The Thousand Names (9 page)

For the first time in weeks she allowed herself to contemplate the future with something other than a sense of dread. The fleet had been dispatched weeks ago, in response to reports of rebel strength that were themselves weeks out of date. Even rankers like Buck and Peg could see that it was fruitless to remain here now that the Redeemers had taken the capital. “Fort” Valor was a joke, a death trap. It might be a few days until the new colonel resigned himself to the situation, but soon enough they’d all be packed aboard ship and set a course for home.

The voyage itself loomed large in Winter’s apprehensions, but that was only a discomfort to be endured, like so many others. And then . . .

The Colonials will get some awful posting.
They were more or less a penal regiment, after all.
Far away from the city, maybe up north, keeping the king’s sheep safe from Murnskai raiders.
Either way, they would be a long way from Mrs. Wilmore’s, and anyone who might connect a boyish sergeant with the ragged girl who’d made her escape from that institution.

Winter closed her eyes.
Honestly, I’m sure they’ve forgotten all about me.

•   •   •

“Sergeant?”

Winter surfaced from a dream of cavernous, echoing halls and a pair of haunting green eyes. For one confused moment, she was convinced she was back at Mrs. Wilmore’s Prison for Young Ladies, and that Khandar and everything that had come after that was the dream.

“Sergeant? Sergeant Ihernglass?”

Winter opened her eyes.

Bobby stood by the open tent flap, looking embarrassed. Beyond him was the gray darkness of early evening, broken by the flickering, reflected light of campfires. Winter slowly sat up, feeling her cheeks redden. She coughed.

“Y-yes? What is it, Corporal?”

“Sorry, sir,” Bobby said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s all right.” Winter yawned. “It’s been a long day, that’s all.”

“Yes, sir. For all of us, sir.” The boy hesitated. “Dinner’s on outside, sir. Would you care to join us?”

Winter felt a sudden complaint from her stomach—she hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. But she shook her head.

“I’m not sure that would be . . . appropriate.”

“Then I’ll bring you something, sir, as soon as it’s ready,” Bobby said.

“Thank you, Corporal,” Winter said, with real gratitude. “In the meantime I suppose I’d better get back to this paperwork.”

The corporal saluted and left, letting the tent flap fall closed behind him. Winter rubbed her cheeks, trying to massage some life into them, and then her temples, to discourage the headache she still felt looming.

From outside, there came the low buzz of voices in conversation, punctuated by the sound of laughter. She wondered, idly, how much of it was at her expense. Nothing new there, of course.

She pulled herself over to the desk and tried to focus on the accounts ledger, but the figures swam across her vision. Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms, she caught a sudden flash of green.
A pair of green eyes, and a half smile.

Her fingers curled through her hair.
Why now, Jane?
Three years . . .
Fingernails tightened on her scalp, to the point of pain, hands tightening to claws.
What more do you want from me?

With some difficulty, Winter forced her hands into her lap and sat back. Her heart thumped a fast tattoo, matched by answering pulses in her temples.

Red hair, dark and slick as oil, slipping through my fingers . . .

Can you be haunted by someone who isn’t dead?

There was a rap at the tent pole. Winter opened her eyes and took a long, shaky breath.

“It’s me, sir. Bobby.”

“Come in.”

The corporal entered cautiously, obviously determined not to embarrass his sergeant again. He carried a platter with a steaming tin bowl, which filled the tent with the smell of spiced mutton, and a couple of hardtack crackers. Winter took it from him, set it on the desk on top of the accounts, and attacked it with genuine enthusiasm. The retreat had wreaked havoc with the army’s supply trains, and the quality of food had seriously declined since their Ashe-Katarion days. The new officers had obviously put things back in order. The mutton was in a sort of soup, not quite a proper stew, and the hardtack absorbed the juices and softened to something approaching an edible consistency.

It wasn’t until she was mostly finished that she noticed the folded slip of paper on the platter beside the food. Catching her expression, Bobby gave a polite cough.

“It’s a message for you, sir. We had a courier just now from the lieutenant.” He paused, torn between curiosity and propriety. He obviously hadn’t risked a peek.

Winter nodded and picked up the paper, breaking the blobby wax seal. The contents were short and to the point, although the scribbled signature was illegible. Winter read the note again, just in case she’d gotten something badly wrong.

“Sir?” Bobby prompted, watching her face.

Winter cleared her throat. “We’re ordered to strike tents at first light tomorrow, and be ready to march by ten o’clock. Can you inform the men?”

“Yessir!” Bobby said, saluting. He turned, obviously pleased with this responsibility, and left the tent.

Ready to march?
Winter gratefully let this new worry banish both the account book and her memories.
Where? Down to the fleet?
That was possible, of course, although she’d have thought the ships would need longer to replenish their supplies.
But if not there, then where?
Against the Redeemers?
She allowed herself a smile. She couldn’t believe even a colonel would be mad enough to try
that
.

MARCUS

Marcus awoke to the groans and curses of the First Battalion soldiers as their lieutenants rousted them from their tents. He dressed hurriedly, had a brief conference with Fitz, then went in search of Janus.

He found the colonel waiting by the gate, watching the men break camp. Aside from his horse, which stood quietly with all the well-bred dignity befitting Vordan’s finest, he was alone. All around the courtyard, tents were coming down and stacked arms were being reclaimed by their owners. The First Battalion, entitled to the place of honor at the head of the march, was already starting to form up.

The regiment, Marcus thought, resembled a snake. At rest it was coiled tightly around itself, forming a more-or-less orderly camp with lines of tents, horses, and artillery parks. The work of picking up all the accoutrements would go on for some time, even as the head of the column started out. Each battalion had its assigned tasks in making or breaking camp, depending on its place in the order. The First would march out, dragging the Second after it, and so on, until the snake was fully extended and crawling down the road.

It was the tail that worried him. The Preacher’s guns could keep up, more or less, but on the retreat the ox-drawn supply carts had ended up strung out over miles of rough track, straggling in well after dark. Now, Marcus looked at the route ahead and imagined every rock hiding a Desoltai scout, and every defile a gang of Redeemer fanatics.

The sound of hooves from behind him took a moment to penetrate his gloom. Janus glanced back and said, “Ah. I believe this is our chief of cavalry. Captain, would you be so kind as to provide an introduction?”

“Of course, sir.” Marcus waited while the horseman dismounted, spurs jingling. “Colonel, may I present Captain Henry Stokes? Captain, this is Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran.”

“Sir!” The captain saluted, with his usual ferocity. Henry—that was what Marcus called him to his face, although he was more commonly known to officers and men alike by the nickname “Give-Em-Hell”—was a short, bandy-legged man with a pigeon chest and a peacock’s disposition. His weapons were always brightly polished, and Marcus didn’t doubt that he’d given them an extra rubdown today. He wore an expression of fierce concentration.

A major contributor to Henry’s inferiority complex, in addition to his height, was that the Colonials hardly
had
any cavalry. Members of that branch of the service were generally wealthier and better connected than those in the infantry, and thus less prone to—or at least more able to get out of—the kind of official disapproval that got a man sent to Khandar. To add insult to injury, the great Vordanai stallions and geldings so beloved of the horsemen fared poorly in the arid climate, so by now most of the captain’s hundred or so troopers were mounted on smaller, sturdier Khandarai breeds.

“Captain,” Janus said. “I regret that we have not had the chance to meet before now. Matters have, unfortunately, been busy.”

“Sir!” Henry was practically vibrating with excitement. “Think nothing of it, sir! Just glad to be on the march again, sir!”

“Indeed. I’m afraid there is a great deal of hard work ahead for you and your men.”

“Sir!” The cavalryman’s chest was so puffed up he looked in danger of leaving the ground. “Just point the way, sir, and we’ll give ’em hell!”

Janus coughed. “I’m sure you will. At the moment, however, I require them to serve in a more reconnaissance-oriented capacity.”

Henry deflated a little. “Yessir.”

“You’re to range ahead of the advance, make sure the road is clear, and report on any potential opposition.” Janus had obviously picked up on some of the captain’s attitude, because he added, “That’s
report
, not engage. And make sure your men travel in groups. I understand the Desoltai delight in ambushes.”

Henry looked sour. That was light cavalry work, and Marcus knew his heart was in the cut-and-slash of the cuirassiers. He saluted anyway.

“If anyone’s out there, sir, we’ll find them.”

“Excellent. Once you’ve gone fifteen miles, or thereabouts, detail some men to start laying out a campsite.”

“Yessir!” Henry turned and remounted. Janus watched him ride away.

“He seems a most . . . enthusiastic officer,” the colonel said, once the captain was out of earshot.

“Yes, sir,” Marcus said. “Very keen.”

“I must say, a little more cavalry would be a comfort.” Janus sighed. “Ah, well. We must work with what we’re given.”

“Yes, sir.”

Janus shot him a penetrating glance. “You seem dissatisfied, Captain.”

“No, sir,” Marcus said stiffly. “Just a little bit anxious, sir. That matter we discussed last night.”

“Ah.” Janus shrugged. “If it helps relieve your mind, we’re hardly likely to run into any opposition this far out. Any raid they could mount would have only nuisance value.”

Marcus nodded. In the courtyard, the march had begun, and the snake was uncoiling and on the move. Standing beside the colonel, Marcus was forced to see his men through an outsider’s eyes, and the perspective made him wince.

It was easy to see, even at a distance, the distinction between the recruits the Colonel had brought with him and what everyone already called the “Old Colonials.” Rather than break up existing companies, Janus had simply installed the new men as additional units onto the regiment’s four battalions. The old companies, being lower-numbered, led the way on the march, which meant that the long blue snake appeared to be suffering from some sort of skin disease that started from the head. The Old Colonials had done their best, digging long-forgotten blue jackets out of trunks or wheedling them from the quartermasters, but their shirts and trousers didn’t match, and everything was ragged and worn. Here and there a flash of color marked a man who’d refused to give up some treasured bit of silk.

The recruits, by contrast, were an unrelieved mass of blue, broken by the sparkling steel and brass of polished weapons. They marched in the vertebrae-shattering, knee-smashing style dictated by the
Manual of Arms
, rather than the world-weary slouch of veteran soldiers. Even their packs were all identical, tied up with the bedroll behind the neck, just so. The Old Colonials looked more like a pack of beggars, with clothes tied around their heads to keep off the sun and extra waterskins dangling from their belts.

Before too long, the tramp of thousands of pairs of boots raised such a cloud of dust that the men were nearly obscured. Marcus derived a slight satisfaction from the knowledge that all those bright blue uniforms and all that flashing steel wouldn’t be quite so pristine by day’s end. The leaders of the march—Marcus’ own First Battalion—had already passed through the gate and up the road, and the companies of the Second were forming up. The sound of drums came through faintly, under the rumble of thousands of footsteps.

“Musicians,” Janus said, apropos of nothing in particular.

“Sir?”

“I knew I had forgotten something. One always does, when leaving on a long journey.” He smiled at Marcus. “The Colonials lack a regimental band, do they not?”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, we don’t have one. I suppose it’s hard to earn yourself a tour in Khandar as a musician. We make do with the battalion drummers.”

“Music can have a fine effect on troops on the march. De Troyes wrote that, in his experiments, merely including bands reduced straggling by up to thirty percent, and that he was able to extend the daily distance by almost a mile.” He trailed off, looking thoughtful. Marcus cleared his throat.