The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  She forced herself to move, in spite of the protests from her abused body. Her hand found the knife and ripped off the sheath. It was a short blade, not really a fighting knife at all, but Davis was right there, gaping at her, the apple of his throat bobbing stupidly—

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

  Winter obeyed.

  • • •

  She didn’t recall cutting the colonel free, but she must have. The next thing she remembered was sitting huddled on the floor, arms hugging her knees to her chest, and the colonel was bending solicitously at her side.

  “Lieutenant?” When that elicited no response, he bent a little closer. “Winter?”

  She blinked, looking up. Colonel Vhalnich gave a quick smile and offered her a canteen.

  “Water?”

  Winter took it shakily and fumbled with the cap. Once she got it open she took a long pull, wincing at the pain in her jaw, and spat a pink stream into the dirt. Her mouth still tasted of blood, but she downed the rest in a single greedy swallow.

  “You look quite a mess,” the colonel said. “Are you badly hurt?”

  Her brain was slowly starting to function again. “I—” More blood dripped off her upper lip. She wiped her hand across her face and it came away crimson. “Think he broke my nose.”

  “I’m sorry it took me so long to intervene. As you saw, he had me at something of a disadvantage.”

  “The others,” Winter said, suddenly cold. “What about Folsom and the others?”

  “Folsom?” The colonel cocked his head. “Ah, the corporal commanding Captain d’Ivoire’s guard. They’re in the other tent with the captain, I believe, along with Miss Alhundt. We’ve really been treated quite well, all things considered. Although the captain was worried about Lieutenant Warus.”

  “He’s all right,” Winter said. “They were going to kill him, but I got to him first.”

  “Remarkable,” the colonel said. “You are an officer of considerable resource, I think.”

  Winter struggled to her feet. The edges of her torn shirt flapped against her skin, where they weren’t gummed tight with blood. “We had better let them out.”

  “They’ll keep a few moments longer.” There was a hint of amusement in the colonel’s gray eyes. “First of all, I suggest that you button your jacket.”

  Oh. Winter looked down at herself, too numb to feel embarrassment. She closed the buttons slowly, her fingers feeling clumsy and fat. Only when she was finished did she look back up at the colonel. He raised an eyebrow.

  “I knew, of course.”

  “Of course,” Winter said, deadpan. “Of course you knew. Everybody knows.” A hysterical giggle escaped, in spite of the pain it brought from her ribs. “You’re all just pretending not to notice, for my sake, aren’t you? It’s a big practical joke. I might as well walk through the camp naked, since everyone fucking already knows—”

  “I doubt that would be a good idea,” the colonel said. “I’ve been making something of a study of you, Lieutenant, and I don’t think I flatter myself too much if I say that I am more observant than the average soldier. As far as I can tell, your secret remains unrevealed.”

  “Except to the commander of the whole regiment,” Winter said bitterly. “Wonderful.”

  “I’m not planning to mention it to anyone else,” the colonel said, “if you were worried on that score.”

  Winter paused, watching his impassive expression. Her thoughts felt slow and diffuse, and her head throbbed with every heartbeat, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to focus. What the hell is he talking about? Bobby was one thing, but this was the colonel.

  “I . . .” She shook her head. “Why?”

  “Firstly, it would seem to be an ungracious response to your saving my life.” He gestured at the facedown body of Davis. “While Captain Roston was concerned with preserving a veneer of legality, I’m certain the senior sergeant would have prevailed on him eventually that his captives were too dangerous to be allowed to live.”

  “I didn’t come here to save you,” Winter said. “I came for my men.”

  “I guessed as much,” he said. “It doesn’t change the outcome. And, secondly, I’ve remained silent this long because I feel you show considerable promise as an officer. The army needs more like you, not fewer, the fact of your gender notwithstanding. Your stand on the docks at the river was . . . inspired.” Another fleeting smile. “I suspect that few among the army officers are as pragmatic as I am, however. Thus, it is best that your secret remain a secret.” He chuckled. “In particular, I suggest you keep it from Captain d’Ivoire. He has old-fashioned ideas when it comes to gallantry and would feel compelled to hustle you away for your own protection.”

  “So you’re just . . . not going to say anything?” She was having a hard time wrapping her mind around the concept.

  “I’m going to thank you for stopping an attempted mutiny,” he said. “And probably promote you in the bargain, once we’ve gotten clear of our current difficulties.”

  “We haven’t stopped anything yet,” Winter said. “Captain Roston—”

  “Let me worry about Captain Roston,” the colonel said. “We’ll collect Captain d’Ivoire and your men, and then I think you’re due for a rest.”

  She was too tired to protest, or even ask questions. It felt good to have someone else giving orders for a change. And she had to admit it suited him. She would never have known from the colonel’s demeanor that he’d been bound and gagged just minutes before. His thin face was animated, and something in the depths of his eyes made him seem on the edge of a smile that never quite appeared. He looks happy. She couldn’t imagine why.

  He walked to the tent flap, held it open. “After you, Lieutenant.”

  Winter drew herself up, in spite of the pain, and saluted. “Yes, sir!”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  MARCUS

  Marcus’ wrists chafed where he was bound. They’d used ordinary camp rope, thick and rough, and try as he might to hold still, the edges scraped painfully against his skin. At least he hadn’t been gagged.

  Jen, as a woman, had been spared the indignity; Adrecht remained a gentleman. The same could not be said of the Second Company man Sergeant Davis had left to watch the prisoners, who spent entirely too long staring thoughtfully at the Concordat liaison.

  They were in a large tent, empty except for a few makeshift writing desks. Marcus and Jen had a corner to themselves, while the corporal and rankers who’d been taken along with the colonel sat in a huddle on the other side.

  Adrecht himself hadn’t had the stomach to face to the prisoners, which gave Marcus a little bit of hope to cling to. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this. If I could only talk to him, I could make him understand. Unfortunately, Adrecht seemed to have delegated his captives to Davis, and Marcus harbored no illusions about his rationality.

  Fucking Davis. I should have had him strung up long ago. He’d known how awful the man was, even in Colonel Warus’ day, but back then it hadn’t been his problem. Besides, petty cruelty and thuggery were practically a sergeants’ tradition. But not mutiny.

  The Second Company man was leering again. He was a squat, ugly ranker, with a thick black beard and angry red welts on his cheeks. He sat by the tent flap on a biscuit crate, musket by his side, and occupied his time with tuneless whistling and staring hungrily at Jen when he thought no one was looking.

  “Marcus,” Jen hissed.

  He looked across at her, and her eyes flicked to their jailer.

  “If he tries anything,” Marcus said in a whisper, “I’ll—”

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” she said. “Listen. If worse really comes to worst, just keep your head down.”

  He snorted. “If you think I’m going to sit quietly while he drags
you outside and has his way with you—”

  “He won’t,” she said.

  “You don’t know that.”

  Her expression grew determined. “I mean, I won’t let him.”

  “But—”

  “Just trust me, would you?”

  Marcus subsided. With his arms tied behind his back, he didn’t fancy his chances in a fight with the hefty ranker, but he didn’t see that he had any other options. No point in arguing, though. He looked up at a rustle from the tent flap, hoping for Adrecht but expecting Davis. The guard looked up, too, one hand going to his musket.

  The pistol shot was shockingly loud at such close range. The Second Company man, eyes blank with surprise, rolled slowly backward with a hole drilled neatly through his forehead. Janus ducked inside the tent and tossed the still-smoking weapon aside.

  “Good morning, Captain,” he said. “Miss Alhundt, Corporal. I thought we might repair to more congenial surroundings.”

  He bent, pulled the knife from the dead man’s belt, flipped it around, and offered it to Jen. She set to work on the rope binding Marcus’ hands. Behind the colonel another man entered, and it took Marcus a moment to recognize young Lieutenant Ihernglass, who looked as though he’d been worked over by a team of men with truncheons. Blood smeared his face and trickled from his nose, his lips were thick and purple, and a bruise was swelling under one eye. He spared Marcus only a glance, then hurried toward where the corporal and the others lay.

  “Don’t tell me,” Marcus said, as his hands came free. “You tricked Davis into slitting his own throat.”

  “A surprisingly accurate guess,” Janus said, “but not quite. The senior sergeant was hardly my intellectual equal, but he proved remarkably resilient to persuasion. I must admit that we have the lieutenant to thank for our liberty.”

  “Ihernglass? How did he find us?”

  “You’ll have to get the complete story from him yourself. I understand he stumbled across Lieutenant Warus, and together they concocted a plan.”

  “Fitz is all right, then?” That had been preying on Marcus’ mind.

  “I believe so. The lieutenant says he left him with his company.”

  “Right.” Marcus clambered to his feet, massaging his aching wrists. He spared a moment to smile at Jen, then turned back to Janus. “What about Davis? When I get my hands on him—”

  “The senior sergeant has, I’m afraid, gone beyond the reach of your retribution.”

  “He’s dead?”

  Janus nodded at Ihernglass. “There was an altercation.”

  Marcus remembered the sheer scarred bulk of Davis, his massive fists, and measured them against Ihernglass’ slim, boyish figure. He whistled softly, then shook his head. “Quicker than he deserved. What about Adrecht?”

  “According to the lieutenant, Captain Roston is back at the main camp. Lieutenant Warus is endeavoring to keep him distracted.”

  “Then this isn’t over,” Marcus said. “We’ve got to get over there—”

  Janus held up a hand. “Indeed. All in good time. Before that, though, I wondered if I might have a word in private?”

  Marcus blinked, then looked over his shoulder at Jen. She nodded encouragingly, and Janus gave another of his summer-lightning smiles. He led the way out of the tent and onto the wreckage-strewn plain beyond. The sky in the east was just beginning to lighten, and the air was still heavy with the scent of woodsmoke.

  “Jen is . . . ,” Marcus began.

  “You trust her,” Janus said mildly.

  “I don’t know,” Marcus said. “She’s Concordat. But she doesn’t seem . . .” He trailed off, not sure how to put it.

  “It is inevitable that, even among Duke Orlanko’s minions, there are good men and women loyal to the king. Since your acquaintance with the young lady is somewhat deeper than mine”—a flash of humor in Janus’ eye made Marcus certain he knew exactly how deep that “acquaintance” went—“I am willing to trust your judgment. However, you have mistaken my purpose. My intention was not to keep secrets from Miss Alhundt, but rather to address a matter that concerns only you and me.”

  Marcus straightened, taken aback. “Sir?”

  “To be blunt, Captain, I wish to apologize. I allowed an unfortunate personal habit to get the better of me, and the result was a danger to this entire command as well as an insult to you personally.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

  Janus sighed. “It is a failing of mine that when I encounter an intellectual problem of any complexity, I have difficulty in preventing myself from throwing every ounce of my creative energy into its solution, leaving little or nothing over for other pursuits. This has been the case for the last several days, in spite of my best intentions, and the result has been the situation in which we find ourselves.”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything you could have done, sir,” Marcus said.

  “Nonsense. I should have foreseen Captain Roston’s behavior, both during the battle and afterward. And snapping at you on the ridge was inexcusable. If I had left proper instructions, or better yet exercised command in person, you would not have been put in the impossible situation of a choice between rescuing a friend and defending the camp.”

  Marcus stared at the colonel, searching his impassive face for something to help him respond. He’d almost entirely forgotten his anger at Janus, consumed as he’d been by a much more immediate rage at Adrecht, Davis, and his own stupidity. The colonel’s casual rebuke on the hillside seemed a thousand years ago. And yet Janus obviously felt keenly about it, on some level, which made Marcus hesitate from casually dismissing the matter. He finally settled on defensive formality.

  “I accept your apology, sir,” he said. “Although, of course, you were perfectly within your rights as commanding officer.”

  Janus nodded. “Nevertheless, I have expressed the wish that you and I have a relationship that is more than simply commander and subordinate, and it is incumbent on me to behave accordingly.”

  “Well. Thank you, then.” Marcus scratched his chin through his beard uncertainly. “What was the problem?”

  “The nature of the Desoltai tactical advantage, of course. It has become clear to me, over the course of the march, that our enemies enjoy a considerable edge in terms of information, above and beyond what their natural mobility as a mounted force should provide. Coordinating simultaneous attacks over long distances is a feat beyond the ability of most organized armies with modern timekeeping devices, much less desert raiders reckoning from the sun.”

  “The Steel Ghost is famous for it,” Marcus said, glad for the change of subject. “There’s all kinds of stories about him.” He broke off, then lowered his voice. “Is it true, do you think? Could he be something . . . supernatural, like the creature we fought in Ashe-Katarion?”

  A smile flicked across Janus’ face. “Anything is possible, Captain. But in this case I think not. Certainly the coordination of Desoltai attacks is susceptible to a more mundane explanation.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “I’ll go through it in a moment.” Janus turned away at the rustle of canvas. Lieutenant Ihernglass emerged from the tent, leaning heavily on the large form of Corporal Folsom, with a few rankers following hesitantly behind. They stopped short at the sight of the colonel.

  “No need to salute a fellow captive,” Janus said, as Folsom searched for some way to prop up Ihernglass so he could come to attention. “Lieutenant, I wonder if I might ask you one question before letting you go to a well-deserved rest.”

  “Yessir,” Ihernglass managed, through puffy lips.

  “You told me that you returned to camp after a skirmish with a small group of Desoltai. Among them, was there one bearing an unusually large pack?”

  The lieutenant nodded.

  “Excellent. If you could indicate where the encounter occurred, Captain d’Ivoire will detail some men to retrieve it.”

  “Don’t need to,” Ihernglass said. “I broug
ht it back with me. We thought there might be food inside, but it was just some . . .” He waved his free hand. “A lantern, or something.”

  “Indeed.” Janus’ smile came and went in an instant. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a look.”

  • • •

  The sun was well up by the time they returned to the tents and retrieved the mysterious box, and the encampment was buzzing like an overturned hive. No one knew what was happening, but there was a gradual current of men toward the clear space between the camps of the four battalions, where something interesting was evidently going on. While Janus fiddled with his acquisition, Marcus scraped up two dozen men from the Old Colonials of the First Battalion, made sure they were armed, and brought them back to the colonel to serve as an escort. Whatever Adrecht tried, Marcus didn’t intend to be taken so easily again.

  That done, their little party headed toward the focus of all the attention. A wide ring of soldiers, craning their necks and standing on their toes to try to get a glimpse, surrounded a small cleared space. Marcus’ men had to push their way through at first. Once the men caught sight of Marcus and the colonel, however, the path opened of its own accord, and the beehive roar of thousands of men whispering spread through the crowd like flames leaping across dry tinder.

  At the center of the mob were two rings of soldiers, both wearing First Battalion markings. One group, huddled into a tight mass, belonged to Lieutenant Ihernglass’ Seventh Company. Around them, muskets at the ready with fixed bayonets, was a circle of men from Davis’ Second.

  Outside the circle, another kind of standoff was in progress. Adrecht, backed up by a dozen Fourth Battalion soldiers, stood across from Fitz and a pair of corporals from the Seventh Company. Hovering to one side were Mor and Val, the former looking ready to explode and the latter huddled miserably with his arms crossed over his chest.

  Everyone looked up as Marcus and Janus passed through the crowd of soldiers. Marcus kept his eyes on Adrecht. A spasm of doubt and fear crossed his face, but he mastered himself almost immediately. Val’s eyes lit up at the sight of them, and Marcus caught a knowing glance from Fitz. The lieutenant’s face was nearly as badly bruised as Ihernglass’ had been.