is said and done. And Janus is still my commanding officer. Betraying a confidence went deeply against Marcus’ nature. He hadn’t mentioned the Thousand Names, or that Janus might have a reason for the march other than to run down the Divine Hand, but he wondered how much Jen might infer from his frustration.
“He doesn’t trust me. No surprise, really. I don’t think he really trusts anyone.” He tried a grin. “No offense intended.”
“None taken. His Grace the Duke certainly doesn’t trust him.” She held out a hand, and Marcus silently handed the wineskin across. “That’s why I’m here, after all. Though what I’m supposed to do now is beyond me.”
“No secret instructions from the Ministry?” Marcus said teasingly.
“No instructions at all. ‘Observe and report,’ they told me.” She shook her head. “I don’t think even Orlanko expected the colonel to overthrow the Redeemers so quickly.”
“It had to be quickly, or not at all. If we’d settled into a siege, with the whole countryside against us, we wouldn’t have lasted a month. Janus was right. Breaking straight through was the only way.”
“The men in the camp are saying he’s a genius,” she said. “Farus the Conqueror come again. Is he?”
Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “That may be going a bit far. But he certainly knows what he’s about.”
“Then you agree with him about this march into the Desol?”
“I didn’t say that.” Marcus thought about Adrecht. “It’s not my place to agree or disagree. The colonel gives orders, and I execute them as best I can.”
“Ever the dutiful soldier.”
“Be sure to put that in your report.” He reached down to unlace his boots, and winced at a spasm of pain in his arm. “Saints and martyrs. I suppose I’d better see a cutter for this.”
“I can take a look, if you like.”
Marcus was dubious, but anything was better than a trip to the cutter’s tent. He finished with his boots and tugged his shirttails out of his pants, then looked over at Jen, suddenly embarrassed. It must have shown on his face, because she laughed and waved a hand.
“Go ahead, Captain. You can trust to my discretion.”
He pulled his shirt and undershirt over his head quickly, to hide the burning in his cheeks, and then gently pulled the bloody part away where it had gummed itself to his flesh, flinching each time it pulled out a hair. When he was done, he worked the arm stiffly, watching fresh blood well up through cracks in the clotted mass. Jen leaned forward and sniffed unhappily.
“That’s a mess. Do you have a clean cloth?”
“By the basin.”
Jen wet the cloth in the lukewarm water and sat down beside Marcus on the bed. She worked the cloth back and forth across the injury, and he endured the cleansing patiently, trying not to wince as bits of scab tore free. The cloth was streaked with red by the time she was finished.
“Just a little cut,” she said, holding the linen against the wound to soak up fresh bleeding. “You’ll have a scar.”
“It won’t be the first.”
“I can see that.” Her eyes ran across his torso, which was a patchwork of evidence of other minor altercations. Marcus, suddenly uncomfortable again, shifted himself away from her and nodded toward the trunk.
“There should be some fresh bandages in there,” he said.
Jen got up and fetched them. When she sat down again, she was right beside him, her knee nearly touching his. She knotted the bandage around his injury with the air of an expert, tested the knot, and let his arm fall. It brushed her thigh on the way down, and the tips of his fingers seemed to tingle.
“You were lucky,” she said. “You might have broken your neck.”
“I know.” Marcus sighed. “Fitz has already lectured me. But I couldn’t just let things get out of hand . . .”
There was a long silence, or as close to silence as there ever was in an army camp. Outside, there was the usual buzz of men putting up tents, cooking dinner, and dealing with the thousand other mundane tasks that made up the life of a soldier. But they all slowly seemed to fade away, until Marcus was intensely aware of Jen’s breathing. He found himself watching the way her chest moved under the flaps of her coat. When he realized what he was doing, he looked hastily away, blushing again, then caught her gazing at him steadily. He swallowed, hesitated, and opened his mouth, though to say what he had no idea.
“Yes,” Jen said.
Marcus blinked. “What?”
“I know what you’re going to say. Or what you want to say, anyway. And the answer is yes.”
“Yes? I mean—I don’t know what you mean. I wasn’t—”
“You’re very gallant,” Jen said. “But if you keep stuttering, I may have to hit you.”
He kissed her instead. It wasn’t a very good kiss. Marcus was out of practice, and the edge of Jen’s spectacles dug into the side of his face so hard they left a mark. But she was smiling when he pulled away, and her cheeks were as flushed as his. She took the glasses off with one hand, snapped them closed, and set them carefully by the side of the bed.
“I didn’t mean to be . . . forward,” Marcus said. “You don’t have to—you know—”
“Please,” she said. “Please stop talking.”
He did. After a while, she snuffed the lamp, leaving them in the warm, dry semidarkness.
It had been a long time for Marcus, and even longer since he hadn’t had to hire his company. Adrecht might have been able to get Khandarai women to fawn over him, but Marcus had never had the knack, so his romantic life had been confined to a few of the cleaner establishments in the lower city. Compared to the practiced embraces of those seasoned professionals, Jen was hesitant and awkward, but he found he didn’t mind.
Afterward, she lay close beside him, her breast pressed against his shoulder. The camp bed wasn’t really big enough for both of them, and Marcus’ injured arm dangled over the edge. His other arm was trapped underneath h
er, but he felt no desire to move. Jen’s breathing was so soft he thought she was asleep, but when he turned his head he found her eyes open and watching him.
Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”
“Just thinking.” She pursed her lips. “Remember the bottle we opened?”
“Of course.”
Jen smiled. “I just thought that if we all die in the desert, at least I won’t have to regret not doing this.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Marcus said.
“You didn’t sound so confident earlier.”
“I was angry.” Marcus let out a long breath. “Janus will come through, somehow. He won’t say where we’re going and he won’t explain, but in the end he’ll come through, and drag the rest of us with him.”
“You sound like you have a lot of faith in him.”
For a moment, Marcus was back at Weltae. He saw Adrecht urging him to escape while he had the chance. He struggled to recall the certainty that had blazed in his mind, that Janus would be there. And he was. Another, treacherous voice added, Too late for Adrecht, though. And how many others?
Marcus shifted, bringing his free hand up to run lightly along Jen’s flank. He gave her nipple an idle tweak, and felt it harden under his fingers. A little shiver ran through her body, and she wriggled tighter against him and pressed her lips to his bearded cheek.
• • •
She didn’t spend the night, of course. Sex on the camp bed was uncomfortable enough. Actually sleeping side by side would have been impossible. He must have dozed off at some point, though, because when he woke in the morning, still naked, Jen and her clothes had gone.
There was no question of keeping the liaison a secret—the walls of the tent were just canvas, after all, and there was nothing an army camp liked better than to gossip about its officers. But if the rumors reached Fitz or Janus, neither mentioned them, and the feeling that he was doing something monstrously wrong slowly started to fade from Marcus’ mind. Jen shared his bed the next night, when he’d traded the camp bed for a pair of bedrolls, and the night after that as well. The day after that, the Colonials marched into the Great Desol.
They’d been making steady progress through the Khandarai farmland beyond Nahiseh, in spite of the lack of good roads. As Give-Em-Hell had promised, past the town the land flattened out and the fields were marked by rough dirt tracks instead of stone walls, making for a much more comfortable march and easier going for the vehicles. Marcus’ spirits had revived somewhat, due both to Jen’s ministrations and to the fact that no Desoltai ambushes had materialized.
The second day, the cultivated fields started to give way to patches of rough scrub grass, and the grass in turn to open, sandy wastes strewn with rock. The streams that wound through the low valleys became narrower and farther apart, until they were dust-dry beds more often than not. Huge outcrops of rock, like jagged whales breaching through an ocean of sand and dust, took the place of the gentle hills they had found thus far. There was no definite boundary, but by the morning of the third day Marcus could look back and ahead and see not a hint of green from horizon to horizon.
• • •
On the morning of the fourth day out from Nahiseh, Marcus was roused from an uneasy sleep by Fitz, who knocked discreetly but firmly at the tent pole. Marcus had in fact gone to bed alone that night. The camp was abuzz with expectation, of an attack or some other sign of resistance from the Desoltai, and he’d been up half the night waiting for the alarm to sound. Whether she’d sensed this or had just been preoccupied herself, Jen had stayed away, and Marcus had eventually lapsed into a fitful slumber. He woke up, still fully clothed, and struggled groggily to his knees.
“Fitz?” he said. “Is something wrong?” The light outside didn’t seem bright enough for it to be much past dawn.
“I’m afraid so, sir,” said the lieutenant. “You’d better come and see.”
Chapter Twenty
WINTER
“They found them on the rocks?” Winter said.
“Strapped to them, hands and feet,” Graff said. He looked a little gray. “Like they were still alive when they put them up there. And that’s not the half of it, sir.”
“Oh?”
Graff’s eyes darted to Bobby. “Not sure the boy should hear, sir.”
Winter winced. They were in front of her tent, in the midst of the Seventh Company camp. No one was obviously listening, but she had no doubt a dozen ears were pricked up nearby.
“Corporal Forester is a soldier like the rest of us,” Winter said, a bit too loudly. “In spite of his age.”
“Yessir.” Graff swallowed. “Well, begging your pardon, sir, it seems that the grayskins cut the . . . ah . . . equipment off them, stuffed it in their mouths, and left them to bleed out.”
“Equipment?” Winter said. She had an image of saddlebags or bandoliers.
“Cocks,” Bobby said flatly.
Graff, turning a little red, nodded. “Give-Em-Hell is goddamned furious, I heard. He said he was going to take his whole command to find the bastards that did it and give them the same treatment.”
“Which I’m sure is just what they want,” Winter said. “Hopefully Captain d’Ivoire or the colonel will have better sense.”
“The colonel will,” Graff said. “He’s a cold bastard, that one. Looked up at those poor men and never said a word. It was the captain who finally got ’em cut down and seen to.”
Folsom jogged up, straightened, and saluted Winter, who as usual had to suppress the urge to look over her shoulder for an officer.
“Orders from Captain d’Ivoire,” the corporal said. “Break camp and prepare to march.”
There was a chorus of groans from the unofficial listeners all around. The recruits had rapidly picked up a bit of the cynicism of the Old Colonials, and they’d been hoping that the brutal murder and mutilation of a half dozen men meant they might get a respite from the day’s march. Winter’s voice cut through the curses.
“You heard him! Get moving!” As the complaining men got to their feet and the camp started to bustle around her, she leaned close to Folsom. “Can you take care of Feor?”
The big corporal gave a quick nod. Winter had tipped one of the carters to let the Khandarai girl ride with the water barrels, and Folsom delivered her there every morning swathed in a spare army greatcoat. It wasn’t the best arrangement, but with the captain’s new directives that no surplus baggage or personnel was to accompany the column, it was all that Winter had been able to come up with.
Feor didn’t seem to mind. Since the night of the fire, she barely seemed awake. She walked when she was led, ate and drank when food was put in front of her, and when left alone curled into a ball and lay motionless for hours. It was as though something inside her had shattered after her confrontation with Mother, and nothing Winter did could reach her.
Folsom saluted again and went into Winter’s tent to fetch the Khandarai girl. Graff followed him with worried eyes, then looked back at Winter.
“You think we’ll catch them?” he said.
Winter blinked, distracted. “Catch who?”
“The Desoltai.” Graff pitched his voice low. “Only I heard some of the Old Colonials saying that nobody can catch them, not now that we’re into the desert. They know every rock and hidden spring, and they’ve got magic as well. And then there’s the Steel Ghost.”
“Let me guess,” Winter said. “You heard this from Davis?” That sort of malingering sounded like the sergeant’s style.
“No, sir. Someone in the Fourth. Apparently Captain Roston shares those opinions.”
“The colonel can catch them,” Bobby said. “If anyone can.”
Graff looked worried. “But what if no one can?”
Winter clapped him on the shoulder. “Then we’re in for a long march, aren’t we?”
• • •
The scouts they’d found without their manhood were the first evidence of the viciousness of the Desoltai, but far
from the last.
Every day, Give-Em-Hell took his cavalry out to screen ahead of the column, their sturdy Khandarai-bred mounts struggling over rocks and sand. Every evening, they returned to camp empty-handed, and fewer in number than they’d been when they set out. And every morning, the missing men were discovered just outside the camp, having expired from whatever tortures the endlessly inventive Desoltai raiders had dreamed up for them.
By the fourth day Give-Em-Hell was mad enough to scream at the colonel when he once again turned down the cavalryman’s request to ride out in a body after the “cowardly scum.” Colonel Vhalnich bore the verbal assault calmly, in full view of half the First Battalion, then told the captain that he and his cavalry were relieved from their scouting duties and would henceforth ride in the center of the column, protecting the baggage.
In their place, Captain d’Ivoire ordered infantrymen to patrol by half companies, in order to prevent any more isolated disappearances. This meant the unlucky troops who’d drawn the job had to wake up hours before dawn and start walking, creating a buffer between the main column and the desert raiders who waited invisibly among the rocks all around them. The Seventh Company made such a patrol on the sixth day, and Winter fully expected a horde of enemy riders to suddenly materialize and massacre the lot of them. It was easy, especially in the predawn darkness, to people every crevice and shadow with watching eyes.
What actually happened was worse, in a way, although it happened on someone else’s watch. A company of the Second Battalion, walking a mile in front of the plodding column, surprised a gang of Desoltai watering their horses from a tiny rock spring. Eager for vengeance, the Colonials rushed after them, only to find all the nearby boulders sprouting armed men. Out of forty men, only nine escaped, and the screams of those who’d been unfortunate enough to survive echoed over the camp until well into the night.
The next day, the captain issued orders that the patrols were not to engage the Desoltai under any circumstances, but rather to fall back from any contact until more forces could be brought up. This kept the infantry patrols out of ambushes, but made great sport for the Desoltai, who rode up in twos and threes to fire a few shots and watch the entire column grind to a halt as the lead battalion started deploying for battle. The rate of march slowed to a crawl, which meant that those soldiers in the center and rear of the army spent most of the day standing idle under the blazing sun. April had worn into May, and the days were steadily warming toward the unbearable furnace of the Khandarai summer.
The Thousand Names Page 44
