The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  “No,” Winter said hastily. “Nothing like that. I swear.”

  “Then why?” The purple eyes were mistrustful.

  Winter felt like she couldn’t muster a sufficient explanation in her native language, let alone pick her way through it in Khandarai. She changed the subject.

  “My name is Winter,” she said. “Winter-dan-Ihernglass, you would say.” She mustered the politest language she had. “May I know yours?”

  “Feor,” the girl said. Catching Winter’s expression—Khandarai invariably went by both given and family names—she added, “Just Feor. I am a mistress of the gods. We give up our other names.” She looked warily around the tent. “May I have some water?”

  Winter handed the canteen across wordlessly, and Feor took it in her good hand and drank deeply, letting the last drops fall on her tongue. She licked her lips, catlike, and set it carefully aside.

  “I’ll get some more,” Winter said. “And some food. You must be hungry.”

  When she started to rise, the girl held up a hand. “Wait.”

  Obediently, Winter stopped and sat down again. Feor fixed her with that peculiar gaze.

  “I am your prisoner?”

  Winter shook her head. “Not a prisoner. Not really. We just wanted to help you.”

  “Then I can leave as I please?”

  “No!” Winter sighed. “If you go out into the camp, someone really will take you prisoner. Or just kill you, or—”

  Realization dawned on the girl’s face. “They don’t know. The others, they don’t know that you’ve brought me here.”

  “Only a few. People I trust.” And how had that come to be? Winter reflected. She’d known the three corporals for only a few days. Battle worked strange magic sometimes. “We’ll figure something out, I promise. But for now you have to stay here.”

  Feor nodded gravely. “As you say.” She put her head on one side. “When you . . . found me, was there a man nearby? A large man, with no hair.”

  Her face gave no indication of her feelings on the matter. Winter debated briefly.

  “Yes,” she said eventually. “He’s dead.”

  “Dead,” Feor repeated. “Dead. That is good.”

  Winter stared at her. A mistress of the gods, she’d said. A priestess. But a priestess of the old ways—the Redeemer priests were all men, and their faith preached that the leadership of the priestesses of the old temples had been the first step on the path to corruption. Winter had heard them shouting that message on street corners in Ashe-Katarion often enough, before the Redemption had grown into a revolution.

  So what was this girl doing in the middle of a Redeemer army? Winter shook her head.

  “I’ll get us something to eat,” she said. Feor gave another grave nod. There was something terribly solemn about her. Not that she has much reason to smile.

  Outside the tent, the camp looked little different from any of the others they’d pitched on the road from Fort Valor. The same rows of blue tents, the same stands of stacked muskets. Only wisps of dark smoke rising to the west gave any hint of what had happened the day before. That, and the fact that some of these tents are empty.

  The sun was already high overhead, and the men were up and about. Some tended their weapons, sharpening bayonets or cleaning the powder and grime from musket barrels, while others diced, played cards, or just sat in circles trading stories of the day before. When they caught sight of Winter, they straightened up and saluted. She waved them back to what they had been doing and went in search of Bobby.

  She didn’t have to look far. The young corporal arrived at a run, hurrying down the line of tents, and practically ran into her. Winter took a hurried step back as Bobby stopped, drew up, and gave a crisp salute. The boy’s uniform was clean, and his skin looked freshly scrubbed, though traces of black powder smoke still darkened his sandy hair.

  “Good morning, sir!”

  “Morning,” Winter said. She leaned close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you think you could find some food and water that I could bring back to my tent?”

  “Of course!” Bobby smiled. “Wait here, sir.”

  He dashed off, leaving Winter alone in the midst of her company. She became aware, bit by bit, that the men were watching her. She turned in a slow circle, as though inspecting them, but inside she was baffled. They seemed to want something from her, but Winter was damned if she knew what.

  “Er,” she said, and a dozen conversations suddenly died. More distant sounds cut through the sudden silence. Shouts, the whinny of horses, wagons creaking. An army camp was never truly quiet, but it seemed as though a great sucking void had sprung up, centered on her. Winter felt the muscles of her throat trying to close in panic. She coughed.

  “Hell of a job, yesterday,” she said. “All of you. Well done.”

  A shout rose from a dozen throats at once, any words lost in the roar. All the rest quickly joined in, and for a minute the cheering drowned out all other sound. Winter raised her hands, and it gradually died. Her cheeks were pink.

  “Thanks,” she said. The cheers immediately resumed. She was rescued by the appearance of Bobby, carrying a pair of canteens and a sack. The corporal was grinning broadly. Winter took him by the shoulder and marched him at an undignified pace back toward her tent.

  When the cheers had once again died away, Winter leaned close.

  “Did you put them up to that?”

  The boy shook his head. “No need, sir. They’re not stupid. They know what happened yesterday.”

  “And they’re cheering?” Winter didn’t feel much like cheering herself. A little under a third of the men under her command had not come back from their first assignment.

  “They’re alive, aren’t they?” Bobby flashed his grin at her. “If we’d followed d’Vries when he ran, we’d all be dead by now. You were the one who got them to make a stand.” He coughed delicately. “I think it helps that d’Vries got what was coming to him. Not that you heard me say so, sir.”

  Contempt dripped from Bobby’s voice at this last. It was true, Winter reflected. Soldiers had odd feelings toward their officers. A man could be a bully, like Davis, or a drunkard, like Captain Roston of the Fourth, or a tantrum-throwing martinet, and retain the affection of at least some of those who served under him. But the one thing that no soldier could abide was cowardice. Even Winter, who was an odd sort of soldier at best, found she felt only a cold disregard for the lieutenant who had fled at the first sight of the enemy.

  “I didn’t . . .” Her voice trailed off. “It was only what needed to be done. Anyone could have seen that.”

  “But you did.” Bobby shrugged, then lowered his voice. “How’s our patient?”

  “Awake and talking,” Winter said. “I’ve been trying to explain the situation to her.”

  “What exactly is the situation, sir?”

  Winter grimaced. “Damned if I know.”

  • • •

  Feor tore into the bread and cheese hungrily, only slightly impaired by having only one arm to work with. Bobby watched her intently, until Winter gave him a sidelong glance.

  “You’ve never seen a Khandarai up close, have you?”

  “No, sir. Except for yesterday, of course.” He hesitated. “Can she understand us?”

  “I don’t think so.” Winter switched to Khandarai. “Feor?”

  The girl looked up, mouth full of bread.

  “Do you speak Vordanai at all? Our language?”

  She shook her head, and went back to eating. Winter passed that along to Bobby.

  “You’re pretty good with their language,” the corporal said.

  “I’ve been here for two years,” Winter said.

  It wasn’t really an explanation—many of the Old Colonials had picked up no more of Khandarai than they needed to order in a tavern or a brothel, but Winter had tried hard to learn the language as she explored the city. Under the current circumstances, though, she thought that her—hobby, call it—might seem v
aguely disloyal.

  Feor finished the last of the bread, drank from the canteen, and gave a little sigh. Then, as though seeing Bobby for the first time, she sat up a little straighter and resumed her austere expression.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Winter translated, then said to Feor, “He doesn’t speak your language.”

  She nodded, eyes a little distant, as though pondering something.

  “Listen—,” Winter began, but the girl raised a hand.

  “Let me have a moment, if you would,” she said, and took a deep breath. “I am not a fool, Winter-dan-Ihernglass. Or at least I like to think not. I understand what you have done for me. I do not”—her mouth quirked—“I do not quite understand why, but my ignorance of your reasons does not diminish the fact that you saved my life, and apparently not to simply make me your slave or your whore.” She bowed, first to Winter and then to Bobby, so deep that her forehead nearly touched the ground. “I thank you, both of you.”

  Winter nodded awkwardly. “She’s grateful,” she said in response to Bobby’s questioning look.

  “And as you have given me this gift,” the girl went on, “I will not throw it away. Tell me what you need me to do, and I will do it. I trust that, if you meant me harm, you have already had ample opportunity to accomplish it.”

  Winter gave another nod. She felt a small knot of worry dissolve. If the girl had been stupid, or obstinate, the chances would have been high that she’d not only get herself discovered but that Winter and the others might be punished in the bargain.

  “I’m still figuring this out myself,” Winter said. “I hope that we can find somewhere safe and let you go, but it may take some time.”

  Feor inclined her head. “If that is the gods’ will.”

  “If you don’t mind, may I ask you a question?”

  The girl nodded.

  “What were you doing with that army?” Winter shifted awkwardly. “You do not seem like one of”—she fumbled for the Khandarai words—“the men of the Redemption.”

  Feor laughed. It was the first expression of humor that Winter had seen out of her, and it transformed the severe angles of her face. Her eyes sparkled.

  “No,” the girl said. “I am not. I was there as a prisoner of Yatchik-dan-Rahksa.”

  “The . . .” Winter’s lips moved silently. “The angel of vengeance?”

  “The—” She said another couple of words that Winter didn’t know. Seeing the incomprehension, Feor went on. “The high priests of the Redeemers take the names of angels. This one was the leader of the army of the Faithful.”

  “Why would he bring you along?”

  “Because he is ignorant. He thinks—thought—that I would have the power to counter the magic of your leader.”

  Now it was Winter’s turn to laugh. “Our colonel isn’t a wizard, at least not that I know of.” “Wizard” didn’t quite translate properly, but Feor seemed to catch the gist. She shook her head.

  “There is a man of power among your army. Malik-dan-Belial warned us, and this close even I can feel it. Yatchik’s ignorance was in thinking I would be able to defend him against such a man. What power I have is not of that sort.”

  “Power? As a mistress of the gods, you mean?” Winter shifted uneasily. The subject of religion made her uncomfortable.

  “No.” Feor’s face went distant again. When she spoke, it was slow and careful, as though speaking was difficult. “I am a naathem.”

  Winter paused. She’d encountered the word before, but a proper translation had always eluded her. The Khandarai seemed to use it to mean “wizard” or “sorcerer,” although not quite in the Vordanai sense and without the connotation of evil those words carried to Vordanai ears. Literally it meant “one who has read.” But even among Khandarai, naathem were the domain of myths or fairy tales. No one she’d ever spoken with had claimed to have met one, any more than a modern Vordanai would have personally seen a demon or a sorcerer.

  Bobby, in the silence that followed, looked curiously at Winter. “What did she say?”

  “She’s a priestess,” Winter said. “But not one of the Redeemers. They brought her along because they thought that she would defend them against our magic.”

  The boy laughed. “Our magic?”

  “The Redeemers take that sort of thing seriously.”

  “So she was a prisoner?” He looked curiously at Feor, who looked back with polite incomprehension.

  “I think so.” She switched back to Khandarai. “Feor, if you could get away from here, where would you go?”

  “Back to Mother,” she said, without hesitation. “In Ashe-Katarion. She will be looking for me.”

  Winter sat back. “She wants to go home,” she said to Bobby.

  “Don’t we all,” the boy said.

  Not all, Winter thought. Aloud, she said, “Hers is a good deal closer than ours. We may be able to manage something.”

  A knock at the tent pole interrupted them. “It’s Graff.”

  “Come in,” Winter said.

  Feor gave the older corporal a nod, and he dipped his head uncertainly in return. To Winter he said, “Is she making any sense?”

  “To me, anyway.” Winter turned to Feor. “This is Corporal Graff. He’s the one who set your arm.”

  The girl raised the bandaged limb. “Tell him he has done an excellent job.”

  When Winter repeated that, Graff laughed, and colored a little under his beard. “It wasn’t anything difficult, just a little break.” He smiled at Feor, then turned to Winter. “Got a message. The colonel wants to see you.”

  Winter’s good mood, always a little fragile, evaporated at once. “What? Why?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  “You don’t think—” Her eyes flicked to the Khandarai girl.

  “No, I doubt it. Anyway, he said ‘at your earliest convenience,’ which means ‘right goddamned now,’ so you’d better go.”

  “Right.” Winter scrambled to her feet, then looked down at herself. She felt as though she ought to change clothes, but there was no way to manage it with the three of them in the tent. She desperately wanted a bath as well, but that was out of the question. Hygiene was one of the hardest parts of maintaining her secret, at least since the regiment had left Ashe-Katarion. Fortunately, the prevailing standard was not high.

  “Keep an eye on her until I get back,” she said to Bobby. Then, to Feor, “I need to go. Stay here, and if you need anything, try to show Bobby.”

  The girl nodded, purple eyes imperturbable. Winter glanced at her one more time, then slipped outside.

  • • •

  “Senior Sergeant Winter Ihernglass, reporting as directed, sir!”

  She held the salute until the captain waved it away. The colonel’s tent was hardly bigger than her own, though much better organized. A few trunks packed against the canvas walls presumably contained his necessities. In the center was a low folding table and a portable writing desk with pens, ink, and drying sand in securely fashioned containers. The officers sat on cushions, Khandarai style, Captain d’Ivoire on her right and Lieutenant Warus on the left.

  At the head of the table sat the colonel. He was not what she had been expecting. Younger, for a start, and thin-featured and delicate instead of stocky and gruff, as so many of these senior officers seemed to be. His long fingers were constantly in motion, twining, untwining, steepling or tapping something. Deep gray eyes regarded her thoughtfully, as though weighing what they saw in the balance. She had the unpleasant feeling that she would be found wanting.

  “I apologize for my condition, sir,” she said. “After we returned to camp, I needed to rest, and I received your order shortly after waking.”

  The colonel smiled, and something in his eyes glittered. “Do not fret about it, Sergeant. Under the circumstances . . .”

  Captain d’Ivoire cleared his throat. “We’ve heard from some of the men of your company, but I just want to make sure we have things accurately. You were or
dered to scout the ridge parallel to our line of march?”

  She nodded, her chest tight.

  “The late Lieutenant d’Vries led the company down that ridge, across the valley, and up the next rise,” he said.

  “He was eager to make contact with the enemy, sir.”

  “Did you advise him to this course of action?”

  She straightened slightly. “No, sir. I advised against it.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “That we would be too far from the column to fall back should we encounter the enemy in strength, sir.”

  He nodded. “Then, at the top of the ridge, you saw the enemy cavalry approaching. The company”—the captain glanced at a paper on the table— “‘ran for it like a bunch of rabbits,’ as one of your men put it.”

  “They were startled, sir. The enemy were . . . numerous.”

  The colonel’s lip quirked slightly at the understatement, but he said nothing. Captain d’Ivoire went on.

  “What was Lieutenant d’Vries’ response at this juncture?”

  “He . . .” Winter paused. Criticizing one senior officer in front of another was simply Not Done. For one thing, officers tended to club together, so the most likely result would be some kind of subtle retribution. But he had asked. She sought for a positive interpretation of the facts. “The lieutenant started to ride at once for the main column. I imagine he was eager to alert you to the presence of the enemy.”

  Another slight smile from the colonel, and something like a smothered laugh from Fitz Warus. Captain d’Ivoire’s face remained composed.

  “At which point you took command of the company and ordered them to form square at the bottom of the valley.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Which they proceeded to do, in spite of the fact that company squares are not a formation in our drillbook.”

  “We had . . . a little practice, sir.”

  “And then you held off the attack of, what, three thousand enemy horsemen?” The captain looked at Fitz.