The Thousand Names (25 page)

“I would have thought green troops more likely to be disordered by long-range fire.”

“Precisely. Disordered, but not broken. Suppose we had opened on them, and they had retired in confusion before reaching musket range. What would the result have been?”

“A victory,” Marcus said.

“And then? What would our next move have been?” Janus raised an eyebrow. “Cannon kill with great efficiency, but not fast enough to make up for our numerical disadvantage. We lack the cavalry strength for an effective pursuit. The Redeemers would have simply retired a short distance and confronted us again, at substantially the same odds. Sooner or later, they would hold together long enough to push a charge home, and then—disaster. Or, if they had a commander with any skill, a flanking movement would have forced us to retreat. In either case, once that vast army had its legs underneath it, things would go hard for us.”

Marcus nodded. “We might have fallen back to a defensible position—”

“Then we would have been lost for certain. Nothing hardens men faster than a siege, and they would have little trouble cutting us off from water and forage. The best we could hope for would be to cut our way back to the fleet.” The colonel shook his head. “No, the only chance for
victory
was a complete rout. A single, sudden blow, so hard that they would come apart entirely. For green troops, their first contact with enemy fire is crucial. It sets the character, you might say, of everything that comes afterward. Most of those men will never return to the enemy ranks, or if they do they will only run again. Certainly it will take weeks before they can assemble another force half so large. And, in the meantime, the road to Ashe-Katarion is open.”

Marcus sat for a moment in silence, absorbing this.

“Our troops were green as well,” he said after a while. “Most of them, anyway. And even the Old Colonials had never fought a battle like this.”

“Indeed,” Janus said. “I expect this first contact to have a most salutary effect on them.”

Luck,
Marcus thought.
He risked all our lives on—a hunch? His
impression
of the enemy?
But he couldn’t fault Janus’ logic. He himself hadn’t seen any way to win through against the numbers they’d faced. He’d assumed that, in spite of Janus’ talk the night he’d arrived, he planned to make a reasonable effort, prove to his superiors that he was no coward, and then retreat when the situation became untenable.

He really does intend to win.
The thought made Marcus shiver.

“Well?” Janus said. “Does that satisfy you, Captain?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” Marcus said. “I need to think on it.”

“Do so. And feel free to return with further questions.” The smile again, there and gone like distant lightning. “It’s part of a commanding officer’s duty to educate his subordinates.”

If that was true, no one had told the other colonels Marcus had served under.
Not that Ben could have taught me much.
He nodded anyway.

“Yes, sir. Now, you said you had business?”

“Indeed,” Janus said, without a change in his expression. “I would like you to arrest Captain Adrecht Roston, on the charge of dereliction of duty and others pending investigation.”

Marcus stared, feeling as though he’d been punched in the stomach. Janus raised his eyes to the tent flap.

“Ah, Augustin,” he said. “Something to eat as well, I think.”

“Sir,” Marcus began, “I’m not . . .” He stopped, fighting the urge to panic, and cleared his throat. “Are you sure? I’m just not certain that—that this is wise.”

“Wise?” Janus raised an eyebrow. “Would you say that Captain Roston is a good battalion commander?”

Marcus almost said, “Of course,” automatically—no senior officer could expect an honest answer to a question like that!—but something in those gray eyes made him hesitate.

“Would you say that he has acquitted himself well over the past month?” Janus went on.

Again Marcus was silent. The colonel seemed to take that for a reply.

“Then would you say that he’s well liked by his men? That his removal might cause discipline problems?”

Not goddamned likely.
There were certainly a few in the Fourth Battalion who would shed a tear at Adrecht’s passing, but that would be because they enjoyed the laxity of his discipline, not his company. In Ashe-Katarion he’d practically ignored the rankers, preferring to spend his time with the other officers and a glittering array of Khandarai high society.

“And finally,” Janus continued remorselessly, “would you say there are no better men available? Your Lieutenant Fitzhugh Warus, for example, seems to have done exemplary work.”

Marcus found his voice at last. “But, sir. Dereliction of duty?”

“He disobeyed a direct order from a superior when his men began looting the Redeemer camp. Or failed to enforce one, which amounts to the same thing. The result was damaging to our cause and our material position. What else would you call it?”

“The men were—are—green, sir. They got out of control—”

“All the more reason to show them that this sort of conduct will not be tolerated.” Janus’ voice was still pleasant, but Marcus thought he could hear the ring of steel underneath. “A demonstration must be made.”

Marcus remembered, uncomfortably, being on the other side of this argument in Adrecht’s tent. He nodded slowly.

“I understand that he is your friend,” Janus said, letting a little sympathy into his tone. “But you must admit I would be justified.”

You don’t know him,
Marcus wanted to say. Janus hadn’t been at the War College with Adrecht, hadn’t nursed him through vicious hangovers or watched in mystified envy as he effortlessly charmed young women with his smile and the glitter of his uniform. He hadn’t been at Green Springs, where Adrecht and a company of the Fourth had charged across open ground under fire to rescue a half dozen wounded men.

And, of course, he saved my life.
Marcus wondered whether
that
had been in Janus’ files.

“Sir,” Marcus said, “may I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“What if I speak to Captain Roston and make it clear that, were he to offer his resignation, you would accept it? That would be . . . kinder.”

“I’m afraid not,” Janus said. “The effectiveness of the demonstration would be lost.” Janus considered. “You may break the news to him, if you like, and ask him to present himself for arrest if you think that would be easier on him. I have no wish to be unnecessarily cruel.”

“Thank you, sir,” Marcus said hollowly. He saluted. “If you’ll excuse me.”

•   •   •

“All in all,” Fitz said, “we got off astonishingly light.”

He had to speak up to be heard over the screams. There was a man strapped to the surgeon’s board, a mangled arm held in place by a burly orderly while the cutter worked with the bone saw. They’d given the patient a leather-padded stick to bite down on, but apparently he’d lost it. At least his voice drowned the noise of the saw itself, a high-pitched singsong whine that gave Marcus the shivers.

“Counting the scouts,” the lieutenant continued, “we have less than a hundred dead or seriously wounded. Another hundred or so that should recover. Given the numbers engaged—”

Marcus nodded as Fitz went on. No one had troubled to count how many Khandarai had died, of course, but it had been a great many. Details were still stripping the field of corpses, stiff and bloated now after a day in the desert sun, and carrying them to the pyres that burned day and night. Gleaners brought back what they could find, but there was little enough. Most of the Redeemer’s supplies had burned with their tents.

They walked through the little patch at the edge of the camp that had been designated as the hospital. Open-sided tents shielded the wounded from the sun, and the regimental surgeons bustled back and forth with brisk efficiency. Marcus suspected that much of the activity was for his benefit. As Fitz had said, they’d gotten off lightly. Many of the tents were empty, and of those that were occupied most of the men Marcus could see looked hale enough. Even a minor wound could fester, of course, and a man might lose a limb like the poor bastard back on the table if it got bad enough.
But nevertheless—lightly.

He still felt a little sick. The worst engagement the Colonials had been in before the Redemption had been the ambush that killed Colonel Warus. They’d lost six men in that fight, and had two so badly injured they’d died later. One more had been invalided home. Nine altogether, and that had been considered a disaster, with the whole regiment in mourning.
And now this.

That’s war
, he told himself sternly. The First Colonials had never been a battlefield regiment until now. What fighting they’d done had been bushwhacks and bandit chasing.
I should count myself lucky the men stood up to it.
Indeed, the mood of the camp seemed to have taken a sharp upward turn. The mutters and sour looks had stopped, replaced by smiles and quick, crisp salutes.

“Sir?” Fitz said.

“Hmm?”

“Is something wrong? You seem preoccupied.”

“Why do you say that?”

Fitz cleared his throat. “For one thing, sir, we left the camp a few minutes ago. Perhaps we should turn back?”

Marcus looked around. Fitz was right, as always—they’d left the last line of tents and the latrine pits behind, and Marcus had been absently strolling out into open scrub. Twenty yards back, a few confused sentries watched curiously.

“Ah.” He looked back at Fitz. “A bit farther, actually.”

“Yes, sir,” Fitz said, in that way he had that actually meant,
I see that you’ve gone mad.

Marcus headed toward a big rock, a boulder half buried in the parched earth with a clump of wiry trees growing from one side. He put his back against it, feeling the warmth, and let out a sigh. Fitz stood in front of him, prim and correct. They were a good sixty yards from camp now.
No chance of being overheard.

“The colonel,” Marcus said, “is going to arrest Adrecht.”

Fitz didn’t even blink. “On what charge, sir?”

“Dereliction of duty. I talked him into letting me break the news.”

“That was very kind of you, sir.”

“But now I have to tell him.” Marcus grimaced. “I’m not sure I can.”

Fitz maintained a diplomatic silence.

“It wasn’t really his fault,” Marcus said, to no one in particular. “I mean—partly, of course, but—” He shook his head.

“Perhaps if you spoke to the colonel again, he would accept some lighter form of discipline?”

“No,” Marcus said. “He wants to make an example.” He hesitated, then added, “He talked about giving you the Fourth.”

Fitz’ expression didn’t change. “I see.”

Marcus looked at him curiously. “Do you want a battalion command?”

“It would certainly further my career, sir. However, I would worry about the First in my absence. With you spending so much time with the colonel . . .”

That was true enough. Fitz practically had a battalion command already.

Marcus pushed away from the rock. “I need to talk to the others. Can you track down Val and Mor and have them meet me in my tent around sundown? Make sure you don’t let anyone know why.”

“Certainly, sir.” Fitz saluted.

The walk back to camp felt longer than the walk out had, and the rest of the day seemed to pass only grudgingly. There were account books to sign off on, stores and inventories to approve, sick lists and casualty reports—that was only the top of the stack. Marcus didn’t dare wonder what lurked in the bottom layers. By the time he looked up and saw that the horizon had gone crimson, his right hand was stiff and aching, and his fingers were blotchy with spilt ink.

Mor arrived first, red-faced from hours in the sun and in a foul mood. He shrugged out of his uniform coat before Marcus could say a word, tossed it into a corner of the tent, and tugged at his collar.

“They’re a bunch of children,” he said. “A bunch of spoiled children. Tell them they’ve done something wrong and they look at you like they’re about to cry. I don’t know where the colonel dug up this lot.”

“The recruits?” Marcus said.

“The
rankers
are fine. It’s the lieutenants that are the problem.” Mor paced the length of the tent twice, then aimed a kick at his own jacket. “Bunch of stuck-up goddamned paper soldiers. Not one of them had seen any action, and before the battle yesterday they were just about pissing their pants, but now they all think they’re Farus the Conqueror come again.” Mor shook his head. “Are your lot any better? Want to trade?”

Marcus shook his head, feeling guilty. He barely knew his own company commanders, aside from the Old Colonials. Janus had monopolized the time he ought to have been spending with them.

“Next time we drill I’m going out myself,” Mor said. “Make them eat a little dust instead of just wagging their chins. Maybe that will teach them something.” He let out a long sigh. “Got anything to drink?”

“Not just now. We’ve got problems.”

“Don’t I know it. That’s why I asked for a drink.” Mor flopped down beside the camp table. “So what’s going on?”