The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  “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.

  “Captain,” he said, looking up from a stack of loose pages. “Have a seat. I assume this is not a social call?”

  “No, sir.” Marcus debated remaining on his feet, but decided there was nothing to be gained from it. He took the cushion opposite Janus. “I wondered if I might have a word.”

  “Of course.” Janus slid the papers aside and steepled his fingers. “What’s on your mind?”

  Marcus glanced uncomfortably at Augustin, who had discreetly faded into the background. Janus looked up at the manservant.

  “Augustin, would you be so good as to make the captain a cup of tea?” he said.

  With another sour look at Marcus, Augustin bowed and ghosted out.

  “You really must learn to ignore him,” Janus said. “I assure you that his discretion is impeccable. But, if it makes you more comfortable . . .” He spread his hands.

  “Thank you, sir.” Marcus cleared his throat. “I—that is—I’m not sure how to begin.”

  “You have some advice for me,” Janus said.

  Marcus blinked. “How did you know that?”

  “You’d hardly dither so over a report or some minor matter, would you?” Janus gave a disarming smile, gray eyes shining in the lamplight. “I did ask for your assistance, Captain. So long as we’re in private, you may always consider yourself at liberty to speak your mind. I can’t promise I will always follow your counsel, but I’ll certainly listen.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He took a deep breath. “Then I respectfully suggest that the marches be shortened, and that we institute some sort of regimental drill.”

  There was a moment of silence. Janus, leaning back, cocked his head as though considering the matter from a new angle. Finally he said, “And why do you say that?”

  “Fifteen miles a day . . .” Marcus paused. “It’s not that the men aren’t capable, sir, but the wagons won’t make it. Our supplies—”

  Janus waved a hand. “There’ll be time for the supply train to catch up, never fear. It’s more important that the troops accustom themselves to hard marching. Soon enough we’ll have need of it.”

  Marcus sat back, feeling defeated. Janus, watching him, burst out laughing.

  “Sir?” Marcus said uncertainly.

  “I’m sorry,” the colonel said, still chuckling. “It’s my own fault, I think. I’m not yet used to what you might call the military cont
ext. Captain, if you disagree with me, I encourage you to say so. I’m not Karis speaking the Law.”

  “You’re a colonel,” Marcus pointed out. And a count besides. “It’s not my place—”

  “I intend to take advantage of your judgment and expertise. That means you must be more than a dumb recipient of my lordly wisdom. So long as the enemy are not actually before us, I expect you to correct me if I say anything foolish.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marcus said. He’d forgotten how useful that phrase was—it could mean anything you wanted it to mean.

  “So—you’re not really worried about the supply train, are you?”

  “Sir . . .” Marcus paused again, then gave an inward shrug. “There’s been talk. The men aren’t happy—well, that’s nothing new—but they don’t think we can win. They’re saying that you’re just out for glory, or that you’re mad, and if we come up against the Redeemers . . .” He shook his head. “I haven’t spent much time with the recruits, sir, but the Old Colonials feel . . . fragile. They’ll march, for now, but one hard rap and they’ll fly all to pieces.”

  Janus said nothing. His smile had gone, replaced by a thoughtful expression, but there was still a touch of humor at the corners of his eyes. Encouraged, Marcus went on.

  “Val—Captain Solwen, that is—came to me this afternoon. He said some of the new men never even made it to depot, and none of them had the full training course.”

  “That’s true,” Janus said. “The Ministry was unwilling to send an experienced regiment to Khandar, so it was decided to bring the Colonials up to strength by throwing together the scraps from the depots and the backcountry recruiters.”

  “Then I’m not sure hard marching is what they need. They might get where they need to be, but will they fight when you need them to?”

  “Just because they’re untrained doesn’t mean they’re cowards.” Janus frowned. “I was hoping the veterans would provide some unofficial instruction.”

  “From what I’ve seen, sir, the two groups don’t seem to mix much. And the recruits need to practice formations most of all. That’s not something you can do on your own time.”

  The colonel tapped one finger on the table. “Nevertheless,” he said, “time is of the essence. If we delay . . .” He appeared to be speaking half to himself, and didn’t wait for an answer. “I will think on it. Thank you, Captain.”

  “Sir—”

  “You’ve made your point.” Janus smiled again, but only briefly. “Now I need to consider.” The tent flap rustled, and the colonel looked up. “Ah, and here’s Augustin with your tea!”

  • • •

  Though he knew Give-Em-Hell’s men had swept the route of march, Marcus found his eyes drawn to every obstacle that might hide some kind of ambush. It made for uncomfortable riding, all the more so because Janus seemed oblivious to any sense of danger. With the sun barely past the overhead, the heat was at its worst, and Marcus had to keep wiping sweat from his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Meadow plodded placidly beneath him, unperturbed.

  Behind him, the regiment trudged onward, four thousand men in blue uniforms that by now had a healthy coating of the ubiquitous brown dust. To the left, the land fell away gradually to the sea, and on the right rose a line of dry, rocky hills. In between was a strip of ground bearing what the Khandarai laughably called a road, which amounted to a pair of wagon ruts and a path worn through the scattered scrub weeds. The only virtue the track had was that it kept the men from getting lost. Hundreds had dropped out, from heat or exhaustion, and would have to straggle in as best they could after the main body finally reached camp.

  And if there’s a Desoltai ambush over the next rise . . . The Redeemers were the principal enemy, but it was the desert nomads Marcus feared the most. The Desoltai had never been comfortable with Vordanai hegemony, and they’d thrown in with the rebels at the first opportunity. They lived out in the Great Desol, where the more cautious Khandarai feared to go, and practiced both horsemanship and marksmanship in endless raids against one another and the surrounding towns.

  And now they have a leader. The Steel Ghost, a subject of endless rumor, was supposed to have committed a dozen atrocities already, and to possess fell powers besides. But the man’s personal characteristics were less worrisome than the fact that the Desoltai were united, and committed to ridding their land of foreigners.

  It wouldn’t take much. A hundred horsemen would cut us to pieces. The infantry might be able to form square, eventually, but the wagons and guns would be so much meat for the butchers. And with Give-Em-Hell out scouting, we wouldn’t be able to chase them off.

  He looked at Janus, who rode with the unconcerned air of a man without a care in the world, moving with a natural grace in his saddle. Marcus scowled.

  The hell of it was, the colonel was probably right. He would get away with it today—the odds of the Desoltai being so far west were small. And he’d get away with it tomorrow, and the next day, until one day he didn’t. Then it would be too late. But try explaining that to him.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the drummers, three of whom walked beside the sweltering column. Each battalion had its own, stationed around the colors, and in theory signals could be relayed from one to the next, allowing orders to pass all the way down the extended line of march without the need for galloping messengers. This worked well enough on the drill field, Marcus knew, but in the field of battle only the simplest commands would get through. “March,” say, or “halt.”

  Or “form square.” Marcus stiffened as the idea struck him. Just for a moment, he allowed himself to think of the possible consequences. Janus would be furious, of course, and as a count he might have influence at court in addition to his pull in the Ministry. He could . . .

  . . . What? Ship me to Khandar? Marcus reined up, and Meadow came to a halt. After a few moments the drummers drew level.

  “Sir?” one of them said, a heavyset, red-bearded man named Polt. His cheeks were slick with a sheen of sweat, and he looked about ready to drop. “Is it time to call a rest?”

  Janus had proscribed rest and water breaks every two hours, but there was some time yet before the next. Marcus looked at Polt’s eager face and smiled.

  “We’re having a drill. Beat emergency square,” he said.

  “Sir, I— What?” He scanned the horizon frantically for signs of approaching enemies. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Do it now.”

  “But—” He caught Marcus’ expression and decided not to argue. Instead he turned on his heel and addressed the two drummer “boys.” In a normal regiment, these would be promising young sub-officers, but no one promising was sent to Khandar. These two looked like they were older than Marcus.

  “Emergency square!” Polt bellowed, veins standing out on his neck. “Now!”

  The three carried their drums strapped to their backs, where an ordinary soldier would have his pack. They scooted them round and let them fall flat, the straps holding them at waist level, and retrieved their heavy wooden sticks. Tentatively at first, but with increasing volume, they pounded out a basic rhythm. Boom, pause, boom, pause, boom boom boom—a simple signal for a vital command that might have to be executed on a moment’s notice, with no more warning than a sentry’s scream.

  At the sound of the drums, the men at the head of the column halted. Those behind took some time to react, so the whole column closed up a little, but the regiment was still dreadfully strung out. There were no neatly dressed ranks on the march. Men walked in little clusters, vaguely divided by company, with their sergeants and lieutenants more concerned with chivying slackers than keeping order. They were expecting the command to halt for rest, and some few even took the opportunity to sit down in the road.

  It was a few moments before the battalion drums picked up the signal, but once they did, it echoed up and down the whole column. The effect was everything that Marcus had hoped for—or, more precisely, dreaded. The Old Colonials knew what the signal meant, but had only
a foggy idea of what they were supposed to do; the recruits mostly didn’t understand, but they knew something was up by the panicky looks. Their officers, the lieutenants Janus had brought with him, were split about evenly between the two camps. Marcus heard a few shouts of “Square! Form square!” but for the most part these were submerged in the babble.

  The long march column contracted as the men instinctively bunched up, forming a blob around the battalion color bearers and the drums. From where he was sitting, Marcus had a good view of the First and Second Battalions, and he was pleased to see that the First, at least, was slowly coming into some kind of shape. That was Fitz at work—he had a brief glimpse of the lieutenant grabbing an officer several years his senior by the arm and shoving him in the right direction. The blob gradually opened out in the center and became a ring, whose sides straightened as sweating lieutenants and sergeants shouted their men into something like a line. Bayonets came out of their sheaths, and there was a chorus of swearing as the recruits tried to fit theirs with suddenly awkward fingers.

  The Manual of Arms said that a battalion in column of companies should be able to form square within two minutes of the order being given. A battalion on the march was allotted a bit more time, five minutes considered the standard. It was at least fifteen before the First Battalion emerged into something recognizable as a formation—a hollow rectangular block, each side three ranks deep, with fixed bayonets bristling like a hedge of steel points from every face.

  Nor was the First the worst offender. Val had screamed the Second into shape, and Marcus didn’t have a good view of the Third, but before long a stream of running, shouting men came up the road from the rear. Marcus thought they were from the supply train, fleeing a supposed enemy attack, until he saw the uniforms and the desperate, shouting officers and realized they were the men of the Fourth Battalion. Apparently all attempts to bring order there had failed, and the men had decided their only chance was to seek shelter in the steadier squares. A few shoving matches resulted, and Marcus winced, hoping that no bayonets would come into it. The last thing he needed was for his demonstration to cause actual casualties.