The Thousand Names (8 page)

He’d been on his tour as a lieutenant, supervising a supply company well short of any action. He’d been close enough to catch the distant flash and grumble of the guns, though, and to be caught up in the panicked rout that followed.

Janus nodded. “After the treaty was signed, the peace party found its rule nearly uncontested. The death of Prince Dominic had robbed the war party of its leader, and the king was too debilitated by grief and illness to interfere. Orlanko forged closer ties than ever to the Borelgai and the Church. As the king’s sicknesses have become more frequent, Orlanko’s power has increased. If His Majesty were to die—Lord forbid, of course—Princess Raesinia might take the throne, but Orlanko would rule, to the extent that he does not already.”

“All right,” Marcus said uncertainly. “What does that have to do with Khandar? I would have thought we’d be the last thing on his mind.”

“Indeed. When the Minister of War suggested a Khandarai expedition, everyone expected Orlanko to oppose it. Instead, he not only threw his own weight behind it, but demanded that one of his people be sent along as an official observer.”

“Why?”

Janus smiled. “I have spent most of the past few months trying to figure that out. One possibility is that he guessed that I would be chosen for the command. The Duke and I are . . . not on good terms. He may think that we are doomed to either bloody failure or ignominious retreat, and in either case he could use the fallout to destroy me.”

Marcus, somewhat alarmed by the casual reference to “bloody failure,” kept his expression carefully neutral. “But you don’t think that’s it.”

“I don’t. It’s too roundabout, even for a compulsive schemer like Orlanko. No doubt my downfall would be gratifying, but there’s something here that he wants.” Janus pursed his lips. “Or something that
someone
wants. It may be that Orlanko is merely an errand boy for his friends in the Sworn Church. There have been a great many clerical comings and goings from the Ministry of Information lately.”

“What would the Sworn Church want from Khandar?”

“Who knows?” Janus shrugged, but his eyes were hooded. “It could be anything. They still believe in demons up in Elysium.”

“It doesn’t seem very clever of Orlanko to put his agent out where everyone can see her,” Marcus said. “I can have a couple of men tail her, if you like.”

“Thank you, Captain, but don’t bother. As I said, I suspect she’s harmless in her person. The real agents are no doubt salted amongst our new recruits.”

Marcus hadn’t thought about that. All those new men, and how was he supposed to know which to trust? He felt a sudden, irrational stab of rage at Janus.
What the hell have you brought down on my regiment?

After a moment he said, “Why tell me all this, sir?”

“I take it you’re not accustomed to senior officers speaking plainly?” Janus chuckled. “No, don’t answer that. I’m trying to be honest with you, Captain, because I need your help. You know the country, you know the Khandarai, and most important, you know the Colonials. I’m not foolish enough to think I can do this without you and your fellow officers.”

Marcus’ back straightened involuntarily. “I will perform my duty to the best of my ability, sir. As will the others.”

“I need more than obedience. I need a partner, of sorts. With the Redeemers in front of us and Orlanko behind, I need someone I can trust.”

“What makes you think you can trust me?”

“I’ve read your file, Captain,” Janus said. “I know you better than you might think.”

There was a long pause.

“What is it that you intend to do?” Marcus asked eventually.

“Whether he intended it or not, Orlanko has backed me into a corner. My orders require me to suppress the rebellion, but no one at the Ministry of War understood how badly out of hand things had gotten here. The only way out is to fight the campaign and win, while keeping one eye on Miss Alhundt and whatever friends she may have brought with her.”

Marcus considered for a moment. “May I ask something, sir?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t fancy the idea of my men being used as pawns in this game between you and the Duke. I want . . .” Marcus hesitated. “I would like your word, as an officer, that you really think this can be done. I’m not interested in helping you die gloriously.”
Or doing so on your behalf.

He’d been worried that Janus would take offense, but the colonel gave another quick smile. “Of course, Captain. You can have my word as an officer, a count, or in whatever other capacity you’d like.”

“As an officer will be sufficient,” Marcus said, fighting a grin. “I never did place much trust in nobility.”

WINTER

W
inter returned from breakfast to find all of her worldly possessions smashed into the dirt.

Someone had taken down her tent, folding it neatly around the poles in accordance with regulations. Before they could do this, they’d had to dump everything out of it, and from the look of things there had been a fair bit of stomping back and forth to make sure her belongings were ground to bits against the parched earth of the courtyard.

Davis was nowhere in evidence, of course, but she could see Peg sitting in front of his own tent, a little way down the row, looking on with a sly smile. No doubt he was hoping to see her scrabbling in the wreckage to rescue what she could, and Winter decided abruptly that she wasn’t going to oblige him. Her worldly possessions didn’t amount to much, anyway. She’d had to leave almost everything behind in the retreat—her pillows, sheets, and other comforts, her private tent, the little hoard of Khandarai books she’d gathered while studying the language. The only things left were a few mementos and curios she’d picked up in Ashe-Katarion, and she wasn’t going to grub on her knees in front of Peg for those.

Instead she turned on her heel without a word and went in search of her new company. This was not an easy task, as the encampment had nearly tripled in size overnight. The new soldiers were marked out by the solid blue of their still-creased tents, but since they outnumbered the old Colonials three to one, that alone wasn’t a great deal of help. Winter ended up collaring a staff lieutenant and asking directions to the First Battalion, Seventh Company, which the harassed young man provided with bad grace.

Walking through the neat rows of tents, fresh from some Vordanai factory and laid out in perfect accord with the instructions in the
Regulations
, Winter couldn’t help feeling out of place. Despite the addition of a new jacket, her uniform was a long way from perfect, and she felt like the pips on her shoulder drew every eye. She returned the curious stares.

Children,
she thought.
This is an army of children.

The men she saw eating breakfast or chatting in little groups in front of their tents looked more like kids playing dress-up than like proper soldiers. Their uniforms were too neat, with every bit of seam and trim still in place. Most of the faces she saw were as little in need of a razor as her own.

The tents of the Seventh Company were marked by a stenciled sign tied to a post. Otherwise, there was nothing to distinguish them from the surrounding sea of humanity. Winter had never felt like she was part of an
army
until now—the Colonials had been more like a tribe, small enough that you had at least a nodding acquaintance with anyone you were likely to meet. Now she understood a little of what some of the older men talked about, having served with real armies on the continent. The sheer busyness of the camp felt oppressive.

She shook her head, wandering down the row of tents. A wave of whispers and stares preceded her. When it reached a small knot about midway down, a trio of soldiers broke away and hurried over, planting themselves stiffly at attention in her path. When she stopped, they gave a simultaneous salute, and she had to clench her fist to keep herself from automatically saluting back.

Instead, she nodded, noting the single copper pip on each shoulder. That made these three corporals, half of the six that were standard complement for an army company. For a long moment, they stood in silence, before it dawned on Winter that it was up to her to make the next move. She cleared her throat.

“Ah . . . thank you, Corporal. Corporals.”

“Sir!” said the young man in the middle. He was short, no taller than Winter, and with lank brown hair and the pasty skin of someone who’d spent too much time indoors. Despite his rigid bearing, he looked as though he was about sixteen.

“I’m Winter Ihernglass.” There was a formula for this, somewhere, but she’d be damned if she could remember what it was, so she went on as best she could. “Senior Sergeant Winter Ihernglass. I’ve been assigned to this company. I think.” She looked around, suddenly nervous. “This is First Battalion Seventh Company, isn’t it?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” the corporal barked. “Welcome, sir!”

“And you are . . . ?”

The young man was practically vibrating with pride. “Senior Corporal Robert Forester, sir! And this is Corporal James Folsom, and Corporal Drake Graff. Welcome to the Seventh Company, sir!”

“You said that already,” Winter said. “But thank you.”

The corporal seemed to deflate a little. “Yes, sir.” Then he brightened. “Would you like to proceed to your tent, sir, or do you want to review the men immediately?”

“Reviewing is the lieutenant’s job, I think,” Winter said. “We have got a lieutenant, haven’t we?”

“Yes, sir! Lieutenant Anton d’Vries, sir! I understand he’s still with the other officers, sir!”

“Well, he can handle the reviewing.” She eyed the other two corporals, who seemed a little embarrassed by their comrade’s enthusiasm. “Just show me to the tent, if you would.”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

The corporal about-faced, so stiff it made Winter’s joints ache just to watch, and started down the row of tents. Winter and the other two followed.

“Corporal Forester?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You may relax a little, if it would make you more comfortable.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” The boy shot her a grin over his shoulder. “In that case, sir, please feel free to call me Bobby. Everyone else does.”

They arrived at a tent, identical to all the rest in its factory-fresh neatness, whose flap was pinned back to reveal the interior. There was only one bedroll, Winter was glad to see, along with a knee-high portable writing desk and a regulation knapsack. In the Ashe-Katarion days, Winter had gotten out of sharing a tent by buying an extra with her own money. Since the retreat, she’d been sleeping beside two soldiers of Davis’ company, which clearly made them as unhappy as it made her uncomfortable. She’d been dreading a similar arrangement in her new unit, but apparently a sergeant rated a tent to himself.
Maybe
there’s something to being promoted after all.

Winter went inside with the others. She and Bobby barely had to bow their heads, but Corporal Folsom, a tall, broad-shouldered man with blond hair and a drooping mustache, had to bend practically double, and once inside he squatted on his haunches to avoid brushing the ceiling. Winter sat down on the bedroll and let out a long breath. There was another awkward silence.

“Would the sergeant like me to send someone to fetch his baggage?” Bobby suggested.

“Ah, no,” Winter said. “I haven’t got any, actually. Had to leave everything else behind in the retreat. In fact, I’d be grateful if you could have someone run down to army stores. I’m going to need more shirts, trousers”—she looked down at herself—“practically everything, really.”

Bobby straightened to attention even further, if that was possible. “Sir, yes, sir! I’ll attend to it at once!”

“And a sewing kit,” Winter added. She’d grown practiced at making certain surreptitious alterations to her shirts to help conceal the shape underneath, although in that respect it helped that she didn’t have
that
much to conceal.

Bobby saluted, drillbook-perfect, and hurried out of the tent as though his life depended on it. Winter looked from one corporal to the other in the embarrassed silence that followed.

“Corporal . . . Graff, was it?” she said.

“Yessir,” Graff said. “I have to apologize for Bobby, sir. He’s a good lad, but . . . keen, you know? I imagine he’ll grow out of it.”

“I imagine so,” Winter said. “Are you three the only corporals in the company?”

“Yessir. Should be three more, but we didn’t have any others who’d admit to meeting the requirements.”

“Requirements?”

“Reading and writing, sir. And there’s a test on regulations. Bobby volunteered, I was a corp’ral already, and we talked Jim here into it.” He shrugged. “Now that we’re in the field, maybe the lieutenant will tap some more men for the job.”

Winter nodded. “What’s the lieutenant like?”

“Couldn’t say, sir,” Graff said. “Haven’t met the man.”

“But—”

“He only joined the comp’ny just before we set sail,” the corporal explained. “Officers were on a separate ship, of course. And he hasn’t stopped by yet.”

“I see,” Winter said. “And how many men have we got?”

Graff looked suddenly worried. “A hundred and twenty, sir,” he said slowly, as though explaining to an idiot. “That’s a company’s worth.”

Winter thought about telling him that none of the old companies in the Colonials had more than eighty, and some many fewer, but decided against it. Instead she turned to the third corporal, who hadn’t yet spoken.

“You’re Corporal Folsom, then?”

The big man nodded.

“Have you been with the army long?”

He shook his head. Winter, in the face of such implacable silence, looked to Graff for support. He shrugged.

“Jim doesn’t talk much,” he said.

“I can see that.”

Bobby returned, ducking through the open flap with a leather portfolio under one arm. He straightened up and saluted, again, then presented the portfolio to Winter with the air of someone offering a sacrament. Winter regarded him blankly.

“Reports, sir,” the corporal said. “Daily sick lists, equipment, and infractions. I’ve been keeping them since we left the depot.”

“Ah.” Winter tried to smile as she took the portfolio. “I’ll be sure to look through them carefully.”

“Yes, sir! And once you’ve signed your approval, I’ll forward them to the lieutenant, sir!”

“I’ve got to sign them all? Why?”

“Daily reports are only provisional until approved by a senior sergeant, sir. There’s also the company accounts in there, sir. They’ve got to be tallied and brought up to date with the reports.”

“You can’t do that, either?”

Bobby looked shocked. “Corporals are not permitted to view the company accounts, sir!”

Winter regarded the folder in her hand as though it were some new and particularly poisonous species of scorpion. The Colonials, as far as she knew, had managed without the formality of paper accounts. Admittedly, they’d managed rather
badly
, all things considered, with equipment constantly in short supply and pay so far in arrears that the men joked that if they’d been allowed to collect interest they’d own the kingdom by now. Apparently things were to be different from now on. She allowed herself a moment of pleasure at the thought of Davis, a pencil between his fat fingers, trying to puzzle his way through a book of accounts.

“All right,” Winter said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you, sir! And I’ve forwarded your request to the quartermasters, sir!”

“Right.”

The three men looked at her. Winter stared back. After a moment Graff cleared his throat.

“Is there anything else you need from us at this time, sir?”

“What?” Winter shook her head. “Ah. No. No, that will be all, Corporal. Corporals. Thank you.” She felt, vaguely, that something more was expected of her. “I look forward to working with all of you.”

Bobby saluted again, his whole body vibrating with attentiveness. Graff gave a nod, and Folsom said nothing.

13th of May, 1208 YHG. One hundred thirteen present, six sick, one suspended. Ranker Gabriel Sims assessed 1b 6p for loss of cap (blown overboard). Ranker Arcturo d’Venn judged in violation of Regulations Ch. 6 Part III Para 2b, Behavior Likely to Incite Disorder. Sentence: Confinement, 2 days. Ranker Falrad Inker judged in violation of Regulations Ch. 6 Part II Para 3a, Excessive Drunkenness. Sentence: Hard Labor in service of Captain Belson, 1 day.

14th of May, 1208 YHG. On hundred fourteen present, four sick, two suspended. Ranker George Tanner assessed 4p for damage to civilian property (ship’s rope). Ranker—

Winter closed her eyes and massaged her temples, which had started to throb alarmingly. Bobby’s handwriting was not helping—it had the careful precision of someone who’d practiced under a tutor’s switch, but he wrote so small the words all ran together. No doubt the corporal had been motivated by a sincere desire not to consume too much of the king’s paper.

She leaned back from the miniature desk, hearing something pop in her back, and looked at the discouragingly large stack that remained. Fatigue settled on her like a heavy blanket, payment for the keyed-up nervousness she’d been feeling ever since her interview with the captain. She crawled over to the bedroll and flopped onto it facedown.

This could almost work.
She shied away from the thought, as though even to contemplate it invited disaster.
I could live with this.

So far, her secret seemed safe. And being a sergeant had definite advantages: the privacy of her own tent, and a certain automatic distance from the rankers. If a stack of account books was the worst she had to deal with, then it was undeniable that Captain d’Ivoire had done her a favor.

The remaining unknown was the company lieutenant—she’d already forgotten the man’s name—and what his attitude might be. Even there, though, signs were encouraging. The less time he spent with the men, the better, as far as Winter was concerned.