The Thousand Names (40 page)

GENERAL KHTOBA

F
ar be it from me,
General Khtoba thought,
to tell the Divine Hand that he shouldn’t pray.
And, truth be told, a bit of divine intervention would not go amiss. But the man’s constant muttering was getting on his nerves.

The general’s legs and back ached from hours on his feet and more hours in the saddle, but nervousness would not let him sit. The black felt tent did not offer much room for pacing, and he found himself very nearly turning in place, swatting irritably at the hanging tassels of the pillows with his thin black swagger stick. He’d put on his dress uniform that morning, and the crisply folded brown-and-tan had long ago sagged under his perspiration.

Half the tent was taken up by the Hand and his attendants, a gaggle of black-robed priests that reminded Khtoba a flock of geese in mourning. Most of them had followed their leader’s example and settled in for some serious prayer, but one of the older men, with a glance at the Hand’s bowed head, scuttled over to Khtoba and spoke in a harsh whisper.

“How dare he keep us waiting!” he said. “These savages need to be taught some respect.” But, Khtoba noticed, he didn’t raise his voice enough for the two Desoltai lounging by the pinned-open tent flap to hear.

“I’m sure our eminent companion has other things on his mind,” Khtoba drawled, his voice dripping sarcasm that the priest completely failed to notice.

“Other things on his mind? What can be more important than a summons from the Divine Radiance himself?”

More of a visit than a summons
. He took a certain pleasure in seeing the arrogant pup of a priest brought low, but it was thin recompense for his own disasters. What was left of the Auxiliaries waited outside, in the midst of the Desoltai encampment. Three or four hundred men, all he’d been able to salvage from the debacle atop the hill near Turalin. The remainder, those who’d escaped the sabers of the
raschem
cavalry and hadn’t surrendered outright, were probably still running.

As for the other half of his army, reports were still uncertain, but the general did not hold out much hope. What information he could gather said that the Vordanai had captured those three battalions lock, stock, and barrel, and even if that was an exaggeration, he didn’t think many of the survivors would be hurrying back to the colors.

It might be possible to rebuild, eventually. He had a disproportionate number of officers remaining. Those with the most to lose by abandoning the uniform had naturally been the most inclined to follow him in the pell-mell retreat to the city. But that would take months, if not years. In the meantime, the fires of the Redemption appeared to be burning low indeed.

“Why doesn’t he come?” The priest was pouting. Khtoba recalled that his adopted name was Tzikim-dan-Rahksa, the Angel of Divine Retribution.
Divine Retribution shouldn’t pout.

If that was a prayer, of a sort, it was answered almost immediately. The Steel Ghost strode into the tent, acknowledging the nods of the men on the door and offering the very slightest inclination of his head to the Divine Hand. Khtoba he ignored entirely.

The general’s hands tightened, but he said nothing. His intelligence had reported that the Steel Ghost was with the Desoltai outriders to the south, watching the Vordanai advance to the city. A swift rider on a galloping horse
might
have reached him in time for him to make an equally headlong gallop back to see the Hand, but the Ghost did not have the look of a man who’d just finished a desperate twilight ride. He was wrapped, as always, in neat blacks and grays, with his head covered and his hands gloved so that no hint of flesh showed. The steel mask was thick enough that even his eyes were difficult to see through the small holes.

It was enough to make one believe that he really
did
have strange powers, as the rumors claimed. After whatever wizardry the
raschem
had conjured up to bewilder his Auxiliaries, it wouldn’t have surprised Khtoba.

The Divine Hand looked up briefly, then nodded to Tzikim and turned back to his prayer. The older priest confronted the Steel Ghost, but Khtoba noticed he had some trouble meeting the implacable stare of the blank mask. The general also noted he didn’t say a word about having been kept waiting.

“My honored friend,” the Angel of Divine Retribution said. “You must know of the unfortunate reverses that have overtaken us. The gods require your service, now more than ever. It is time to show your faith!”

Khtoba laughed. He couldn’t help it. Tzikim glared daggers in his direction, and the faceless mask turned slowly to regard him. He favored the Ghost with a lazy smile.

“What my
honored friend
means is that his own people have all run away, and he would be most obliged if you would bring your men inside the city to defend him.”

The priest gritted his teeth. “As the general says. The walls of Ashe-Katarion are high and strong, but they still require men to defend them. The Swords of Heaven have experienced a few . . . setbacks. We need time to rebuild our ranks. And our companions in the Auxiliaries have proven inadequate to the task of stopping the
raschem
.” He flashed a gloating smile in Khtoba’s direction. “The Divine Hand therefore requires that you move your men inside the city. He swears that the Heavens will reward you handsomely.”

The strength of the walls was questionable, in Khtoba’s opinion. They enclosed only the stone heart of the city, including the Palace and the sacred hill, but they were still too long to be defended by less than a few thousand men. Ancient, crumbling in places, they were thick enough, but they hadn’t been built to withstand a modern siege.
Especially if the
raschem
have captured our heavy artillery.
He cursed himself, for the hundredth time, for allowing those guns to be removed from the city. It had seemed like such a clever idea at the time.

The Ghost fixed the priest with a steady glare, and under that blank gaze Tzikim crumbled like cheap bricks. His face went waxen and shiny with sweat, and his expression shifted rapidly from imperious command to obsequious supplication. When the Desoltai chieftain looked away, the Angel of Divine Retribution sagged with audible relief.

“No,” the Ghost said, in his characteristic growl.

Defiance appeared to revive Tzikim’s spirits briefly. “What? You would betray the Redemption?”

“No,” the Ghost repeated. “But you ask the impossible. My warriors will not man your walls.”

“They’re your men, aren’t they?” Khtoba put in. “Why wouldn’t they follow orders?”

“They are only my men so long as my superior wisdom is evident,” the Ghost rasped. “We are not
raschem
, to march to our deaths on the whim of some king. If we are trapped in the city, we will never escape.”

Tzikim seemed to shrink back into himself. With a contemptuous glance, Khtoba dismissed the priest and concentrated on the Desoltai.

“Then what course do you suggest?” he said.

“I suggest nothing,” the Ghost said. “My people abandon this camp as we speak. We will return to the
Ruskdesol
.”

Khtoba had been around the Desoltai long enough to catch that last word, which meant something like “Father Desert” in the nomads’ dialect. For the Desoltai, their arid domain was the center of the world. Sometimes they seemed to think of it as a kind of god.

“And then what?” Khtoba said. “Back to raiding towns and ambushing caravans?”

“When the
raschem
follow, we will teach them the true meaning of war.”

Khtoba chuckled. “I have no doubt you would, if they were fool enough to pursue you into the Great Desol. But what makes you think this Vordanai captain is such a fool?”

“He is no fool,” said the Ghost. “But he will follow nonetheless. We will have a prize that he cannot ignore.”

Khtoba glanced over at the Divine Hand, still praying with his eyes tightly shut, and then down at himself. A faint smile played across his lips.

“I take it we’re to accompany you, then.”

The Ghost inclined his head, flickers of lamplight shifting on the brushed-steel mask.

Khtoba had three hundred men outside, mostly armed and a few ahorse. If he chose to object, they might make a brave show of it. Some might even get away. Then again, that remnant was tired and demoralized after the short, disastrous campaign. They also might put up no fight whatsoever.

Either way, though, it was obvious that Khtoba
personally
wasn’t going anywhere. He had a sword at his side, but possessed no illusions about fighting his way out of the tent. And the Hand’s gaggle of bootlickers would be worse than useless. The only course, then, was acquiescence.

The Ghost was still watching him. It was strange, speaking to a mask. The thing was like a blank canvas on which the interlocutor could paint whatever he wanted or feared to see. The prospect of that had reduced Tzikim nearly to tears, but Khtoba fancied himself made of sterner stuff. He put on a level expression.

“Very well,” he said. “It seems the best plan we have, under the circumstances.”

JAFFA

The Justices had come creeping back with the death of Yatchik-dan-Rahksa and the collapse of the Swords of Heaven. For the most part they tried to pretend they’d never left, turning up at the gatehouse in their old uniforms and trying not to meet one another’s eyes. Others, who’d deserted to defend their homes or communities, were slower to trickle in. But the city had taken on a deathly calm since the news had gotten out that the Hand had abandoned the Palace. Even the thieves and muggers were hunkered down, hoping to weather the storm. Among those who’d worn the prince’s colors before his departure, there was a feeling—at least, a hope—that wearing those colors again to greet their restored monarch might encourage him to some feelings of mercy. Those who’d sewn the red flames of the Redemption to their breasts were rapidly ripping off the patches; those who’d painted the symbol on were working frantically with soap and water.

Jaffa-dan-Iln maintained no illusions about his own position. He’d collaborated with the Council and the Auxiliaries; there were any number of witnesses to that. With the Hand and the general fled, he was the only authority figure remaining in a battered, terrified city, and that seemed to mean that for the moment he was in charge. Unfortunately, once the prince reasserted his authority, that was likely to lead to his execution.

He might have fled, he supposed. The thought had honestly not occurred to him until it was far too late. Jaffa was a man who did his duty. Besides, he was confident in his reward.
After all, am I not acting directly on instructions from Mother?

Niaph-dan-Yunk, one of the first to march with the Swords and one of the first to return, knocked hesitantly at the open door to Jaffa’s office. Jaffa admitted him with a wave, but the younger man stood uncomfortably in the doorway.

“Sir,” he said, “our messenger has returned.”

“About time,” said Jaffa. “And?”

“The
raschem
—” Niaph coughed at Jaffa’s look. “The Vordanai colonel has agreed to your request for a meeting. He says he will wait half a mile up the coast road from the gate in one hour.”

“Excellent. Tell them to saddle my horse.”

“Yes, sir.” Niaph hesitated. “Will you be wanting an escort?”

Jaffa could have laughed. The man’s thoughts might as well have been printed on his forehead. He didn’t think whoever went to meet this demon-commander of the
raschem
had much chance of returning alive. No doubt the feeling was widespread among the Justices.

“No,” Jaffa said. “I will go alone.” He smiled. “I have his word on my safe conduct. Why would I need an escort?”

The fear in Niaph’s eyes instantly turned to pity, with perhaps a hint of admiration. Or maybe Jaffa was deceiving himself.

“Yes, sir. Good luck, sir.”

•   •   •

The streets were quieter than Jaffa had ever seen them, especially here, in the direct path of the approaching army. The coast road was lined with tenements, ramshackle multistory buildings assembled from brick, wood, and scraps of stolen stone. For the most part they were empty now, the residents having fled to presumed safety on the other side of the city, but those who couldn’t or wouldn’t leave were watching from behind rag doors and curtains. Jaffa could feel the questioning eyes.

When he caught sight of the line of soldiers, he dismounted and walked the rest of the way. The Vordanai had drawn up a company across the road, muskets shouldered, their deep blue uniforms covered with the dust of hard marching. Ahead of them waited two officers on foot. Jaffa was relieved to see that the prince was not with them, though he hadn’t expected the sovereign to lower himself to this kind of negotiation. His feelings were mixed, though, when he recognized Captain d’Ivoire. He’d known the man slightly before the Redemption. Usually they’d met after the Justices had to pull drunken Colonials out of brawls, and their relationship had been cool at best.

It was the other officer who stepped forward. He wore a colonel’s eagles on the shoulders of his immaculate dress uniform and bore himself with an aristocratic mien. When they locked gazes, Jaffa felt the force of his stare as a physical blow. The rest of his features seemed to recede into insignificance around his wide gray eyes, animated by an inner fire. Jaffa approached the last few steps at something resembling a parade-ground march and bowed stiffly.