The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  The colonel. The memory of their last conversation came rushing back. Did he really . . . I mean . . . he knows, but he’s not going to tell? She couldn’t make that fit in with the world she understood.

  “I’ll be all right,” Winter said, more for her own benefit than for Bobby’s. She touched her nose gingerly, and winced again. “Beast’s Balls. Not broken, he said?”

  Bobby nodded. “If you can get out of bed, we ought to get you cleaned up. Graff wanted to look at your ribs, but the colonel said you shouldn’t be moved too much.” She hesitated. “Does he—did he see—”

  “He knows.” Winter gave a hollow laugh, which brought a stab of pain from her side. “He’s agreed not to tell anyone, what with my saving his life and all.”

  “Good,” Bobby said. “That’s . . . good.”

  Winter looked at her clothes. She still wore the uniform she’d fought Davis in, torn undershirt and all, caked with mud and dried blood. A wide stain across one shoulder marked where the sergeant had slid to the floor. Gripped by a sudden revulsion, she started fumbling with the coat buttons. Her fingers felt thick as sausages, and the buttons slipped away from her twice before Bobby leaned in.

  “Let me,” the corporal said gently. She deftly got the coat open, then turned away with a blush when Winter shrugged it off as though it was full of spiders. Bobby indicated a bucket and cloth beside the bedroll. “There’s not enough for a proper bath, I’m afraid. But we can at least get the blood off. Unless . . .”

  Winter blew out a long breath, feeling the ache in her ribs. “It’s all right.”

  It had been more than two years since Winter had been naked in the presence of another human being, and she found the prospect deeply unsettling. Back before the Redemption, when the Colonials had enjoyed unrestricted access to Ashe-Katarion, she had very occasionally scraped together the coin to rent a room at one of the private bathhouses the served the high-rent districts. A big cistern full of blood-warm water, all to herself, seemed like the height of unimaginable luxury, but she’d never been able to bring herself to fully enjoy it. No matter how sincere the attendants’ promises of total discretion, no matter how far away from the areas normally frequented by Vordanai the bathhouse was, she could never shake the feeling that someone would take the opportunity to spy on their pale-skinned visitor. Then, somehow, her secret would get back to Davis, and the captain, and the colonel, and then—

  She’d never been able to picture what would happen then, but the thought had been horrifying enough that she’d hurried through her ablutions and back into her carefully altered uniform. Now that the worst had actually happened, Winter wasn’t sure what to think. But the habits of years died hard, and even if Janus was prepared to accept the fact of her gender, she was certain that the men of her company and her fellow officers would not.

  Her torn undershirt was so soaked with Davis’ blood that the front was as stiff as if it had been starched. Winter tossed it aside with a shudder of disgust and fumbled awkwardly with her belt, trying not to look at Bobby. She stepped out of her trousers and underthings, kicked them aside, and sat back down on the bedroll.

  Bobby hissed through clenched teeth. Winter looked down at herself and winced. The bruises had subsided a little from the night before, but they still covered her skin with a mass of blue-and-black blooms, as though she’d contracted some awful plague. Her left side in particular was swollen and tender to the touch where he’d kicked her.

  “Son of a bitch,” Bobby said. “I wish you hadn’t killed the bastard. I’d like to have a turn at him.”

  Winter gave a weak smile. “You might have to wait in line.”

  “I should have been there with you.”

  “You’d already saved my life once that night, and nearly gotten cut in half because of it. I’ll live.” Winter touched her side and flinched again. “Probably.”

  “Those cuts need cleaning.” Bobby gestured imperiously to the bedroll. “Lie on your stomach.”

  Winter propped her chin on the pillow, keeping the weight off her bruised face, and waited. The air was warm and dusty on her bare skin. The first touch of the wet cloth made her flinch. Bobby paused.

  “Sorry,” the corporal said. “I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

  Actually, after a few moments, it became almost relaxing. The bruises hurt in a dull way whenever the wet cloth passed over them, but Bobby had a light touch, letting the rag sit and soak sticky patches of dried blood before wiping them away. Where her skin had been torn up against the rocky ground or Davis’ fists, the stinging made Winter chew her lip, but she managed to keep from crying out.

  “How long have I been asleep?” she said, in an effort to distract herself.

  “More than two days,” Bobby said.

  “Two days?” Winter couldn’t help but twitch, and it made Bobby’s finger stab hard into her bruised ribs. She pressed her face into the pillow to muffle her shriek.

  “Sorry!” Bobby squeaked, dropping the rag. Winter turned her head to look up at the corporal. She wondered again how she’d ever believed Bobby was a boy.

  “My fault,” Winter said, through gritted teeth. She hissed a few breaths and tried to relax. “But—really two days?”

  The corporal nodded. “They had you on one of the carts. Colonel’s orders.”

  Winter didn’t remember that at all. Then again, given the tendency of the unsprung carts to bounce over every pebble, maybe it was better to have been unconscious.

  “Two days,” Winter repeated. “So what’s happened?”

  She listened while Bobby worked even more tentatively with the rag and explained about the ambush, the near-complete annihilation of the Desoltai fighters, and the subsequent march to the oasis. When the time came for her to roll onto her back, Winter closed her eyes to keep from having to stare up at Bobby’s blushing face.

  “They tried to make a stand,” the corporal went on, “but there wasn’t much fight left in them. Most of them broke at the first charge, and we spent the day cleaning out the rest. Give-Em-Hell was all for following the ones that ran, I hear, but the colonel ordered us to stay put. We’re camped just by the edge. There’s a little town—not much more than a few shacks, really, but there’s a spring and a pool, just like the colonel said.”

  “What about you?” Winter said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You. The—” She drew a line across the front of her body with one finger, where Bobby had been cut, not wanting to say the words aloud. “You know.”

  “Oh. Fine. The same as always.” Bobby gave a weak chuckle. “I don’t think I’ve had so much as a hangnail since . . . the first time.”

  “That’s good.” Winter tried not to picture the healed skin under the corporal’s uniform, warm and pliable but glassy as marble. And spreading . . . She gritted her teeth again.

  Bobby gave the cloth a last swish and sat back. “There. That’s better. Do you think we need to bind those cuts?”

  Winter opened her eyes and sat up, poking at her torn skin with one finger. “I’ll be all right. It doesn’t seem to have started bleeding again—”

  There was a knock at the tent pole. They both froze. Winter caught Bobby’s eye and jerked her head in the direction of the tent flap, and the girl nodded.

  “Who’s there?” Bobby said.

  “Feor.”

  Winter relaxed. “One moment,” she said in Khandarai, and got up to get clothing. She was down to her last clean shirt, and there was no choice but to wear the stained trousers again. She left the jacket in the dirt. It would need a thorough wash before she could even think of putting it back on. Once she was at least decent, she waved at Bobby, who held the tent flap open. Feor ducked inside.

  The girl had changed somehow. She’d discarded the splint that had held her arm since they’d first tended her, but it was more than that. The glassy look in her eyes was gone, replaced with a hard sense of purpose. The march from Ashe-Katarion had thinned her, too, hollowing her cheeks and g
iving her a lean, hungry look.

  “Winter,” Feor said, looking her over. “You are . . . well?”

  “Well enough. Your arm?”

  Feor raised it experimentally. “It still feels weak,” she said, “but Corporal Graff said the bone has healed true.” She cocked her head. “I think that is what he said, at least. My Vordanai is improving, but he still speaks too quickly.”

  Winter gave an uneasy chuckle. “Good. That’s good.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Winter glanced at Bobby, who gave a tiny shrug, reminding her that she understood nothing of the Khandarai conversation.

  “I wanted to apologize,” Feor said.

  Winter blinked. “Apologize?”

  “For my behavior the night of the Desoltai raid, and during the time since we left the city.”

  “Ah.” It’s about damn time. Winter shifted awkwardly and tried to sound conciliatory. Feor was clearly having a hard time getting this out. “I don’t know. I mean, it hasn’t been easy for you—”

  “It’s no excuse.” Feor swallowed. “Especially for what I . . . tried to do, at the end. I put you and Bobby in danger from my own selfishness.”

  “But—” Winter shook her head. “All right. Apology accepted. If it means anything to you, I think I understand. After Ashe-Katarion . . .”

  “But you had the truth of it all along,” Feor said earnestly. “Onvidaer returned my life to me. To waste it now would be to cast away his suffering as well as mine.”

  Winter had said something like that, come to think of it, although at the time she’d just spouted whatever came to mind in order to get Feor moving. She shrugged.

  “Well. I’m glad you’ve worked it out.”

  “It has become clear to me,” Feor said, “that it was the will of the gods that I meet you, and do as I have done. Even Mother’s sanction is nothing beside that. Bobby is the proof.”

  “Proof?” Winter said. “What about her?”

  “My naath . . .” Feor hesitated. “It is a sacred thing. Obv-scar-iot. In Khandarai it means . . .” Her lips worked silently for a moment. “‘Prayer of the Heavenly Guardian,’ perhaps. It is the closest I can come. The language of magic is . . . difficult.”

  “I remember. What about it?”

  “It grants the strength and power of Heaven to defend the faithful and the cause of the Heavens in this world. When I used it on a raschem, a nonbeliever, I thought it would not achieve its full flowering. The power of the Heavens would not invest one who was not worthy.”

  “Its full . . . flowering?” Winter said.

  “No.” Feor hesitated. “Have you examined where she was . . . wounded, the first time?”

  “I did.” Winter glanced again at Bobby, but spoke in Khandarai. “It’s growing, isn’t it?”

  “I think so.”

  Winter chewed her lip. “What’s happening to her?”

  “The Heavens favor her. I do not know why, but they have chosen to grant her their power. She is truly becoming the Heavenly Guardian.” Feor blew out a deep breath. “That is how I know that coming to you was their will.”

  “But what’s going to happen to Bobby? Is that stuff going to spread over her whole body?”

  “I don’t know. There has not been a true Guardian in many generations, and I was not permitted to study the oldest lore.” Feor shook her head. “It may be that the process will halt when she has accomplished the purpose the Heavens have set for her.”

  “‘May be’?” Winter tried to squelch her anger. Without this naath, Bobby would be dead twice over, and likely me in the bargain. “All right. So you don’t really know. Is there anyone who does?”

  “Mother. Or perhaps not even she. Much of the knowledge of ancient days is lost to us.”

  “Right.” Winter rubbed her forehead with two fingers, trying to fight off an incipient headache. “Right. So when we capture your ‘Mother,’ I’ll just ask the colonel if we can have a moment alone with her.”

  “She will not be captured.” A haunted look passed across Feor’s face, and she hugged herself tightly. “She will die instead. They all will.”

  “They might escape again,” Winter said.

  “No.” Feor looked up. “That is what I came to tell you. Mother is close. I can feel her. Onvidaer as well.”

  “You think they’re here? At the oasis?”

  “Yes.”

  “But . . .” Winter turned to Bobby and switched to Vordanai. “You said the oasis was taken, right?”

  The corporal nodded. “Why?”

  “Feor insists that someone is still there. Those people we saw in Ashe-Katarion the night of the fire. Could they be hiding somewhere?”

  Bobby paused. “I know the colonel ordered the place searched for supplies, but I hadn’t heard of anybody finding anything like that. They’re still at it, though.” She shrugged. “Graff and the rest of the company are out there now with Captain d’Ivoire.”

  Winter went very quiet. Something in her chest had tightened into a knot, and it was a moment before she could speak.

  “You stayed behind?” she said.

  “We wanted someone to be with you when you woke up,” Bobby said. “I thought it would be best if it was me. Because—well, you know.”

  Winter blew out a breath. Her side ached.

  “Well,” she said, “now that I’m up, I’d better get back to my post. Let’s track down the others.”

  “That’s not really necessary,” Bobby said. “Graff can handle things—”

  “I’d rather go myself,” Winter said, through gritted teeth. The memory of that terrible night in Ashe-Katarion kept playing out behind her eyes, with the young man named Onvidaer dispatching three armed men in the casual way one might kill a chicken for the pot. She turned to Feor and said in Khandarai, “Do you think you can find your way to Onvidaer?”

  “Not . . . precisely. I can feel him when he is close, but no more than that.”

  “If we found him . . .” Winter hesitated. “He disobeyed your Mother once. Do you think he would do it again? If you had the chance to talk to him?”

  “I do not know.” Something in Feor’s expression told Winter that she’d been thinking along the same lines. “But I would like to try.”

  MARCUS

  Up close, a cannon always seemed like a tiny thing compared to the god-awful noise it produced.

  Field guns did, anyway. Marcus had seen siege pieces, first at the War College and later on the docks in Ashe-Katarion. Those iron monsters were so enormous it was hard to imagine anyone even being able to load them, much less daring to be nearby when a spark was applied to the touchhole.

  The twelve-pounder was tiny by comparison, a six-foot metal tube with a barrel not much larger than Marcus’ head at the business end. It was dwarfed by its own wheels, big hoops of iron-banded wood. This was one of the Preacher’s original three, carefully engraved from muzzle to axle with scripture from the Wisdoms, and now mottled all over with powder residue.

  The Preacher himself was standing beside the gun, talking to Janus. Behind them waited the Seventh Company of the First Battalion. Marcus recognized the big corporal who’d been imprisoned with them in Adrecht’s tents, and resisted giving the man a wave.

  “You’d get more force if you hit it straight on,” Janus was saying. “And those doors can’t be solid stone, or they’d be too heavy to move. There’s no room for a counterweight.”

  “No disrespect, sir, but I’ve seen some clever counterweights,” said the Preacher. “Besides, if they are light, it won’t matter how we hit them. And if we get a rebound, I sure don’t want it coming right back at us.” He patted the cannon fondly. “Besides, by the grace of the Lord and the Ministry of War, we’ve no shortage of roundshot. If we don’t break through the first time, we’ll just have to try again.”

  “I suppose you know your business.” Janus looked back at Marcus. “You’ve warned the men?”

  “I sent Lieutenant Warus, sir.” Unexpected ca
nnon fire had a way of producing unpredictable results, and with the Colonials dispersed through the little oasis town Marcus didn’t want to take a chance on someone panicking.

  “Excellent.” Janus took two long strides back from the gun. “You may fire at your pleasure, Captain Vahkerson.”

  The Preacher looked at the three cannoneers standing beside the piece, who gave him a thumbs-up. He nodded, and they fell back from the gun, one of them holding the end of a length of lanyard.

  Janus retreated as well and, somewhat to Marcus’ surprise, jammed his hands over his ears. This undignified but prudent example rippled down the chain of command as first Marcus and then the men of the Seventh standing behind him followed suit. Marcus didn’t hear the Preacher give the order to fire, but he saw the cannoneer give a sharp jerk on the lanyard, and a moment later the world went white.

  • • •

  The “oasis” was little more than a spring, in truth, issuing from a crack in the side of a rocky hill that rose out of the endless wastes of the Great Desol like a granite whale. Where the steady trickle of water had once soaked away into the thirsty ground, the Desoltai had built a stone-walled pool, shaded with horsehides to keep off the worst of the sun. Around it was a village, if it could be dignified with the name. It consisted of a wide-open space around the pool, surrounded by a scattering of huts built of stone and scraps of wood and roofed with more hides. Even these must have represented a significant investment for the Desoltai. There were no trees in the Desol, so every piece of timber would have been transported on horseback from the valley of the Tsel.

  Whatever noncombatants had inhabited the village had plenty of warning of the Colonials’ approach, and the Vordanai had found the buildings stripped of everything a man could carry. A wide corral stank with still-fresh horse droppings, but there were no animals to be seen. Marcus had been frankly glad to hear it. Given the state of their supplies, burdening the column with a few hundred captive civilians would have brought on some choices he didn’t like to contemplate.