The Thousand Names (16 page)

Involuntarily, Winter’s hand went to her cheek, where the massive bruise had blossomed. Davis saw the movement, and his smile twitched wider.

“D’you think,
Sergeant
, that we could have a word in private?” Davis said. “Man to man. For old times’ sake?”

Winter, anxious to get away from the curious looks of her new company, nodded jerkily. The three Old Colonials rose. She led them back toward her tent, away from the pots and the fires, and into the narrow alley between two canvas walls.

“Sergeant,” Davis said. “You, a sergeant. Fucking martyrs, this army is really gone to shit, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t want it,” Winter said. “I told the captain—”

“I thought I was sending you out for a suicide mission,” Davis interrupted, “and the captain makes you a sergeant. How the hell did you pull
that
one off?”

“Prob’ly sucked his cock,” Peg said.

“Saint does have a pretty little mouth,” Buck mused. “Practically like a girl’s.”

“Was that it, Saint?” Davis said. “You engage in a little persuasion? Thought you could put one over on old Sergeant Davis? Hell, that’s not so bad, a little cock-sucking for a double promotion. Should have let him fuck your arse—then you might have made lieutenant, and I’d have to salute
you
. Wouldn’t that be a hell of a thing?”

“What do you want?” Winter managed.

“What do I want?” Davis echoed. “God, I’m not sure. I suppose I want an army where little pieces of shit like you aren’t promoted over the heads of better men, to where you can get people killed. But I’m not likely to get it, am I?” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “How about this? You go to the captain and tell him you’re done being a sergeant. It’s too much for you. You can’t handle it. Suck him off again if you have to. Then you can come on back to old Sergeant Davis. Won’t you like that?”

“He wouldn’t let me.” Winter felt her hands curl into fists. “I
tried
to tell him no, but he wouldn’t—”

“What, because you were too good to be a sergeant?” Davis leaned close to her, until she could smell the foul rotted-meat stink of his breath. “Fucking Saint. You’re just too good for this world, aren’t you?”

“Maybe we ought to, you know, help him along,” Buck prompted.

Davis smiled. Winter saw, suddenly, that he was going to hit her. She tensed, ready to dodge, but Buck and Peg were on either side of her, boxing her in.

“Sergeant?”

It was Bobby’s voice. Davis froze. Winter looked cautiously over her shoulder. The boy stood at the end of the little alley, framed by the firelight.

“We’re still talking,” Davis rumbled. “Piss off.”

“The thing is,” Bobby said, advancing, “we were in the middle of a game, and we can’t go on without the sergeant. So if you wouldn’t mind having your chat in the morning?”

Buck stepped in front of Bobby. The Old Colonial had at least a foot and fifty pounds on the boy. He loomed.

“Sarge said piss off,” he growled. “We’re busy.”

“But—”

Buck put one hand on each of Bobby’s shoulders, pressing hard. The boy’s legs buckled, and he fell involuntarily to his knees.

“Listen, kid,” Buck said. “Just crawl back out of here, and you won’t get hurt.”

Winter caught Bobby’s eye.
Go!
She tried to communicate the message, but apparently it didn’t get across. The boy smiled and flicked his eyes upward.

“’Scuse me,” said a deep voice, behind Davis. Corporal Folsom stepped forward and smiled at Winter.

Davis half turned, his face twisted in rage, and then paused as he reassessed the situation. He was a big man, used to commanding respect by physical presence alone, but Folsom was nearly as tall as he was. Moreover, Davis’ bulk was layered with fat, the product of years of soft living in Ashe-Katarion. The corporal had a laborer’s build, corded with muscle. There was something in his stance that spoke of a familiarity with violence—he stood on the balls of his feet, ready to move.

Peg turned to face him, too, and there was a moment of dangerous silence. Winter wanted to scream, or run, or do
something
. She wanted Corporal Folsom to push Davis’ fat face through the back of his skull, but at the same time the thought terrified her. Standing up to Davis led to pain: that lesson had sunk into her very bones. Better to avoid notice. But there was no avoiding notice now.

A clatter of boots behind Bobby broke the pause. Corporal Graff turned the corner, puffing a little, and behind him came a half dozen brawny soldiers. Davis reached a decision. He straightened up, and his face twisted into a parody of a smile.

“My, you do take your games seriously,” he said, slapping Peg jovially on the shoulder. “Well, I suppose the sergeant and I had more or less finished our business.” He grinned down at Winter, eyes flashing murderous fire. “Now you take care, Saint. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, would we? Don’t go stepping on any scorpions.”

“Stepping on a scorpion” was the standard cover story for any intra-regimental violence. When some poor bastard was so bruised and bleeding he couldn’t make roll call, his fellows would report that he’d stepped on a scorpion.

Bobby gave a bright, guileless smile. “Don’t worry, Sergeant. We’ll take good care of him.”

“S’right,” Folsom said, from behind Davis. “Don’t worry.”

“Well, that certainly makes me feel better.” Davis clapped his hands, gruesomely cheerful. “Come on, lads. Let’s leave the Saint and his new company to their dinner.”

Buck seemed eager to go. Peg was more reluctant, glaring acidly at Folsom, but at a glance from Davis he turned away. The soldiers behind Graff parted to let the three Old Colonials through. After a moment, Winter heard Davis’ booming laughter.

“Sergeant?” Bobby said, closer at hand. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Winter said automatically. Her breath still came fast, and her heart pounded. Her gut felt twisted into knots.

“You look like you need to lie down for a bit.” Bobby stepped beside her. “Let me help you—”

At the brush of the boy’s fingers, Winter pushed him away, too violently. It was a conditioned reflex, and she regretted it immediately. The expression on Bobby’s face was like she’d kicked a puppy. She swallowed hard and straightened, fighting for self-control.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m fine. I just need to rest a bit.” She looked around. “Go back to dinner, the rest of you.”

The soldiers behind Graff stood aside as she passed by them to slip into her tent. She sat on the camp bed, not bothering to light the lamp, and hugged her stomach. The muscles there were taut in memory of the impact of Davis’ meaty fist.

Someone knocked at the tent pole. “It’s Graff.”

Winter didn’t want to see him, or anyone else, but that would be a poor way to show gratitude. “Come in.”

The corporal entered, looking a little embarrassed. Winter looked up at him curiously.

He coughed. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry,” he said. “For interfering. I thought it prudent, but it was a liberty, and you’d be well within your rights to be angry.”

Winter shook her head dumbly.

“Jim was worried about you,” Graff explained. “He sees more than he lets on most of the time. There were three of them and just you, and we thought, well, that’s hardly fair. So I ran over and rounded up a few of the lads who looked like they’d been in a fight or two.”

“Thank you,” Winter managed.

Graff relaxed. “Thing is,” he said, “I’ve seen the type before. These backwoods sergeants are the worst—present company excluded, of course. They get a tiny bit of authority and they turn into little tin gods. Even worse when they’re big bastards like this Davis.” He shrugged. “Well, you don’t have to worry about him. That lot are all cowards at heart. Show them a strong front, and they’ll just scurry along.”

Winter shook her head. She
knew
Davis. He was a brute and a bully, and quite possibly he was a coward, but he also had overweening pride and a vicious cunning. Show him a strong front, and he’d find some way around it, some way to strike when you weren’t watching.

“I can’t do this,” Winter said quietly.

“Do what?”

“Any of this.” She waved a hand. “How am I supposed to be a sergeant? I don’t have the first idea what I’m doing, and now Davis . . .” She shook her head, her throat thick. “I can’t do it.”

“You’re doing a first-rate job so far,” Graff said. “I’ve served under much worse, let me tell you.”

“But what am I supposed to do now?”

“Come back out and have dinner, for starters. You’ll feel better for a hot meal.”

Winter nodded slowly. Before she could rise, there was another rap at the tent pole, rapid and frantic.

“What?” Graff barked.

“It’s Bobby,” came the reply. “You’ve got to come out and see this!”

•   •   •

A squadron of cavalry had returned, walking down the aisle that separated the Seventh Company’s tents from those of the neighboring units. Winter recognized Give-Em-Hell at their head, looking as puffed up and proud as a rooster. A dozen of his men followed behind him in a loose square. In the center were four men on foot, and it was these that were the center of attention.

Most of the recruits had probably never
seen
a Khandarai, unless one had rowed the boat by which they’d come ashore. The natives were shorter than Vordanai, with dark hair and gray-brown skin. This last varied; they were called “grayskins,” and Winter had arrived expecting everyone to be the color of gunmetal, but in Ashe-Katarion she’d seen everything from the pale ash coloring of the nobility to the brown-black faces of the Desoltai, burned crisp by the desert sun.

These particular Khandarai were about average in that respect. They looked skinny and poorly fed, and they were dressed in fraying, baggy white cloth, painted all over with V shapes in red and yellow.

“Who are they?” Bobby asked, standing beside her.

“Not farmers, that’s for certain,” Graff said. “Look, they’ve got ammunition pouches.”

“Redeemers,” Winter said. She remembered that sigil all too clearly. “The triangles are supposed to look like flames.”

“What are they doing out here?” Bobby said. “I thought all the Redeemers were at the city.”

“Scouts,” Graff said grimly. Winter nodded.

Bobby looked from one to the other, confused. “What’s that mean?”

“It means that out there somewhere”—Graff pointed east—“there’s an army.”

“It means we’re going to have a fight before long,” Winter said. Staring at the sullen fanatics, she could almost forget about Davis after all.

JAFFA

“S
o, General,” said Yatchik-dan-Rahksa. “We see the true shape of your courage at last.”

Khtoba’s frozen face cooled another few degrees. “Courage?” He looked as though he wanted to spit. “Arrogant pup. Fight a few battles yourself before you speak to me of courage.”

“And how am I to do that, if I heed your counsel?” the priest replied. “You would have us cower here, praying the hammer does not fall on our heads!”

“
You
may pray as you like,” the general said. “If you had studied the art of war as you’ve studied the teachings of the Divine Hand, you would know there is such a thing as
strategy
. We are strongly placed here, and there is nothing between Ashe-Katarion and the Vordanai but flyspeck villages and miles of worthless desert. Let them make the march. At the end of it, we’ll be that much stronger, and they that much weaker.”

“Are you so certain of that?” Yatchik said. “Already the people mutter that we fear to face the foreigners. Wait another few weeks and even the devoted may lose heart.
Action
is what is required.” He sniffed. “Besides, what need do we have of strategy? We have the blessing of Heaven.
And
we have the numbers.”

“Numbers,” Khtoba said, “aren’t everything.”

Jaffa sat, watching them go after each other like a couple of angry cats. They had been at it for some hours, circling around to side topics before returning again and again to the main issue. The Vordanai army had left its tumbledown fortress at Sarhatep and was advancing up the coast road. The Steel Ghost had told them as much, and Khtoba’s scouts had belatedly confirmed it. Yatchik was all for a general advance to meet and crush the foreigners where they stood, but the general was more cautious.

The real issue went unspoken. The authority of the Divine Hand rested on the violent sanction of the Swords of Heaven, the Redeemer host now nearly twenty-five thousand strong, gathered in the plain around the city. But that host could not sustain itself indefinitely, not without starving the people it was intended to protect. At some point the Hand would need to make the transition from revolutionary to ruler, to disband the army and restore a semblance of normal life to the city, but he didn’t dare to do so with the Vordanai still in the field.

Khtoba, on the other hand, had everything to gain by waiting. The Auxiliaries, smaller and better disciplined than the peasant horde, drew their supplies from well-stocked and – guarded depots. They were also the only claim to power Khtoba had, and he was loath to risk them. A defeat, or even a costly victory, might leave his ranks so depleted that one of his rivals would gobble him up.

And the Steel Ghost? Jaffa glanced at the silent figure in black, and wondered. He hadn’t said more than a few words during the whole affair. Jaffa had delivered Mother’s message to him, but he’d given no sign of his answer.

At this rate, nothing would be accomplished. Jaffa thought on his instructions from Mother and decided it was time to break the deadlock.

“My friends,” he said, interrupting their sniping, “might I make a humble suggestion?”

All eyes turned on him, Yatchik’s large and liquid, Khtoba’s piggy and red. The Ghost’s, of course, were unreadable behind his mask.

“The foreigners are a threat to the Redemption,” Jaffa said. “Perhaps even the greatest threat. But they are not the
only
threat. There are still followers of the prince hiding in the city, or gone to ground in the outskirts. Bandits and raiders multiply like locusts.”

Khtoba shot a glance at the Ghost. The Desoltai had always been the most feared, and certainly the most effective, of the “bandits and raiders.” For all that they were now allies of the Redemption, there was no love lost between the Auxiliaries and the nomads.

“So,” the general said, “you agree, then, that we must remain here.”

“Some of us must,” Jaffa replied, before Yatchik could object. “But we must also consider what the enemy may do. Suppose they decide to wait where they are indefinitely.”

“Exactly!” the priest said.

“Therefore,” Jaffa said, “I suggest that the Auxiliaries remain here to defend the city, while the army of the Redemption marches forth to lay waste to the invaders.”

Both men looked at him for a long moment, then exploded at once.

“Of all the foolish—”

“You can’t—”

“The Grand Justice speaks wisely,” rasped the Steel Ghost, in a whisper that somehow cut through the chatter. Jaffa rallied a bit at this unexpected support.

“To confront the enemy with less than your whole strength is folly,” Yatchik said. “Even
I
know that much of your ‘art of war.’”

“True,” Jaffa said, “but, as you say, we have the numbers. Surely the faithful will not be defeated by heathens?”

The priest was silent for a moment. “It’s not a matter of victory or defeat. Or course we will be victorious. But how many will need to lay down their lives? If General Khtoba’s assistance could reduce the suffering among the devout—”

Khtoba snorted. “Now whose courage is in question?”

He was smiling like the cat that had eaten the canary, and small wonder. Jaffa could see the scenario playing itself out in the general’s mind. With the Redeemer army away from the city, he would have the only reliable body of men. The Divine Hand could be put under proper control, and sooner or later the general would have the throne he’d always coveted. Yatchik could see it, too, of course, but Jaffa had one more card to play.

“And,” he said, “we know that the prince—may his name be cursed—rides with the
raschem
. Surely the glory of his capture is a goal worth the risk?”

Yatchik’s eyes lit up. It was common knowledge that Prince Exopter had fled the Palace with most of his treasury and wagons full of valuables, all the loot his dynasty had extracted over centuries of tyranny. It was not the glory that attracted the priest, but the gold. Whoever brought that wealth back to the Redemption would find his star on the rise. Now it was Khtoba’s turn to sputter.

“Now, see here—,” he began.

Jaffa sat back and left them to it. He thought they would agree in the end, but as long as they did
something
it would make no difference. He hoped fervently that the Redeemers and the foreigners would annihilate one another, although there seemed small chance of that. As Yatchik said, the Khandarai had the numbers. Even if they lost two-for-one, the tiny Vordanai force would be extinguished long before the Swords of Heaven.

He saw the Steel Ghost looking at him—at least, the mask was turned in his direction, though the eyes behind it were still invisible. When he had caught his gaze, the Desoltai chieftain dipped his head in a slight nod.

Jaffa nodded back. Mother would get the meeting she wanted after all.

FEOR

Feor sat with her head in her hands, eyes closed, trying to block out the screams. She kept returning to the day the temples fell, the day her fellow holy orphans had died beneath the swords of the vicious new priests. No matter how many times she went over it, nothing would change, not for her and not for Aran or Mahl or any of the others. But she couldn’t seem to stop herself from remembering, over and over.

She’d been treated well enough. A few bruises from Gaedra’s massive hands were nothing. She remembered the look in Aran’s eyes, the dawning terror an instant before the eunuch’s club dashed his brains to paste against the wall.

The flap of her tent rustled. She could tell it was him without looking up. The huge man didn’t seem to have bathed since that awful day, and he gave off a sour stench.

“Get up. Yatchik wants you.”

Feor raised her head, but apparently too slowly for Gaedra’s taste. He grabbed her forearm and jerked her painfully to her feet, then forced her to stand on her toes as he straightened to his full height. Her shoulder burned.

“I said get up, little whore. Dirty slut. Worthless cunt.”

A deep rage smoldered in Gaedra. He had been a servant of the temple, like her, but the eunuch had betrayed his sacred trust and opened the doors to the Redeemers. Even that had not slaked his thirst for vengeance, and he took his anger out on her, abusing her as much as his limited vocabulary would allow. Yatchik-dan-Rahksa had not, as yet, permitted him to go any further.

She bit down a gasp and managed to say, “And what would you know about such matters?”

The eunuch roared and spun, slinging her through the tent flap and out into the camp. She hit the ground with her aching shoulder and rolled, breathless with pain. Gaedra stalked after her, and she scrambled back to her feet before he could grab her again.

“When Yatchik speaks, you obey.” He smiled. “Or not obey. Perhaps then Yatchik will see how useless you are. And after that . . .”

Feor straightened her robes, sniffed, and turned in the direction of Yatchik’s tent. Gaedra hurried along at her heels, but when they arrived at the priest’s plain black dwelling, the eunuch hung back. Feor ducked through the flap and went inside alone. Yatchik-dan-Rahksa sat on a cushion in the semidarkness, studying a leather map unrolled on the dirt floor. He shot her a questioning look.

“Feor. You know what I need from you. Have you reconsidered?”

“You understand nothing,” she told him, for what seemed like the hundredth time. “Even if there is an
abh-naathem
among the
raschem
army—”

“There is,” Yatchik interrupted.

He was right about that, although she refused to admit it aloud. For several days now she had been able to feel the dull presence of the foreign sorcerer, lurking off to the west like the sun just passing below the horizon. There was power there, more power than she’d ever felt before. More, even, than she felt from Mother or Onvi.

“Even if there is,” she repeated, “and even if I wished to help you, I could not.”

“You are a
naathem
,” he said. “Your magic can defend us from his.”

“You speak of ‘magic’ as though you knew something of it,” Feor scoffed. “I tell you again, you do not understand. My
naath
cannot do what you ask.”

“I do not have time to understand.” Yatchik stood, his thin frame unfolding to its full height. His head brushed the cloth ceiling, and Feor had to look up to see his serious eyes. “Tomorrow the faithful take their vengeance on the
raschem
. Whatever fate they suffer will be your fate also. If I were you, I would be more careful how I speak.”

“I know you would,” Feor said. “But that is because you have never truly had faith.”