The Thousand Names (59 page)

She blew out a breath between her teeth and dropped into a half crouch. Slowly, ridiculously, she raised her fists.

Davis barked a laugh. “Is that how it is, Saint? You and me? Man to man?”

“One of us is a man, anyway.” Winter bit back a peal of hysterical laughter.

“You shouldn’t try to make me angry. It’ll only go harder on you.”

“Harder than dead?”

“Well,” he said, scratching the side of his nose. “There’s dead, and then there’s—”

He lashed out in midsentence, a savage jab that snapped Winter’s head back before she could even think about ducking. White light flashed behind her eyes, and the taste of blood exploded in her mouth. She didn’t even feel herself falling, only more pain from splinters and nails prodding her from behind as she staggered back into one of the piles of debris.

“Dead,” Davis finished, rubbing his knuckles against his uniform coat. “Who are you fucking kidding, Saint?”

He approached, but cautiously. Winter, sucking air through a split lip, tried blearily to gauge the distance. When she thought he was close enough, she brought her knee up in a jerky try for his stomach, but he slammed his palm down on it so hard that she felt something crunch. Tears leaked from her eyes, and she stifled a scream.

“You still don’t think much of ol’ Sarge, do you?” Davis’ smile was brutal. “I may be old and fat, but you don’t get to be old and fat without learning your way around a fight or two.”

He reached down, batting aside her feebly resisting arm, and took hold of her collar, twisting the fabric of her shirt in sausage-thick fingers. Winter dangled bonelessly from his grip as he raised her to eye level.

“Well, Lieutenant?” he said. “Anything else to say?”

She spit a stream of blood, right in his eye. He reared back, roaring in protest, but retained his grip. Her feet scrabbled, half an inch above the ground, gaining no traction. Over his shoulder she saw one of the tent poles, barely within her reach, and she grabbed it and
pulled
. The unexpected pressure wrenched Davis around, and Winter’s feet touched the ground. She pushed off hard, trying desperately to escape from his grasp, her collar twisted tight around her neck.

Something gave way with a
rip
, and suddenly she was free. She dropped on all fours and scrabbled forward, heading for the tent flap, but before she could get there she felt a hand grip her by the ankle, dragging her knees out from under her and leaving her flat in the dirt. A second later a kick exploded into her ribs, rolling her over and onto her back.

Every breath was an agony. Something in her chest felt broken, shifting uneasily with each heartbeat, and there was a line of fire around her throat. She coughed weakly and tried to raise her head.

“I don’t believe it,” Davis said. “I don’t
fucking
believe it. You have got to be
joking
.”

Winter managed to push herself up on her elbows. Davis was staring at her, incredulous. In one hand, he held a bloody scrap of fabric that had once been part of her undershirt. The buttons of her coat had given way, and it had fallen open, leaving her exposed from neck to navel.

“Saints and fucking martyrs,” Davis swore. “What the
fuck
, Saint? Are you some kind of freak?”

She tried to reply, but her mouth was full of blood. It trickled down her chin and dripped onto her bared breasts. She spit again, weakly, spraying blood all over the sleeve of her coat.

“You mean all those times we were out on patrol, just us boys in those cold tents, there was a nice warm cunt within five feet and I didn’t know it?
Fuck
, Saint, you could have told me. I might have been a little nicer to you.”

He looked at her, surprise slowly changing to disgust. Winter forced herself to stare back, unblinking.

“No wonder you were always looking down your nose at us. Buttoned-up little bitch. Laughing at dumb ol’ Sarge behind his back.” His lip twisted. “I ought to fuck you good an’ proper, to make up for all those missed chances.”

Behind Davis, something moved. Winter looked past the sergeant, and in the lamp’s flickering shadows she caught sight of the colonel. His hands were still bound, but he’d somehow freed his legs, and one of his feet rested on the knife Davis had taken from her.

Their gazes met. There was no surprise in his gray eyes, no disgust or fear, just quiet concentration and, she realized belatedly, a question.

Winter nodded, saw his acknowledgment.

Davis’ hands were on his belt, apparently in an agony of indecision. He shook his head.

“Sorry, Saint. I don’t think we’ve got time—”

The colonel moved. He sent the knife skittering over the dirt toward Winter, between Davis’ legs. At the same time he twisted, lashing out with a kick that caught the big sergeant precisely in the back of the knee.

Davis bellowed again, one leg folding up involuntarily, and his arms windmilled as he toppled forward. He caught himself before he hit the ground, held up on hands and knees, half over Winter.

She forced herself to move, in spite of the protests from her abused body. Her hand found the knife and ripped off the sheath. It was a short blade, not really a fighting knife at all, but Davis was
right there
, gaping at her, the apple of his throat bobbing stupidly—

“Take the knife,” Jane said, as though instructing a friend in how to carve a roast. “Put the point of it about here”—she raised her head and put a finger on her throat, just under her chin—“and press in, upward, as hard as you can.”

Winter obeyed.

•   •   •

She didn’t recall cutting the colonel free, but she must have. The next thing she remembered was sitting huddled on the floor, arms hugging her knees to her chest, and the colonel was bending solicitously at her side.

“Lieutenant?” When that elicited no response, he bent a little closer. “Winter?”

She blinked, looking up. Colonel Vhalnich gave a quick smile and offered her a canteen.

“Water?”

Winter took it shakily and fumbled with the cap. Once she got it open she took a long pull, wincing at the pain in her jaw, and spat a pink stream into the dirt. Her mouth still tasted of blood, but she downed the rest in a single greedy swallow.

“You look quite a mess,” the colonel said. “Are you badly hurt?”

Her brain was slowly starting to function again. “I—” More blood dripped off her upper lip. She wiped her hand across her face and it came away crimson. “Think he broke my nose.”

“I’m sorry it took me so long to intervene. As you saw, he had me at something of a disadvantage.”

“The others,” Winter said, suddenly cold. “What about Folsom and the others?”

“Folsom?” The colonel cocked his head. “Ah, the corporal commanding Captain d’Ivoire’s guard. They’re in the other tent with the captain, I believe, along with Miss Alhundt. We’ve really been treated quite well, all things considered. Although the captain was worried about Lieutenant Warus.”

“He’s all right,” Winter said. “They were going to kill him, but I got to him first.”

“Remarkable,” the colonel said. “You are an officer of considerable resource, I think.”

Winter struggled to her feet. The edges of her torn shirt flapped against her skin, where they weren’t gummed tight with blood. “We had better let them out.”

“They’ll keep a few moments longer.” There was a hint of amusement in the colonel’s gray eyes. “First of all, I suggest that you button your jacket.”

Oh.
Winter looked down at herself, too numb to feel embarrassment. She closed the buttons slowly, her fingers feeling clumsy and fat. Only when she was finished did she look back up at the colonel. He raised an eyebrow.

“I knew, of course.”

“Of course,” Winter said, deadpan. “Of course you knew. Everybody knows.” A hysterical giggle escaped, in spite of the pain it brought from her ribs. “You’re all just pretending not to notice, for my sake, aren’t you? It’s a big practical joke. I might as well walk through the camp naked, since
everyone fucking already knows
—”

“I doubt that would be a good idea,” the colonel said. “I’ve been making something of a study of you, Lieutenant, and I don’t think I flatter myself too much if I say that I am more observant than the average soldier. As far as I can tell, your secret remains unrevealed.”

“Except to the commander of the whole regiment,” Winter said bitterly. “Wonderful.”

“I’m not planning to mention it to anyone else,” the colonel said, “if you were worried on that score.”

Winter paused, watching his impassive expression. Her thoughts felt slow and diffuse, and her head throbbed with every heartbeat, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to focus.
What the hell is he talking about?
Bobby was one thing, but this was the
colonel
.

“I . . .” She shook her head. “Why?”

“Firstly, it would seem to be an ungracious response to your saving my life.” He gestured at the facedown body of Davis. “While Captain Roston was concerned with preserving a veneer of legality, I’m certain the senior sergeant would have prevailed on him eventually that his captives were too dangerous to be allowed to live.”

“I didn’t come here to save you,” Winter said. “I came for my men.”

“I guessed as much,” he said. “It doesn’t change the outcome. And, secondly, I’ve remained silent this long because I feel you show considerable promise as an officer. The army needs more like you, not fewer, the fact of your gender notwithstanding. Your stand on the docks at the river was . . . inspired.” Another fleeting smile. “I suspect that few among the army officers are as pragmatic as I am, however. Thus, it is best that your secret remain a secret.” He chuckled. “In particular, I suggest you keep it from Captain d’Ivoire. He has old-fashioned ideas when it comes to gallantry and would feel compelled to hustle you away for your own protection.”

“So you’re just . . . not going to say anything?” She was having a hard time wrapping her mind around the concept.

“I’m going to thank you for stopping an attempted mutiny,” he said. “And probably promote you in the bargain, once we’ve gotten clear of our current difficulties.”

“We haven’t stopped anything yet,” Winter said. “Captain Roston—”

“Let me worry about Captain Roston,” the colonel said. “We’ll collect Captain d’Ivoire and your men, and then I think you’re due for a rest.”

She was too tired to protest, or even ask questions. It felt good to have someone else giving orders for a change. And she had to admit it suited him. She would never have known from the colonel’s demeanor that he’d been bound and gagged just minutes before. His thin face was animated, and something in the depths of his eyes made him seem on the edge of a smile that never quite appeared.
He looks happy
. She couldn’t imagine why.

He walked to the tent flap, held it open. “After you, Lieutenant.”

Winter drew herself up, in spite of the pain, and saluted. “Yes,
sir
!”

MARCUS

M
arcus’ wrists chafed where he was bound. They’d used ordinary camp rope, thick and rough, and try as he might to hold still, the edges scraped painfully against his skin. At least he hadn’t been gagged.

Jen, as a woman, had been spared the indignity; Adrecht remained a gentleman. The same could not be said of the Second Company man Sergeant Davis had left to watch the prisoners, who spent entirely too long staring thoughtfully at the Concordat liaison.

They were in a large tent, empty except for a few makeshift writing desks. Marcus and Jen had a corner to themselves, while the corporal and rankers who’d been taken along with the colonel sat in a huddle on the other side.

Adrecht himself hadn’t had the stomach to face to the prisoners, which gave Marcus a little bit of hope to cling to.
He knows he shouldn’t be doing this. If I could only
talk
to him, I could make him understand.
Unfortunately, Adrecht seemed to have delegated his captives to Davis, and Marcus harbored no illusions about
his
rationality.

Fucking Davis. I should have had him strung up long ago.
He’d known how awful the man was, even in Colonel Warus’ day, but back then it hadn’t been his problem. Besides, petty cruelty and thuggery were practically a sergeants’ tradition.
But not mutiny.

The Second Company man was leering again. He was a squat, ugly ranker, with a thick black beard and angry red welts on his cheeks. He sat by the tent flap on a biscuit crate, musket by his side, and occupied his time with tuneless whistling and staring hungrily at Jen when he thought no one was looking.

“Marcus,” Jen hissed.

He looked across at her, and her eyes flicked to their jailer.

“If he tries anything,” Marcus said in a whisper, “I’ll—”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she said. “Listen. If worse really comes to worst, just keep your head down.”

He snorted. “If you think I’m going to sit quietly while he drags you outside and has his way with you—”

“He won’t,” she said.

“You don’t know that.”

Her expression grew determined. “I mean, I won’t let him.”

“But—”

“Just trust me, would you?”

Marcus subsided. With his arms tied behind his back, he didn’t fancy his chances in a fight with the hefty ranker, but he didn’t see that he had any other options.
No point in arguing, though.
He looked up at a rustle from the tent flap, hoping for Adrecht but expecting Davis. The guard looked up, too, one hand going to his musket.

The pistol shot was shockingly loud at such close range. The Second Company man, eyes blank with surprise, rolled slowly backward with a hole drilled neatly through his forehead. Janus ducked inside the tent and tossed the still-smoking weapon aside.

“Good morning, Captain,” he said. “Miss Alhundt, Corporal. I thought we might repair to more congenial surroundings.”

He bent, pulled the knife from the dead man’s belt, flipped it around, and offered it to Jen. She set to work on the rope binding Marcus’ hands. Behind the colonel another man entered, and it took Marcus a moment to recognize young Lieutenant Ihernglass, who looked as though he’d been worked over by a team of men with truncheons. Blood smeared his face and trickled from his nose, his lips were thick and purple, and a bruise was swelling under one eye. He spared Marcus only a glance, then hurried toward where the corporal and the others lay.

“Don’t tell me,” Marcus said, as his hands came free. “You tricked Davis into slitting his own throat.”

“A surprisingly accurate guess,” Janus said, “but not quite. The senior sergeant was hardly my intellectual equal, but he proved remarkably resilient to persuasion. I must admit that we have the lieutenant to thank for our liberty.”

“Ihernglass? How did he find us?”

“You’ll have to get the complete story from him yourself. I understand he stumbled across Lieutenant Warus, and together they concocted a plan.”

“Fitz is all right, then?” That had been preying on Marcus’ mind.

“I believe so. The lieutenant says he left him with his company.”

“Right.” Marcus clambered to his feet, massaging his aching wrists. He spared a moment to smile at Jen, then turned back to Janus. “What about Davis? When I get my hands on him—”

“The senior sergeant has, I’m afraid, gone beyond the reach of your retribution.”

“He’s dead?”

Janus nodded at Ihernglass. “There was an altercation.”

Marcus remembered the sheer scarred bulk of Davis, his massive fists, and measured them against Ihernglass’ slim, boyish figure. He whistled softly, then shook his head. “Quicker than he deserved. What about Adrecht?”

“According to the lieutenant, Captain Roston is back at the main camp. Lieutenant Warus is endeavoring to keep him distracted.”

“Then this isn’t over,” Marcus said. “We’ve got to get over there—”

Janus held up a hand. “Indeed. All in good time. Before that, though, I wondered if I might have a word in private?”

Marcus blinked, then looked over his shoulder at Jen. She nodded encouragingly, and Janus gave another of his summer-lightning smiles. He led the way out of the tent and onto the wreckage-strewn plain beyond. The sky in the east was just beginning to lighten, and the air was still heavy with the scent of woodsmoke.

“Jen is . . . ,” Marcus began.

“You trust her,” Janus said mildly.

“I don’t know,” Marcus said. “She’s Concordat. But she doesn’t seem . . .” He trailed off, not sure how to put it.

“It is inevitable that, even among Duke Orlanko’s minions, there are good men and women loyal to the king. Since your acquaintance with the young lady is somewhat deeper than mine”—a flash of humor in Janus’ eye made Marcus certain he knew exactly how deep that “acquaintance” went—“I am willing to trust your judgment. However, you have mistaken my purpose. My intention was not to keep secrets from Miss Alhundt, but rather to address a matter that concerns only you and me.”

Marcus straightened, taken aback. “Sir?”

“To be blunt, Captain, I wish to apologize. I allowed an unfortunate personal habit to get the better of me, and the result was a danger to this entire command as well as an insult to you personally.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

Janus sighed. “It is a failing of mine that when I encounter an intellectual problem of any complexity, I have difficulty in preventing myself from throwing every ounce of my creative energy into its solution, leaving little or nothing over for other pursuits. This has been the case for the last several days, in spite of my best intentions, and the result has been the situation in which we find ourselves.”

“I’m not sure there’s anything you could have done, sir,” Marcus said.

“Nonsense. I should have foreseen Captain Roston’s behavior, both during the battle and afterward. And snapping at you on the ridge was inexcusable. If I had left proper instructions, or better yet exercised command in person, you would not have been put in the impossible situation of a choice between rescuing a friend and defending the camp.”

Marcus stared at the colonel, searching his impassive face for something to help him respond. He’d almost entirely forgotten his anger at Janus, consumed as he’d been by a much more immediate rage at Adrecht, Davis, and his own stupidity. The colonel’s casual rebuke on the hillside seemed a thousand years ago. And yet Janus obviously felt keenly about it, on some level, which made Marcus hesitate from casually dismissing the matter. He finally settled on defensive formality.

“I accept your apology, sir,” he said. “Although, of course, you were perfectly within your rights as commanding officer.”

Janus nodded. “Nevertheless, I have expressed the wish that you and I have a relationship that is more than simply commander and subordinate, and it is incumbent on me to behave accordingly.”

“Well. Thank you, then.” Marcus scratched his chin through his beard uncertainly. “What was the problem?”

“The nature of the Desoltai tactical advantage, of course. It has become clear to me, over the course of the march, that our enemies enjoy a considerable edge in terms of information, above and beyond what their natural mobility as a mounted force should provide. Coordinating simultaneous attacks over long distances is a feat beyond the ability of most organized armies with modern timekeeping devices, much less desert raiders reckoning from the sun.”

“The Steel Ghost is famous for it,” Marcus said, glad for the change of subject. “There’s all kinds of stories about him.” He broke off, then lowered his voice. “Is it true, do you think? Could he be something . . . supernatural, like the creature we fought in Ashe-Katarion?”

A smile flicked across Janus’ face. “Anything is possible, Captain. But in this case I think not. Certainly the coordination of Desoltai attacks is susceptible to a more mundane explanation.”

“What is it, then?”

“I’ll go through it in a moment.” Janus turned away at the rustle of canvas. Lieutenant Ihernglass emerged from the tent, leaning heavily on the large form of Corporal Folsom, with a few rankers following hesitantly behind. They stopped short at the sight of the colonel.

“No need to salute a fellow captive,” Janus said, as Folsom searched for some way to prop up Ihernglass so he could come to attention. “Lieutenant, I wonder if I might ask you one question before letting you go to a well-deserved rest.”

“Yessir,” Ihernglass managed, through puffy lips.

“You told me that you returned to camp after a skirmish with a small group of Desoltai. Among them, was there one bearing an unusually large pack?”

The lieutenant nodded.

“Excellent. If you could indicate where the encounter occurred, Captain d’Ivoire will detail some men to retrieve it.”

“Don’t need to,” Ihernglass said. “I brought it back with me. We thought there might be food inside, but it was just some . . .” He waved his free hand. “A lantern, or something.”

“Indeed.” Janus’ smile came and went in an instant. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a look.”

•   •   •

The sun was well up by the time they returned to the tents and retrieved the mysterious box, and the encampment was buzzing like an overturned hive. No one knew what was happening, but there was a gradual current of men toward the clear space between the camps of the four battalions, where something interesting was evidently going on. While Janus fiddled with his acquisition, Marcus scraped up two dozen men from the Old Colonials of the First Battalion, made sure they were armed, and brought them back to the colonel to serve as an escort. Whatever Adrecht tried, Marcus didn’t intend to be taken so easily again.

That done, their little party headed toward the focus of all the attention. A wide ring of soldiers, craning their necks and standing on their toes to try to get a glimpse, surrounded a small cleared space. Marcus’ men had to push their way through at first. Once the men caught sight of Marcus and the colonel, however, the path opened of its own accord, and the beehive roar of thousands of men whispering spread through the crowd like flames leaping across dry tinder.

At the center of the mob were two rings of soldiers, both wearing First Battalion markings. One group, huddled into a tight mass, belonged to Lieutenant Ihernglass’ Seventh Company. Around them, muskets at the ready with fixed bayonets, was a circle of men from Davis’ Second.

Outside the circle, another kind of standoff was in progress. Adrecht, backed up by a dozen Fourth Battalion soldiers, stood across from Fitz and a pair of corporals from the Seventh Company. Hovering to one side were Mor and Val, the former looking ready to explode and the latter huddled miserably with his arms crossed over his chest.

Everyone looked up as Marcus and Janus passed through the crowd of soldiers. Marcus kept his eyes on Adrecht. A spasm of doubt and fear crossed his face, but he mastered himself almost immediately. Val’s eyes lit up at the sight of them, and Marcus caught a knowing glance from Fitz. The lieutenant’s face was nearly as badly bruised as Ihernglass’ had been.

Janus stepped forward to face Adrecht and waited. Little by little, the susurrus of whispers and conversation died away, as every man in the vast crowd strained to hear. The Fourth Battalion men behind Adrecht shuffled uncertainly, but Adrecht himself stepped forward, came to attention, and saluted stiffly.

“Captain Roston,” Janus said.

“Colonel Vhalnich,” Adrecht said. “I did not expect to see you here.”

“No, I imagine not.” Janus looked around. “I must ask these men to stand down at once.”

Adrecht glanced over his shoulder. “Lieutenant Gibbons?”

One of the Fourth Battalion men saluted. “Sir!”

“Please place Colonel Vhalnich under arrest.”

Gibbons swallowed hard. “Yessir!”

Marcus stepped beside Janus, his own men coming up to stand beside him. Adrecht’s men spread out to face them, hands on their weapons. Marcus’ hands were clenched so tight that his nails dug painfully into his palms.

If it comes to a fight, this is going to be a riot.
Adrecht’s people looked nervous, as did the Second Company men.
If any one of them fires a shot . . .