The Thousand Names (10 page)

“Hadn’t we better mount up, sir?”

“Yes,” Janus said, shaking his head. “Don’t mind me, Captain. Sometimes I find myself . . . distracted.”

“Of course, sir.”

MARCUS

R
ank,
Marcus thought,
has its privileges.
And in an army on the march, any little bit of comfort was to be savored.

In this case, the privilege was having someone else to erect his tent. It had been carried with the rest of the First Battalion baggage and put up for him at the center of the area allotted to his men. No doubt Fitz had supervised the furnishings, such as they were—camp bed, folding desk, a pair of trunks, and the leather portfolios full of paperwork.

Marcus sat down heavily on the camp bed, keeping his boots well clear so as not to dirty the sheets. He stared dully at his bootlaces, trying to remember how they functioned.

Fifteen miles.
Not so far, in the scheme of things. Scarcely a journey to notice, in a well-sprung carriage, and certainly nothing a good horseman should complain of. Marcus was many things, but a good horseman was not one of them, and he ached from thighs to shoulders.

He could not even blame his mount, since he’d chosen her himself. He had purchased the mare a year or so earlier, after making a search of the Ashe-Katarion markets for the calmest, most stolid, least demanding mount that could be had. The sort of horse frail old ladies rode to church, or whatever it was that Khandarai old ladies did. He’d named her Meadow, on the theory that this might help.

And it had, in a way. Meadow was as unflappable an animal as had ever been bred, which meant that Marcus had to confront the fact that his frequent equine misadventures were solely the result of his lackluster horsemanship. The upshot was that up to now Meadow had led an extremely comfortable life and was hardly ever called upon to do any actual work, while Marcus walked or rode on carts whenever he could and saddled up only when it was absolutely unavoidable.

But senior officers were
expected
to ride while on the march. And not just in a straight line, either, but up and down the column, watching for problems and encouraging the men when their spirits flagged. Janus had set the example here, eschewing his black sun cape for full dress uniform to let the men get a good look at him. Marcus, perforce, had to follow, with the result that it felt like he’d ridden closer to thirty miles than fifteen.

For all that, the men in the ranks had it worse. Fifteen miles was a good day’s walk under the best of conditions, but it was hellish with a full pack and the Khandarai sun blazing down. The Old Colonials, toughened by years of trudging through the heat, had grumbled and produced all manner of unorthodox headgear to keep off the vicious rays. The recruits, feeling they had something to prove, had shuffled gamely in their veteran comrades’ wake and dropped like flies from exhaustion and heatstroke. Give-Em-Hell’s cavalry were even now ranging back along the route of march, gathering up the stricken and delivering them to the regimental surgeon to be given a cold compress and a jot of whiskey.

Fifteen miles. Damn the man.
It was Janus who’d insisted on the pace.
At least the Redeemers had the courtesy to start their revolution in April instead of August.
Even in spring, in spite of the coastal breezes, the Khandarai heat was trying. By high summer, the coast would be baking, and the inland desert would become a bone-dry furnace.
Be thankful for small graces.

A rap at the tent pole made Marcus raise his head. That would be Fitz, ideally with dinner. He shifted, gingerly, to a sitting position and said, “Come in.”

Fitz entered, but not alone. Val was as dusty and sweat-stained as Marcus, but didn’t look half as exhausted. An aristocrat’s son, Captain Valiant Solwen had learned to ride about the time he’d learned to walk, and no doubt considered the day’s journey merely a bracing jaunt. He was short and broad-shouldered, giving him an almost apish appearance when not on horseback. His looks were not improved by a ruddy face that hinted at his ability to consume truly heroic amounts of alcohol. He adorned his upper lip with a pencil-thin mustache, which he claimed gave him a rakish air, and he spent an inordinate amount of time maintaining it. In Marcus’ opinion it made him look like a penny-opera villain.

“I’m sorry,” Val said, with a half smile. “I didn’t realize you were going to bed straightaway.”

“Just resting my eyes,” Marcus muttered. He turned to Fitz. “Have they got dinner going yet?”

“Yessir,” the lieutenant said.

“Mutton again, I suppose?”

“More than likely, sir.” Khandar was rich in sheep, if little else. “Shall I fetch you something?”

“Please. Val, will you join me?”

“I suppose so,” Val said, without enthusiasm.

Marcus swung his legs down and unlaced his riding boots, letting his feet emerge with an almost audible creaking as his bones flexed back into shape. He stood up in his socks and winced.

“Always meant to get new boots,” he said. “A hundred boot makers in Ashe-Katarion, there’s got to be one who can get it right. Kept putting it off, though, and now here we are.” He grinned at Val. “There’s a lesson in that, I think.”

“‘Make sure you’ve got decent boots, because you never know when a pack of bloodthirsty priests are going to take over the place’? Doesn’t sound very widely applicable.”

“More like, ‘Don’t put things off too long, because you may never get a chance at them.’” Marcus went to one of his trunks, flipped it open, and rooted amongst his assorted rags until he found what he wanted. He held the bottle up to the lamp. The wax seal over the cap was still intact, and amber liquid glistened seductively inside the lumpy glass. Bits of green stuff floated on the surface. Herbs, Marcus hoped. “I’ve been saving this one. Damned if I know why. Scared to drink it, maybe.” He held the bottle out to Val. “Join me?”

“Gladly,” Val said. While Marcus hunted for his tin cups, Val added, “Adrecht has the same idea, I think. He’s convinced that we’re all going to die, so he’s drinking his way through that liquor chest of his.”

“Serve him right if he falls off his horse and hits his head,” Marcus said.

“Small chance of that. Last I heard, his head already hurt so badly he was riding in a wagon and cursing every bump in the road.”

Marcus laughed and came up with the cups. He broke the seal, poured, and offered one to Val, who took it gratefully.

“To Colonel Vhalnich!” Val proclaimed. “Even if he is mad.”

He emptied his cup and made a sour face. Marcus only sipped from his. The sensation on his tongue made him think Val had the right idea after all. He frowned.

“Mad?”

“What else, marching us out here like this?” Val leaned forward. “That’s what I came to ask you. You’ve been spending a lot of time with him. Has he let you in on the big secret?”

Marcus thought for a moment of Miss Alhundt and Janus’ feud with the Last Duke. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“The plan!” Val gestured violently with the cup, spraying a few drops of liquor against the tent wall. “He can’t be planning to just march up to Ashe-Katarion and knock on the gates, can he? You know as well as I do what’d happen next. The Redeemers have a goddamned
army
in the city. What are we supposed to do against that with one regiment?”

“I know,” Marcus said, downing the rest of his drink in one brutal swallow.

“But does
he
? In other words, is he ignorant, stupid, or deluded?”

“He knows,” Marcus said. Then, echoing his words to Fitz, “He’s clever.”

“Clever! Clever’s the worst. God save us from clever colonels.” Val shook his head. “Have you talked to Mor?”

“Not recently.”

“He’s not happy.”

“I can imagine.” Captain Morwen Kaanos was irascible at the best of times, which these hardly were. And his dislike of anything related to the nobility was well-known. He and Val had a long-simmering feud on the subject, based on nothing more than Val’s being a distant cousin to some peer or other. Janus was an actual
count
, and taking his orders was certain to send the captain of the Third Battalion into a rage.

“He’s not the only one,” Val said quietly. “I’ve been hearing a lot of talk, Marcus.”

Silently, Marcus proffered the bottle. Val gave it an evaluative look, then sighed and refilled both cups. He looked suspiciously into the depths of his drink.

“What are the green bits?” he said.

“Herbs,” Marcus said. “What kind of talk?”

“Commonsense talk,” Val said. “Which is what worries me. Talk like, we should have shipped out from Fort Valor. Talk that there’s thirty thousand screaming savages who like to cook and eat anybody with pale skin, and that if they want Khandar so badly they’re welcome to the damned place. Talk that maybe it would be best to take a quick hike to the rear, ’cause there’s no sense getting killed just so some damned count can play soldier. It’s going to be a run for the boats in the end, so why not get a head start?”

Marcus frowned, looked at his cup, and set it carefully aside. “You think anybody’s serious?” The Colonials were famous grumblers—it was practically the regimental sport—but . . .

“Not yet,” Val said. “But it’s days before we get to the city, even at this pace. The recruits seem to be game, but I’m not sure how long that’ll last. They’re awfully green. Did you know that most of them didn’t finish their time in depot? Some of them didn’t have
any
. I talked to a whole company today who said they’d marched straight from the recruiting station to the ships.”

That was disturbing, too, partly because it reminded Marcus how little time he’d spent with his own men. Janus seemed determined to make him into a kind of aide-de-camp, and had been monopolizing his time.

“They’ll toughen up quickly,” he said aloud. “Khandar has that effect on people. It certainly did on me.”

“Tough is one thing,” Val said. “It doesn’t do much good if they don’t know how to handle their muskets or form a line.”

Marcus sighed. “What do you want me to do about it?”

Val looked perplexed. “Talk to him, of course.”

“Talk?” It took Marcus a moment to get that. “To the colonel?”

“He spends more time with you than anyone in the regiment,” Val said. “I don’t think he’s given me more than the time of day. So it’s on you to tell him what we need. I don’t understand what the goddamned hurry is, but we need to cut down the marches and get these men drilling. Even a few days could make a big difference.”

“Easy enough to say,” Marcus said. “I don’t think he’ll listen to me.”

“If he doesn’t, we’re all in the shit,” Val said. “Half the supply train is
still
trying to catch up, and this ‘road’ is a joke. If we do another few days like this, we’ll be on short rations, and if you think the men are grumbling
now . 
. .”

Fitz reappeared, bearing two bowls of the ubiquitous dump-everything- in-a-pot-and-boil-it meal known affectionately as “army soup.” Marcus glared at it, but Val took the proffered spoon and dug in with a will.

“I’ll try,” Marcus said. “That’s all I can promise.”

Val shrugged, too busy eating to reply.

•   •   •

Standing outside Janus’ tent, as torches and fires flared throughout the camp and the reds of the sunset gave way to darkness, Marcus realized he had no idea how to begin.

There was certainly no procedure for it in army etiquette. Captains didn’t offer unsolicited advice to colonels, much less issue warnings or present demands. They might occasionally give their opinion, when asked, but directions started from the top and flowed downward. That was the point of the chain of command, after all. A colonel was supposed to know what he was doing.

All the relief that he’d felt when Janus had taken command had vanished. Marcus stood, one hand raised to knock at the tent pole, and dithered.

How would Fitz do it? The lieutenant never openly contradicted his captain, but he had his ways of making it known when he thought Marcus was making a bad decision. A glance, a cough, a “Yes,
sir
” with just the right tone of voice—the meaning always came across as clearly as if he’d shouted. But he, Marcus, wasn’t Fitz; he didn’t have the boy’s carefully calibrated manners.
Or half his brains, for that matter.
Besides, he and Janus had been together for only a day or so. It had taken Marcus years to learn the ins and outs of Fitz’s little hints.

He had still not reached a decision when the tent flap opened and Augustin emerged. The old servant bowed ever so slightly and cleared his throat.

“His lordship instructs me to say that if you’re only going to stand there, you might as well come inside,” he said, with a touch more dryness than was really necessary. Marcus instinctively bristled, but fought the reaction down.

“Thank you,” he said, with as frosty a tone as he could manage. “I shall.”

He followed the manservant through the tent flap. From Augustin’s manner, Marcus half expected that the man had worked some magic to transform the standard army-issue tent into a feudal palace, complete with ancient oil paintings and suits of medieval armor.

Instead, he found a tent much like his own, if somewhat neater and better organized. A simple bedroll was still stowed in one corner, a set of trunks in another. The colonel sat on a cushion in front of a wide wooden table, divided into quarters and cunningly hinged so it could be stowed away for transport. Beside him sat another trunk, this one full of books. Marcus couldn’t read the titles in the dim light, but they all had the same dark green leather binding, and fit as neatly inside the little case as if it had been designed for them. It probably had, Marcus reflected. Janus had certainly come prepared to his army career.