The Thousand Names (24 page)

“Why would he bring you along?”

“Because he is ignorant. He thinks—thought—that I would have the power to counter the magic of your leader.”

Now it was Winter’s turn to laugh. “Our colonel isn’t a wizard, at least not that I know of.” “Wizard” didn’t quite translate properly, but Feor seemed to catch the gist. She shook her head.

“There is a man of power among your army. Malik-dan-Belial warned us, and this close even I can feel it. Yatchik’s ignorance was in thinking I would be able to defend him against such a man. What power I have is not of that sort.”

“Power? As a mistress of the gods, you mean?” Winter shifted uneasily. The subject of religion made her uncomfortable.

“No.” Feor’s face went distant again. When she spoke, it was slow and careful, as though speaking was difficult. “I am a
naathem.
”

Winter paused. She’d encountered the word before, but a proper translation had always eluded her. The Khandarai seemed to use it to mean “wizard” or “sorcerer,” although not quite in the Vordanai sense and without the connotation of evil those words carried to Vordanai ears. Literally it meant “one who has read.” But even among Khandarai,
naathem
were the domain of myths or fairy tales. No one she’d ever spoken with had claimed to have met one, any more than a modern Vordanai would have personally seen a demon or a sorcerer.

Bobby, in the silence that followed, looked curiously at Winter. “What did she say?”

“She’s a priestess,” Winter said. “But not one of the Redeemers. They brought her along because they thought that she would defend them against our magic.”

The boy laughed. “Our magic?”

“The Redeemers take that sort of thing seriously.”

“So she was a prisoner?” He looked curiously at Feor, who looked back with polite incomprehension.

“I think so.” She switched back to Khandarai. “Feor, if you could get away from here, where would you go?”

“Back to Mother,” she said, without hesitation. “In Ashe-Katarion. She will be looking for me.”

Winter sat back. “She wants to go home,” she said to Bobby.

“Don’t we all,” the boy said.

Not all,
Winter thought. Aloud, she said, “Hers is a good deal closer than ours. We may be able to manage something.”

A knock at the tent pole interrupted them. “It’s Graff.”

“Come in,” Winter said.

Feor gave the older corporal a nod, and he dipped his head uncertainly in return. To Winter he said, “Is she making any sense?”

“To me, anyway.” Winter turned to Feor. “This is Corporal Graff. He’s the one who set your arm.”

The girl raised the bandaged limb. “Tell him he has done an excellent job.”

When Winter repeated that, Graff laughed, and colored a little under his beard. “It wasn’t anything difficult, just a little break.” He smiled at Feor, then turned to Winter. “Got a message. The colonel wants to see you.”

Winter’s good mood, always a little fragile, evaporated at once. “What? Why?”

“Didn’t say.”

“You don’t think—” Her eyes flicked to the Khandarai girl.

“No, I doubt it. Anyway, he said ‘at your earliest convenience,’ which means ‘right goddamned now,’ so you’d better go.”

“Right.” Winter scrambled to her feet, then looked down at herself. She felt as though she ought to change clothes, but there was no way to manage it with the three of them in the tent. She desperately wanted a bath as well, but that was out of the question. Hygiene was one of the hardest parts of maintaining her secret, at least since the regiment had left Ashe-Katarion. Fortunately, the prevailing standard was not high.

“Keep an eye on her until I get back,” she said to Bobby. Then, to Feor, “I need to go. Stay here, and if you need anything, try to show Bobby.”

The girl nodded, purple eyes imperturbable. Winter glanced at her one more time, then slipped outside.

•   •   •

“Senior Sergeant Winter Ihernglass, reporting as directed, sir!”

She held the salute until the captain waved it away. The colonel’s tent was hardly bigger than her own, though much better organized. A few trunks packed against the canvas walls presumably contained his necessities. In the center was a low folding table and a portable writing desk with pens, ink, and drying sand in securely fashioned containers. The officers sat on cushions, Khandarai style, Captain d’Ivoire on her right and Lieutenant Warus on the left.

At the head of the table sat the colonel. He was not what she had been expecting. Younger, for a start, and thin-featured and delicate instead of stocky and gruff, as so many of these senior officers seemed to be. His long fingers were constantly in motion, twining, untwining, steepling or tapping something. Deep gray eyes regarded her thoughtfully, as though weighing what they saw in the balance. She had the unpleasant feeling that she would be found wanting.

“I apologize for my condition, sir,” she said. “After we returned to camp, I needed to rest, and I received your order shortly after waking.”

The colonel smiled, and something in his eyes glittered. “Do not fret about it, Sergeant. Under the circumstances . . .”

Captain d’Ivoire cleared his throat. “We’ve heard from some of the men of your company, but I just want to make sure we have things accurately. You were ordered to scout the ridge parallel to our line of march?”

She nodded, her chest tight.

“The late Lieutenant d’Vries led the company down that ridge, across the valley, and up the next rise,” he said.

“He was eager to make contact with the enemy, sir.”

“Did you advise him to this course of action?”

She straightened slightly. “No, sir. I advised against it.”

“On what grounds?”

“That we would be too far from the column to fall back should we encounter the enemy in strength, sir.”

He nodded. “Then, at the top of the ridge, you saw the enemy cavalry approaching. The company”—the captain glanced at a paper on the table— “‘ran for it like a bunch of rabbits,’ as one of your men put it.”

“They were startled, sir. The enemy were . . . numerous.”

The colonel’s lip quirked slightly at the understatement, but he said nothing. Captain d’Ivoire went on.

“What was Lieutenant d’Vries’ response at this juncture?”

“He . . .” Winter paused. Criticizing one senior officer in front of another was simply Not Done. For one thing, officers tended to club together, so the most likely result would be some kind of subtle retribution. But he
had
asked. She sought for a positive interpretation of the facts. “The lieutenant started to ride at once for the main column. I imagine he was eager to alert you to the presence of the enemy.”

Another slight smile from the colonel, and something like a smothered laugh from Fitz Warus. Captain d’Ivoire’s face remained composed.

“At which point you took command of the company and ordered them to form square at the bottom of the valley.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which they proceeded to do, in spite of the fact that company squares are not a formation in our drillbook.”

“We had . . . a little practice, sir.”

“And then you held off the attack of, what, three thousand enemy horsemen?” The captain looked at Fitz.

“At least three thousand,” the lieutenant said.

“Most of them just rode by,” Winter said. “Only a few hundred actually stopped to attack us, sir.”

“I see.” D’Ivoire turned to the colonel. “There you have it, sir.”

“Indeed I do,” the colonel said. “The only pity is that the lieutenant’s unfortunate demise has robbed me of the chance to castigate him for his incompetence. All that remains is to acknowledge
your
accomplishment, Sergeant.”

Winter blinked. “Sir?”

“You rescued your company from an impossible situation, and brought them safely back to the column when your officer broke and ran. That
is
an accomplishment, I would say.”

“Sir,” Winter said stiffly, “thirty-eight men of the Seventh Company are dead.”

Colonel and captain looked at one another, then back to her. The colonel gave a slow nod.

“Nevertheless,” he said, “things could have been much worse, and that deserves recognition. You are hereby brevetted to lieutenant, for the duration of the campaign, with the Ministry of War to review and approve a full promotion following the conclusion of hostilities. You’ll remain in command of the Seventh Company, as you have demonstrated such aptitude for it.”

“Yes, sir.” That didn’t seem quite sufficient. Winter licked her lips and looked from one officer to the other. “Thank you, sir.”

The colonel waved a hand airily. “Well done, Lieutenant.”

“Congratulations.” Fitz Warus stood and took her hand amiably. He led her away from the table and out of the tent, talking, but Winter still felt too stunned to reply. Apparently he didn’t mind. He left her at the edge of the little group of tents that belonged to the senior officers, with another handshake.

How am I going to tell Bobby?
The boy would overreact, and she wasn’t sure she could stand it. She shook her head, then remembered Feor.

I wonder if I should have told the colonel.
An hour ago, she wouldn’t have even considered it, but that was before she’d met the man. He seemed—not friendly, of course, not even
kind
. But fair, possibly, and even-tempered. That was a pleasant change from Colonel Warus, whose rages had been rare but legendary. She had the feeling that he wouldn’t fault her for rescuing the girl, and he’d see to it that she wasn’t treated badly.

She shook her head. No matter how she parsed it, it felt like a betrayal. Winter smiled crookedly and turned her steps back toward the Seventh Company’s tents.
We’ll have to deal with this ourselves.

MARCUS

“A
drecht!” Marcus rapped twice at the tent pole. There was no reply, and he frowned. “Adrecht, I’m coming in.”

He twitched the flap aside, letting a shaft of sunlight in and momentarily brightening the semidarkness under the translucent canvas. There was a soft sigh and a murmur from the far end.

“Marcus?” Adrecht said. “Is that you?”

“It’s me,” Marcus said, picking his way carefully among bits of discarded clothing. He blinked the darkness and made out a figure lying on a mat at the other side of the tent. “We need to talk. I—”

He paused. Some of the clothing on the floor couldn’t be Adrecht’s, unless the Fourth Battalion captain’s tastes were stranger than Marcus had given him credit for. He took a step closer and saw that there were two people on the bedroll. The smaller one sat up, letting the sheet fall away from her. She was a Khandarai girl, not more than eighteen or nineteen, with dark eyes and long dark hair. Her small breasts were uncovered, but it didn’t appear to concern her.

“Saints and martyrs,” Marcus swore. “She had better not be from the Redeemer camp.”

“What?” Adrecht sat up suddenly. “No! Honestly, Marcus, what do you take me for?” He brushed the girl’s cheek lightly. “Dali’s a camp follower. She’s been with us since Ashe-Katarion.”

Marcus relaxed a little. Quite a few Khandarai had followed along with the regiment when it had fled the Khandarai capital: those whose livelihood depended on the Vordanai soldiers or who didn’t fancy their chances under the new regime. More had come to them while they waited at Fort Valor and on the return march, drawn by the chance to sell their wares, their services, or their bodies to the foreigners.

“Well, tell her she needs to go,” he said.

Adrecht gave an exaggerated sigh and said something in Khandarai. He spoke the native language better than Marcus did—better than any of the officers, in fact, except possibly Fitz. The girl laughed and rolled to her feet, stretching ostentatiously in front of Marcus before hunting around on the floor for her clothes. The sight of her body, lithe and trim, forcefully reminded Marcus of how long it had been since he’d enjoyed that particular comfort. He ground his teeth while he waited for her to gather her things and go.

In the meantime, Adrecht had slipped into a pair of trousers and gotten out of bed. When the girl had gone, he turned to Marcus and crossed his arms on his bare chest.

“Well?” he said. “What is it this time? It can’t be missing drill; I heard the announcement last night.” Janus had given the regiment the day off for recovery, except for those needed on work details.

“It’s not that.”

“Well?” Adrecht smiled. “Why do you look so gloomy? We won, didn’t we?”

The victory seemed to have reinvigorated the Fourth Battalion captain. He almost looked his old self again, albeit still missing his fancy trappings.

“It’s not the battle, either,” Marcus snapped. “It’s what happened afterward. Have you been out to the camp?”

“Oh.” Adrecht looked away. “That was . . . unfortunate.”

“‘Unfortunate’ is not the word I would choose,” Marcus said. “I gave an
order
that the men halt outside the camp and return to their formations. Your men ignored it.”

“It wasn’t only
my
men,” Adrecht protested.

“The Fourth led the way,” Marcus said.

There was a long pause. Adrecht shook his head irritably.

“Come on, Marcus. What do you want from them?” He waved his hand. “These aren’t saints. They’re not even proper soldiers. They’re the scum of the earth, and you know it—the sweepings of the army. You can’t expect them to behave like a bunch of country gentlemen.”

“All I expect is that they obey orders.”

“After a battle like that you can’t blame them for wanting a little . . . release. You know?” Adrecht laughed weakly. His smile faded when Marcus’ fist crashed against the tent pole.

“Damn it,” Marcus said. “Listen to me. I’m not here to preach the Wisdoms at you, Adrecht. The colonel is not going to be happy about this. If I were you, I’d get a head start and start handing down some discipline as soon as possible.”

“But—,” Adrecht sputtered. “What am I supposed to do? Start thrashing rankers at random?”

“Do
something
, or else if we do get back to Ashe-Katarion they’ll burn the place down around our ears.” Marcus turned on his heel.

Behind him, Adrecht said, “There were some of yours right at the front, you know.”

I know,
Marcus thought. He could guess which, too—Sergeant Davis and his pack of wolves, for starters. Fitz was already asking questions.

He let the tent flap fall behind him and struck out across the camp, setting a slow pace to give himself time to cool off.

Maybe it doesn’t make any difference.
He hadn’t had a moment alone with Janus since the battle, so he wasn’t sure if the colonel was angry or not. Plenty of highborn colonels wouldn’t have given a copper bit about the rape and murder of enemy camp followers, especially grayskin infidel camp followers. Marcus thought Janus might be different, but—

It doesn’t matter. I’m angry enough for the both of us.
He’d spent most of the previous evening leading the work details that had finally cleaned up the Khandarai camp. Every overturned tent seemed to hide some fresh horror, and each one added another coal to the pile smoldering in his gut.

And all for what? So that fool of a prince can get back on his crumbling throne?
If it was up to Marcus, he’d have handed the man over to the Redeemers and wished them good fortune.

I shouldn’t have taken it out on Adrecht, though.
As his temper cooled, he could admit that. The Fourth Battalion had been the worst offenders, but the speed of the Redeemer collapse had caught them all by surprise. It was no wonder the officers had lost control.

On the other hand, he’s not the one who has to explain it to the colonel.

•   •   •

Marcus’ vague feeling of apprehension came into sharp focus when he approached the drill field and saw the artillery arrayed for review, and the colonel in conversation with some of the men. When he hurried over, though, he found the Preacher all smiles.

“. . . bless you, sir. We’re honored by your interest,” he was saying.

“I notice,” Janus said, “that these guns have some fascinating modifications.”

He gestured to the six cannon that had been with the Colonials when he’d arrived, which had been given pride of place in the center of the line. Chief among these “modifications” was the addition of passages from scripture, engraved all over the surface from muzzle to base. The Preacher insisted this improved the weapon’s accuracy. He had a steady hand, and he’d been able to cram quite a large chunk of the Wisdoms onto each gun.

The Preacher doffed his peaked artilleryman’s cap. “Weapons of the Lord, sir,” he said. “Weapons of the Lord, every one of them. Gives them an extra bit of sting against the heathens. This one, I started with Martyrs, and got all the way to—”

“This is a Kravworks ’98, isn’t it?” Janus interrupted.

The Preacher blinked, fingering the brass Church double circle that hung around his neck. “Yes, sir. All our original twelve-pounders are.”

“But you’ve done something to the touchhole.” He leaned closer. “I can’t quite see from the outside, but—”

The Preacher gave a broad smile. “You’ve got a good eye, sir! We had to drill out the originals—”

Noticing Marcus, Janus waved him closer and launched into an explanation. “The Kravworks ’98 was a botched job,” he said. “Problems with the touchhole, something about the boring. The tests showed that the misfire rate would be nearly twenty percent, so most of the guns got sent abroad, or else—”

“To bottom-of-the-barrel outfits like this one,” Marcus finished. That was a familiar story—the Colonials got the worst of everything. Muskets that wouldn’t fire, uniforms that fell to pieces, cannons that exploded . . .

“Indeed.” Janus caught Marcus’ expression. “No offense intended, of course.”

“None taken,” Marcus said. “I understand that Captain Vahkerson’s made the best of it.”

“What have you got in there?” Janus said to the Preacher.

“Friction primers,” he said. “New Hamveltai design. Works a bit like a match. Had to tweak them a little myself, of course, but we’ve got the misfires down to one in a hundred shots, and that last shot is usually a failed ignition rather than something dangerous.”

“Interesting.” The colonel appeared to follow all that, which was more than Marcus himself could say. “But aren’t Hamveltai primers a bit hard to come by out here?”

“Ah, as to that, my Lieutenant Archer is a dab hand with chemicals. We managed to puzzle out the recipe with only a few scorched gloves to show for it. By the grace of God, all the raw stuff is easy to get locally, so we’ve got a ready supply.”

“Ingenious.” Janus put on a broad smile. “He’ll have to give me a demonstration of the process at some point.”

“Whenever you like, sir! We’d be honored.”

“And I was impressed by your performance,” Janus replied. “I hope the new pieces are to your satisfaction?”

“Absolutely, sir. Smooth as butter, the whole lot. The six-pounders are particularly fine.”

“I picked them out myself before we set sail,” Janus said. “If there’s anything you need—”

“Actually, sir,” the Preacher said, “I understand we captured a number of mounts and packhorses from the heretics. Some of our teams are already under-strength, and we could do with extras for rotation. If you could see your way . . .”

“Of course.” The colonel smiled again. “Not worried about having heretic horses pulling your holy guns?”

“Bless you, sir. I’ll soon have ’em on the straight and narrow. I read ’em scripture every night, you see.”

Marcus didn’t know if that was a joke or not. The Preacher had an odd sense of humor.

Janus chuckled. “Very well, then. Carry on, Captain.”

“Sir!” The Preacher saluted. “Thank you, sir!”

Turning away from the guns, Janus motioned for Marcus to follow him. Marcus fell into step, almost unconsciously, slowing his pace to match Janus’ shorter strides.

“A good man, Captain Vahkerson,” he mused.

“A bit eccentric,” Marcus said, “but certainly a good officer.”

“He’s effective,” Janus said. “Give me effective and eccentric over stolid and conventional every time.” He eyed Marcus sidelong. “There are those who have called me eccentric as well, you know.”

“I can’t imagine why, sir.”

Janus laughed. When Marcus remained silent, the colonel glanced at his companion. One look, but from that one brief glimpse of those gray eyes Marcus suddenly felt as though his every thought had been revealed.

“Ah, Captain,” Janus said. “I think you are not entirely pleased with me.”

“Sir?”

“If there’s something you wish to say, I encourage you to say it.”

Marcus stiffened. “It’s not my place, sir.”

“Nonsense. In a crisis, certainly, I expect to be obeyed without question, and I must say you have performed admirably on that front. Afterward, however, you may feel free to berate me however you like. My pride is not easily injured.”

Marcus blinked. “Sir?”

“However.” Janus held up a hand and looked around at the bustling camp. “Perhaps we should be alone.”

Janus’ tent was nearby. Augustin let them in, his lined face disapproving as always. Once they were seated on opposite sides of the camp table, Janus sent the servant off to the commissary in search of fresh water. Marcus wondered if this was for his benefit.

“Sir,” he ventured, “did we have business to attend to?”

“Of course,” Janus said. “But first, I think, the air must be cleared. Whatever you wish to say, please say it.”

Marcus took a deep breath and held it for a moment. Criticizing a senior officer to his face went against every tenet of army etiquette, not to mention good sense. But Janus had insisted. He tried to frame the question as politely as possible.

Luck.
The colonel had gambled, and it had paid off.
But if he was overconfident before, now he’ll be positively dangerous.
If I can make him see that . . .

“When the Redeemer infantry first approached,” Marcus said, “why did you order us to hold our fire? We could have done them a great deal of damage in the time it took them to form and charge. We might even have broken up the attack altogether.” Marcus swallowed hard, but persevered. “It seemed . . . unnecessarily risky. Sir.”

The colonel was silent for a moment, looking thoughtful. “Risky,” he said. “Probably. Certainly. But unnecessary?” He shook his head. “What you need to understand, Captain, is that the answer to every question is not in the tactics manual. You should consider the larger situation.”

He waved a hand. “For example, you must always consider the character of the enemy. Truthfully, I did not know this one as well as I might have liked—a Vordanai force, for example, or a Hamveltai one would have been a different matter. But I knew they were green troops who had never faced a field battle. Poorly organized, led with enthusiasm but without discipline.”