The Thousand Names (47 page)

No actual flames were visible yet, but the glow was definitely brighter, and Winter could smell woodsmoke. Feor rounded the corner a few yards ahead of them, and Winter nearly collided with two young Khandarai helping an elderly man down the road. She spun out of their way at the last moment, ignoring the vicious looks, and kept after Feor. Bobby was a few steps ahead, but when she came to the corner she suddenly pulled up short, and Winter nearly cannoned into her as well.

The next street was a short one, only twenty or thirty yards before it ended in a T-junction, and judging by the distance they’d run they had to be getting close to the outskirts of the city. The glow was much more intense here, and Winter could see tongues of flame licking up in the brightening sky. None were close, however, and she realized there must be two fires, one to either side of them. Straight ahead, in the direction that led out of the city, the night was still dark.

A dozen men stood in the street. They wore white tunics and grubby white trousers, overlaid with a full-length black hooded cloak that each had tied in a peculiar loop around his waist to leave his arms and legs free. All carried drawn swords, the distinctive heavy-ended falchions of the Desoltai. They were young men, full-bearded, with dark hair and skin a darker shade of gray than the urban Khandarai. One raider had his face concealed behind a blank gray mask, featureless except for a pair of eye holes.

Winter knew him, though she had never seen him personally. Every member of the Colonials had heard the story of Malik-dan-Belial, the Steel Ghost of the Great Desol. He had been causing trouble for the prince and his Vordanai allies since long before the Redemption. Supposedly he was a sorcerer, or had made a pact with demonic powers. She’d always dismissed that kind of campfire story—but now, face-to-face with that blank, glowering mask, she thought about the arcane light that had bloomed under Feor’s hands and wondered. He didn’t need demonic powers, though. He had ten armed men, and she and Bobby wore only knives. Winter skidded to a halt, her heart pounding, and looked around for Feor.

One of the buildings letting onto the street was an ancient tumbledown stone place, little more than a wall around a central courtyard with more modern wooden buildings at the back. The makeshift front gates of this relic had been opened, and a small caravan was emerging.

First came a huge, bald man whom Winter recognized as one of the
eckmahl
, eunuch servants like the one who had originally accompanied Feor. Behind the giant walked an old woman, wrapped from head to toe in white linen under a tattered gray robe. She was supported on one side by a boy of fourteen or fifteen, who was also as bald as an egg. Another man walked beside her with the air of a bodyguard.

After these three came a cart, a four-wheeled vehicle with long wooden poles at the front and rear instead of traces. These had crossbars allowing men to haul the load, and there were eight—four ahead and four behind—doing just that. These men were dressed like ordinary Khandarai laborers, but they pushed with a measured, steady tread that spoke of coordination and training. Each of the haulers was trailed by a slowly dissipating wisp of white vapor, as though they were all smoking something in unison, and Winter caught a whiff of the smell of burning sugar.

At the sight of the interlopers, the old woman and her minders stepped out of the way of the cart. It proceeded slowly past the Desoltai and up the street, toward the edge of the city. Leaning on her young companion, the crone stepped carefully toward Feor, while the desert raiders looked at one another uncertainly.

The Steel Ghost said something, too quietly for Winter to catch. When the crone spoke, her Khandarai was dry but intelligible.

“We will attend to them in a moment.” Her eyes were fixed on Feor. “First I must welcome my poor wayward lamb.”

“Mother!” Feor fell to her knees, sobbing, and prostrated herself full-length on the dirt in front of the old woman. “Mother, I beg forgiveness.”

“Shhh,” the old woman clucked, in a tone that was not at all reassuring. “All will be well, my child. You have been away for a long time.”

Feor, head bowed, said nothing. The old woman looked up at the two Vordanai. Her face was invisible beneath a deep cowl, but the ends of bandages hung limp on her chest and swayed whenever she moved.

“And these are your friends?” she said. “Bring them here.”

These words finally broke through Winter’s indecision.
Time to run.
She didn’t want to leave Feor, but she and Bobby weren’t going to be able to rescue the girl from a dozen armed men.
Maybe I can round up a squad or two and intercept them—

She grabbed Bobby’s arm and turned back up the street, then stopped in surprise. Standing in their path was the young man she’d assumed was a bodyguard, bald-headed like the rest but fit and dangerous-looking. She hadn’t seen him move. He raised his hands, blood dripping slowly from his palms.

“Don’t!” The shout came from Feor. “Mother, please. Leave them be. They
saved
me.”

“Did they?”

“Sir?” Bobby said quietly. “I can go left, you go right, and one of us should be able to hit him from behind. He hasn’t got a sword.”

The young man smiled at them. Winter swallowed hard.

“I don’t think that would be . . . wise,” she said to Bobby.

“But—”

Footsteps behind them cut the discussion short. Three of the Desoltai arrived unhurriedly, and together with the bodyguard they escorted the two Colonials back up the street. The cart was still grinding away, and the rest of the Desoltai had gone with it, including the Steel Ghost. The old woman remained with Feor, who was speaking rapidly in low tones. Winter caught a few words—she was telling her story, sometimes tripping over her tongue in her effort to get it out quickly.

Something the girl said made the old woman look up sharply at Bobby. Winter kept one hand on the corporal’s arm, and she could feel her stiffen.

“She’s . . .” Bobby put one hand to the side of her head. “I can
feel
something. Something’s wrong.”

Feor had finished, returning to her facedown crouch. The old woman ignored her, focusing on the two Vordanai. When she finally spoke, her tone was even less friendly than it had been.

“I had hoped for better sense from you, my child.”

“It seemed the only way. I owed them a debt.”

“There are no debts of honor with heretics,” the old woman snapped. “No deals with
raschem
.”

“I’m sorry, Mother.” Feor pressed her forehead to the ground. “Please. I beg for mercy.”

“Mercy,” the old woman said, almost contemplatively. Then she made a hawking noise, like she wanted to spit. “I cannot.
Obv-scar-iot
must be released to one who is more worthy of it.”

“I accept your judgment,” Feor said. “But these two—”

“Are
raschem
. If we let them go, they will fall into the grip of the schemer Orlanko. No.” She shook her head. “I grant you the mercy of a swift death. Onvidaer, see to it.” The hood swung up the street, toward the wagon. “We are falling behind. Akataer, with me.”

“Mother!” Feor looked up, anguish in her voice, but the old woman had already turned her back. The young man, Onvidaer, stood in her place, while the three Desoltai gathered closer around Winter and Bobby.

Three.
Winter’s mind whirled desperately. There had to be a way out, somewhere.
Turn and grab the sword arm of the closest?
She might wrest the weapon away, if he was inattentive, but she was no swordsman. And Bobby would be left unarmed against the other two.

Her chest was tight. Once the old woman had passed out of sight, Feor climbed slowly to her feet and stood in front of Onvidaer. She was a head shorter than the young man, but she looked up at him with a mix of defiance and something Winter couldn’t quite place. Something seemed to pass invisibly between them.

Feor reached out and grabbed his hand, guiding it up to her own throat. She raised her chin slightly to let his fingers tighten around her windpipe, and there was a long, frozen moment.

Then Onvidaer let his hand fall away. “I cannot,” he said wonderingly.

“You must,” Feor said. Her throat was smeared with the blood from his palms. “She will feel my death. She
must
feel it.”

He shook his head. “I cannot.”

One of the Desoltai stepped forward. “I will take the duty, if it pleases you,” he said. His tone was respectful, but Onvidaer glared at him as though he were a poisonous insect.

“Please, Onvi.” Feor closed her eyes. “It is Mother’s judgment. I accept it.”

There were only two Desoltai watching her now. Winter tensed.

Onvidaer pursed his lips briefly, then appeared to reach a decision. The Desoltai who’d stepped forward opened his mouth to speak, but got no further. The young man stepped forward and brought his hand into the side of the desert raider’s head. The
crack
of shattering bone was audible, and the Desoltai was lifted off his feet to fall in a crumpled heap on the earthen street.

The other two Desoltai started to shout and raise their swords, but Onvidaer moved so fast he was a blur. He grabbed the sword arm of the first, twisting it easily out of the way with another
crack
, then punched the man in the chest. Something crunched, and the Desoltai staggered backward. Before he could fall, Onvidaer spun behind the third man, grasped his head between his palms, and twisted it one hundred eighty degrees.

The two Desoltai silently collapsed. Feor, still staring at where Onvidaer had been, was trembling.

“Let these two go, then,” Feor said. “But she must feel me die.”

“No!” Winter said involuntarily.

“She must!” Feor said, turning to face Onvidaer. “Or you will die in my place.”

The young man’s face was an agony of indecision. He raised one hand halfheartedly, then let it fall. Feor, shaking her head in frustration, bent to snatch up one of the fallen Desoltai’s weapons.

“Wait,” Winter said, thinking desperately. “Just wait.”

Onvidaer turned to her, apparently aware for the first time that she was speaking his language.

“A Vordanai patrol turned up,” Winter said. “Ten men. Twenty,” she corrected, thinking of the speed at which Onvidaer had moved. “You had to fight your way free.”

Feor’s eyes glittered with tears. Onvidaer cocked his head, considering.

“A patrol,” he said. “Following you.”

Winter nodded eagerly, but Feor shook her head. “You will still be punished for failure!”

“Punished, but not killed,” said Onvidaer. “I will endure.”

“I—”

“Go,” he said, gently removing the Desoltai blade from her grip. “Take your friends and go. Leave, and never return.”

Feor fell to her knees. “N-never . . .”

Onvidaer looked up at Winter. “You will care for her?”

“Yes,” Winter said without hesitation.

“Good. Do not make me regret allowing you to live.”

He turned and ran after his mistress, great loping strides carrying him along faster than he had any right to move. Winter, Bobby, and Feor were left alone with the three Desoltai corpses.

Flames were licking ever higher into the sky. Winter fought her instinctive desire to curl into a ball and hide. Instead, she stepped closer to Feor. The Khandarai girl had her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Winter touched her tentatively.

“Feor,” she said, when this drew no response. “Feor!”

Feor looked up, her normally impassive face flushed gray-red and streaked with soot and tears. Winter grabbed her roughly by the arm and hauled her to her feet.

“We have to go. We can’t stay here.” She gestured at the flames. “Come on!”

“I . . .” Feor shook her head feebly. “No. Leave me here. Just . . .”

“You heard him,” Winter snapped. “I’m supposed to take care of you. Now come on, or Bobby and I will carry you!”

That got Feor moving, at least into a stumbling walk that Winter guided with a hand on her shoulder. Bobby fell in on the other side, having claimed one of the falchions from the dead Desoltai.

“Sir,” she said, over Feor’s lowered head, “what the
hell
just happened?”

Winter shook her head. Without any knowledge of Khandarai, Bobby was totally in the dark, but Winter didn’t feel much better off herself.

“I wish I knew,” Winter said. “I’ll explain what I can later. For now . . .” She glanced over her shoulder at the growing wall of flame. “I think it’s time to run.”

MARCUS

M
arcus could see from Razzan-dan-Xopta’s expression that the conference had not gone well. He stood hastily as Janus emerged from the august presence of the prince, trailing the Khandarai minister like an overinflated silk balloon.

“Colonel,” Razzan said, wringing his hands, “perhaps it was my translations that were at fault here. I urge you—”

“Your translations were adequate,” Janus snapped. “Also, as you know, unnecessary. I believe that all that needs to be said has been said. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a march to organize.”

“But . . . the prince has forbidden it!”

“I have informed the prince of my intentions. He is welcome to take whatever steps he feels are necessary.”

Janus made a shooing motion, then beckoned to Marcus, who fell into step behind him. They left the bewildered minister gaping like a landed fish.

“I take it he wasn’t pleased,” Marcus murmured.

“He called me a coward and a traitor,” Janus said. “How refusing to sit behind the walls of Ashe-Katarion makes me a coward, I’m not sure I understand, but no doubt the minds of royalty work in mysterious ways.”

“You can’t blame him,” Marcus said. “He’s frightened.”

“I don’t blame him for that. I only wish he would accept the reality of the situation.”

The reality of the situation, of course, was that the colonel could do as he liked. The prince had a handful of Heavenly Guards and Jaffa’s Justices, and the loyalty of the latter was far from certain. Janus could depose the monarch with a wave of his hand, and they both knew it. Still, old habits died hard, and the Vermillion Throne continued to issue “commands” to its Vordanai allies.

That, in this case, the prince might be
right
made it all the worse from Marcus’ point of view. He coughed. Janus turned to look at him, gray eyes glittering.

“You don’t approve,” the colonel said.

“Of the way you dealt with the prince? Of course I approve. It’s about time someone—”

“No,” Janus said. “You don’t want to march.”

“I had wondered whether it is entirely . . . wise,” Marcus admitted.

“I’ve told you before that you may speak your mind to me, as long as we’re in private.” Janus gestured at the empty corridor. “Speak.”

“I follow your logic, as far as it goes,” Marcus said. “I agree that the fires and the assassination attempt mean the Desoltai may still be nearby. But if we pursue, they’ll fall back into the Desol, and following them seems like it would be playing right into their hands.”

“You worry we won’t be able to defeat them?”

“I worry that they won’t fight at all,” Marcus said. “The Desoltai aren’t like ordinary soldiers. You can go days without seeing them, and then suddenly they’re on top of you like a swarm of angry hornets. They let the desert do their work for them, and trying to strike back is like punching a mist.” Marcus had become more fervent than he intended, and he took a moment to regain his decorum. “My concern is that we won’t be able to force a decisive action.”

“They have towns, I know. Camps. Oases from which they draw their supplies.”

“They do, but they’re hidden in the depths of the Desol. There are no maps, no roads. Finding them . . .” Marcus shrugged.

Janus looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head. “This time is different, Captain. They attempt to bring the Names to a place of safety. If we can keep close enough on their heels, they will eventually lead us to it.”

“The Names,” Marcus said flatly, and suppressed a sigh. Janus had still refused to explain the exact nature of his mysterious treasure. He tried a new tack. “And you’ve considered that the prince may be right to worry? Without the Colonials to keep order, Ashe-Katarion may rise against him.”

“Unlikely. Whatever standing the Redeemers had left with the people was lost with the fire.”

“That doesn’t mean they like the prince any better. If they string him up from the walls, we’ll have trouble keeping order in all of Khandar.”

“It’s an acceptable risk,” Janus said. “We must have the Names.”

“Even if it costs us—”

“Even if it costs us all of Khandar.” Janus looked solemnly at Marcus. “I expect this sort of protest from less . . . imaginative minds, Captain. But you were there. You saw what they can do. We cannot leave that sort of power in the hands of a gang of Khandarai witches.”

“I . . .”

That awful morning now seemed like the beginning of a nightmare, a day of flame and windblown ash that blacked out the sky and coated the streets with gray. He’d almost forgotten the assassination attempt amidst the chaos that had followed. The fires had been every bit as bad as Khandarai legend said they would be, sweeping unstoppably through the tight-packed tenements and thatch-roofed buildings of the lower city, washing against the thick stone walls of the inner city like waves against a breakwater.

Sparks driven by the wind had overtopped the wall and started dozens of smaller blazes, but the upper city was built largely of stone. Marcus had deployed the Colonials to battle these flames as best they could, and also to assist the Justices at the walls. Mobs of hysterical commoners assaulted the gates, desperate for safety, and against all tradition Marcus decreed that the inner city be opened to these refugees. That meant guards and pickets to protect the property of the aristocrats.

Thousands more Khandarai had run for the other traditional refuge and jumped into the canal or the harbor, until the shallows resembled a gigantic open-air bath. That saved them from the flames, but hundreds drowned in the choking, shoving mobs or were forced out into the deeps and went under when their strength gave out. Thousands were left behind in the city, too, unable or unwilling to run, and had burned along with their homes. The Justices were unable to provide even a partial body count, but burial squads were still working three shifts.

Casualties among the Colonials, fortunately, had been light. Most of the patrols had hurried back to the gates as soon as the fire started. The First Battalion had fewer than a dozen unaccounted for, and Marcus hoped most of those would yet turn up.

And before the ashes were cold, Janus had announced his intention to march.

“I . . . don’t know,” Marcus said. “I’ll admit that
something
supernatural came to attack you that morning, but whether that has anything to do with these Thousand Names . . .”

The gray eyes flashed. “It was a demon, Captain. A creature not of this earth, wearing a human skin.”

It caught a pistol ball.
Marcus had seen a conjuror do that once in a stage show, but that had only been a trick. This had been a real ball from a real pistol, and he’d pulled the trigger himself.
Which is impossible.
A man might be fast, or strong—
not as fast or strong as that thing was
—but to catch a ball in flight . . .

“Even so,” Marcus said. “Even if he was—”

They rounded a corner, and Marcus was relieved to catch sight of Fitz hurrying toward them. The lieutenant stopped in front of them and saluted.

“Your points are noted, Captain,” Janus said. “My orders stand. I expect a report by evening.”

“Yessir.” Marcus stiffened and snapped a salute of his own. The colonel swept past Fitz and on down the corridor, and Marcus didn’t let himself relax until Janus had turned a corner.

“Orders, sir?” Fitz said. “Has the colonel finished with the prince already?”

Marcus nodded wearily. “We march,” he said. “Tomorrow, at dawn.”

“Very good, sir.”

His face was impassive. Marcus gave him a penetrating look. “Doesn’t that bother you? Just the other day you were telling us how it would be unwise.”

“Obviously the colonel does not agree with me,” Fitz said mildly. “Besides, circumstances have changed. In some ways, we may be safer outside the city.”

“What do you mean?”

“Supplies are already running low among the refugees, sir. I came to tell you that there’s been a disturbance. Some farmers were bringing a convoy of food to market—that’s the inner-city market, of course—and they were confronted by a mob demanding that they sell it to them at pre-fire prices. When the farmers refused, the mob attacked the wagons and took everything they could carry. There are three dead and a dozen wounded.”

“If we leave, that sort of thing is only going to get nastier.”

“Certainly our presence contributes to the maintenance of order,” Fitz said, in the slow, calm tone he used to explain things to officers and small children. “On the other hand, shortages are only going to grow worse, and it’s only a matter of time before the people turn their anger on us.”

“Wonderful.” Marcus shook his head. “It’s all academic, anyway. Unless the prince tries to stop us by force, we leave in the morning. How are the preparations?”

“We’ve commandeered all the transport we can lay our hands on,” Fitz said. “You still mean to take the entire hospital with us?”

“Damn right. If we’re marching, that means all of us. I don’t want one Vordanai in uniform left behind.”

“It’s just that the space would be useful to transport more barrels of water, or—”

“Everyone, Fitz.”

“Yessir. Food is going to be the issue, sir, at least at first. We’ve more or less exhausted the supplies that came with the fleet, and there’s not much to be had in the city unless we start turning some nobles out onto the street.”

“That might make the mob happy,” Marcus said, and sighed. “I’ll bring it up with the colonel. Is there any good news?”

“Ammunition is holding up nicely, sir. The Auxiliaries left us a substantial supply, and since they use Vordanai weapons the calibers match up perfectly.”

“It’s a blessing no one thought to torch the magazines,” Marcus said. The fire had been bad enough. If one of the big arsenals had gone up as well . . .

“Yessir. Also, Captain Roston appears to have regained consciousness.”

“Adrecht? When?”

“Early this morning, I understand.”

“You might have told me earlier. I’m going to see him.”

“Sir,” Fitz said, “about our stock of barrels—”

“Later,” Marcus snapped. “Or better yet, whatever it is, just take care of it. You have full authority to take any necessary steps.”

“Yessir!” The lieutenant saluted. “Understood, sir!”

•   •   •

The hospital had been established in a closed-off wing of the Palace. The prince had objected to this use of royal property, but Marcus had insisted and Janus had backed him. The battalion cutters, who handled immediate battlefield triage and most day-to-day complaints, had consolidated the worst of the wounded cases under the regimental surgeons. Marcus had visited a few times to see Adrecht, but until now his fellow captain had never been awake to receive him and the groans of the wounded had quickly driven him away.

Since then, things had quieted down somewhat. The festering infections and bad blood that accompanied battle wounds had reaped their inevitable toll, and the bodies had long since been carried away. Those who were on the road to recovery had left as well, often of their own accord, since no sane soldier wanted to stay under a cutter’s care any longer than absolutely necessary. The patients who remained were those who’d contracted something lingering, or who’d been wounded badly enough to require serious surgery and had survived the process.

Marcus was met by a surgeon’s assistant, who recognized him, saluted, and led him to the narrow bedroom in which Adrecht had been installed. As Fitz had promised, he was sitting up on the low bed, reading something. The captain was out of uniform, but his blue coat was draped across his shoulders. The left sleeve hung flat against his side, limp and empty.

“Adrecht!” Marcus said. “Sorry I wasn’t here earlier. I’ve been with the colonel all morning. Fitz just told me you’d woken up.”

“It’s all right,” Adrecht said. “I wasn’t in a fit state to meet anyone until just now anyway. I finally kicked up enough of a fuss that they brought me a bath and a change of clothes from my room.”

Marcus chuckled. Adrecht’s smile was strained, and an awkward silence descended as Marcus realized he had absolutely no idea what to say. He owed Adrecht his life, but any kind of “thank you” seemed pitifully inadequate in view of the price his friend had paid. To acknowledge the debt would be unbearable, but to do anything else seemed ridiculous. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and gritted his teeth.

Somewhat to his surprise, Adrecht came to the rescue. He held up the paper he’d been reading. “Have you seen this?”

“What is it?”

“Orders. The colonel wants the Fourth Battalion to get ready to march.”

“He sent the orders to
you
?” Marcus had a flash of incredulous rage.

“Not as such. The colonel informs me that the Fourth will be marching with the rest of the regiment, and inquires whether or not I feel competent to take up the command. If not, he quite understands.”

Adrecht gave the phrase a nasty spin, but Marcus couldn’t help agreeing with his tone. Janus must have written those words while Adrecht still lay unconscious, so he could hardly have expected an answer in the affirmative.