The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  “It’s Folsom, sir,” Graff said. “He and his pickets are gone.”

  “Gone? What pickets?”

  “While you were asleep, sir, Lieutenant Warus asked for a detail to keep watch on the captain’s tent. Folsom took a few of the men who needed rest, since everyone else was out working on salvage. He was supposed to be getting off duty around now, so I went to check on him, and he’s not there.”

  “The captain must have taken him somewhere.”

  “The thing is, sir,” Graff said, “there was a guard detail on the tent, just not Folsom’s.”

  “Then the captain dismissed him early. Have you looked around the camp?”

  “Yessir. No sign of him, sir.”

  “Odd.” Winter yawned. “I could ask the detail commander, I suppose. Did you know any of the new guards?”

  “Not by sight, sir. They said they were Second Company.”

  Winter froze. “Second Company?” That was Davis’ men. The captain would never use them to guard his tent.

  “Yessir,” Graff said. “As far as I know, the captain and the senior sergeant don’t get along. It seemed odd to me, too, sir.”

  “Maybe it’s punishment detail.” Winter got to her feet and started pulling her uniform coat on.

  “Are you going to talk to Sergeant Davis, sir?”

  “No point in that.” He’d only heap abuse on her. “I’ll go ask the captain if he’s sent Folsom somewhere.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Graff said.

  “No need. Stay here with Bobby. She’s had a hard day.” Winter paused, then looked over to the other corner. “Make sure Feor doesn’t go anywhere. I’ll be back soon.”

  • • •

  Captain d’Ivoire’s tent stood in a wide circle clear of other men and equipment, as though everyone was giving it a wide berth. Winter slowed as she approached, uncertain. Is the colonel in with him? She could see only one sentry, a shadowed figure waiting beside the tent flap.

  As she got closer, Winter recognized Buck, one of her least favorite among Davis’ creatures. She felt her hackles rise. His whole posture was wrong for guard duty. He didn’t look like a sentry in the middle of a friendly camp—that is, stiff in the presence of officers and otherwise slouched and bored—but rather kept looking around as though he actually expected something to happen. He looked nervous. There was a certain weasel-like quality to Buck in any case, but it was more pronounced than usual.

  She paused for a moment in the shadow of a pile of salvaged ration crates, waited until Buck was looking the other way, then sauntered up to the tent as confidently as she could manage. He didn’t turn back until she was only a few yards away, and his wild start was all the confirmation she needed that something was badly wrong. When he recognized her, he relaxed, and his pinched features melted into their habitual sneer.

  “Hello, Saint.”

  “Ranker,” Winter returned pointedly. “I need to see Captain d’Ivoire.”

  “Captain d’Ivoire is busy.”

  “This is urgent.”

  Buck’s brow furrowed. “What he’s busy with is urgent, too. Come back in the morning.”

  “If I could come back in the morning, it wouldn’t be urgent, would it?”

  That level of reasoning was beyond the ugly man’s capacities. He fell back on a reliable standby. “I’m telling you to fuck off. Nobody goes in. Captain’s orders.”

  “Buck!” a voice hissed from inside the tent.

  “Shut up!” Buck said over his shoulder.

  He turned back to admonish Winter again, but she was already walking away. She went as far as the crates, then ducked behind them, hoping that the darkness would have swallowed her. When she glanced out, she found that she needn’t have worried. Buck was deep in a whispered conversation with someone inside the tent. By his wild gestures, she could tell he wasn’t happy.

  Now what? Folsom and the others couldn’t have just disappeared. If the captain was unavailable, she could go to the colonel, but—

  A flare of light from the flap of the tent cut her thoughts short. Two more men emerged, silhouetted against the glow from a lamp. She recognized Lieutenant Warus, the captain’s adjutant, but half his face was covered by a massive, purpling bruise. He walked stiffly, hands behind his back, and when he stumbled briefly at the threshold Winter realized he was bound.

  The third man was Will, another from Davis’ company. He looked as nervous as Buck. After a moment’s quiet conversation, the three started moving, heading for the outer edge of the encampment. Behind them, the tent was dark and empty.

  By the fucking Beast. Any kind of ordinary explanation had just gone out the window. Winter flattened herself against the crates for a moment, in an agony of indecision, then abandoned the shadows and followed the trio.

  Davis’ two men walked ahead of and behind the lieutenant, as though escorting a prisoner. Winter kept far enough back that she could plausibly deny she’d been following them, but for all their nerves the pair made poor lookouts, and they never even glanced in her direction.

  At the edge of camp, Will stopped for a moment and lit a lamp, which he handed to Buck to lead the way. Winter hesitated as they left the last of the sleeping soldiers behind and headed out into the open Desol. It was foolhardy to go after them on her own, and she wished vainly that she’d taken Graff up on his offer to come with her. If she stopped now, though, she would lose them. She muttered a curse and followed.

  They walked for a long way, and without any challenge from the sentries. When they eventually came to a halt, well outside where the sentry line should have been, she waited a long moment before stalking closer.

  “. . . don’t like it,” Will was saying.

  “I don’t like the whole damned thing,” Buck said, and spat. “I don’t like being out in this goddamned desert, and I sure as hell don’t like the idea of drinking horse blood. And what I like least is having some fucking Desoltai son of a bitch cut my pecker off. The sooner we get away from here, the better. Getting to pop Smiley here is a side benefit.”

  “Someone might hear,” Will said.

  “Nobody out there,” Buck growled. “This is our section tonight, remember? And anyway, who gives a shit whether you like it or not. You do it, or else you explain yourself to the sarge.”

  “I know. I’m just saying I don’t like it, is all.”

  “Oh, by all the fucking saints. Give me the damned thing, then.” Winter heard the flat crack of flesh on flesh. “On your knees, sir.”

  By now she was only a few yards away. Buck had set the lantern on a flat rock, and the trio were backlit, throwing long, twisting shadows across the sands. Will stood a pace or two back, closer to Winter, while Buck forced the bound figure to its knees. He had a pistol in his left hand, while his right went for his belt knife.

  God above. They’re going to kill him. Winter bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood, and groped in the darkness until she found a stone a little larger than her fist. When Will turned his back on her, she charged.

  He was barely taller than she was, so she aimed high, bringing the stone against the side of his head in a powerful two-handed swing that met his skull with a sick-making crunch. He dropped like a discarded doll, without a sound, and Winter stepped across him toward Buck. He’d taken an automatic step backward in surprise, so her desperate blow whistled a foot from his face. Before she could recover her balance, he hastily shifted the pistol to his right hand and raised it to eye level, backing farther away.

  “What in all the hells—Saint? Is that you, you little bastard?”

  Winter considered throwing the stone at him, but she didn’t think she could do it before he pulled the trigger. She nodded slowly.

  “What did you go and do that for?” Buck frowned down at Will. “Will, you all right? Say something if you’re all right.” After a moment of silence, he cursed softly and glared at Winter. “You’ve killed him, you son of a bitch.”

  “Buck—”

  “I s
hould leave you for the sarge,” he said. “He’d know what to do with a traitorous little shit like you. But we ain’t got the time, not tonight. Give the good Lord my regards.”

  He pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped down, flint striking sparks, but they fizzled and died in the pan without triggering the shot. Buck lowered the weapon, staring at it, then looked up again in time to catch Winter coming in fast. His hand shot up above her head to block the path of the descending stone, but she let her momentum carry her forward and brought her knee up hard between his legs, then gave him a sharp elbow in the back of the head as he doubled over. He groaned and collapsed into the dirt, the pistol falling away.

  “Fuck the goddamned Savior with a red-hot poker,” Winter swore, fighting for breath. When she closed her eyes for a moment, she could still see the tiny glow of the pistol’s spark. Her breath came fast and ragged.

  Buck groaned again. She turned and kicked him hard in the side, then again, until he got the message and rolled over, eyes still squeezed tightly shut. Winter retrieved the long knife from his belt, then found the pistol where he’d dropped it. She examined the weapon cautiously. There was a cartridge in the barrel, but no powder in the pan; he’d forgotten to prime it.

  “You always were a lazy bastard, Buck,” she whispered. Setting the pistol aside again, she bent to free Lieutenant Warus.

  They’d blindfolded and gagged him, as well as binding his hands, which explained his silence during the fight. When she removed the dirty cloth from his eyes, he looked around curiously, then up at Winter.

  “Lieutenant . . . Ihernglass, isn’t it?”

  “Yessir,” Winter said, and nearly saluted before she remembered she didn’t have to. “Seventh Company.”

  “Far be it from me to question good fortune,” he said, “but what are you doing here?”

  “I followed these bast—these two from Captain d’Ivoire’s tent.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Looking for the captain. Or for you, I suppose. One of my corporals was detailed to watch the tent, but he seems to have gone missing.”

  “I see.” He looked up at her. “Then you have no knowledge of what’s going on?”

  She searched his expression. “What’s going on, sir?”

  “It’s mutiny,” Lieutenant Warus said. He touched the puffy side of his face and winced. “They’ve got the captain and the colonel, and probably your men as well.”

  “Mutiny?” She could believe a lot about Davis, but that? Not on his own hook. He’s not smart enough. “By whom?”

  “Captain Roston, at least. Some of the Fourth appears to be behind him, and apparently some of our men.” He looked down at the incapacitated pair. “Do you know these two?”

  She nodded. “Will and Buck. From Senior Sergeant Davis’ Second Company.”

  “Davis.” Fitz gave a little sigh of disappointment, as though he’d been told he’d be late for the opera. “I suppose I should have known.”

  “What should we do with them?”

  “‘We’?” He looked at her questioningly. “If I recall correctly, you served under Davis.”

  “Long enough to know that whatever side he’s on is the wrong one,” Winter muttered.

  “I see.” Fitz climbed to his feet, rubbing his hands to restore some feeling to them. He knelt to examine Will briefly. “This one is dead. I’d like to take the other with us, but I’m not sure the two of us are up to carrying him. Are there any of your men you trust?”

  Dead? Winter looked down at Will. He’d never been one of the worst of Davis’ lot. Not that he’d been kind to her, but he’d just gone through the motions of cruelty to fit in with the others. She hadn’t meant to kill him.

  “Lieutenant?”

  She shook herself and took a deep breath. “Yes. I have a few.”

  • • •

  Bobby was awake by the time she, Graff, and Fitz returned, carrying the semiconscious Buck between them. Graff told a couple of surprised rankers to sit on the man for a while, and then Winter led the lieutenant and her two corporals back to her own tent. She saw Fitz’s eyes flick to Feor, still curled up in her corner, either asleep or pretending to be, but he made no comment.

  “This is bad,” Graff muttered. “A bad business.”

  “I’m afraid that’s something of an understatement,” Fitz said. “We don’t know how much support Captain Roston has, but for the moment he seems to have the situation well in hand.”

  “What happened to Folsom and the others?” Bobby said.

  “In the best case, they’re captives,” Fitz said. “Shortly after the captain left to meet with Captain Roston, Second Company men arrived at the tent with loaded weapons. I believe they took your men into custody and led them away, then left a detail behind to collect Captain d’Ivoire when he returned. From what I overheard, they plan to hold him and the colonel captive while Captain Roston assumes command.”

  “They were going to kill you,” Winter pointed out.

  Fitz touched the massive bruise on his cheek again. “I’m not certain, but I believe that Senior Sergeant Davis bears me some personal ill will. He certainly seemed . . . vehement.”

  “But . . .” Graff spread his hands, frowning under his beard. “Why? What’s the point?”

  Fitz lowered his voice. “The colonel distributed new orders to the captains this afternoon. We continue the march east, into the Desol. My understanding is that Captain Roston objected, on the grounds that our supplies were insufficient.”

  Winter remembered the columns of black smoke rising from burning carts, and the daylong labor of the salvage teams. She hadn’t thought about their situation in those terms. “Are they? Sufficient, I mean.”

  “According to my estimates, we have roughly two days of water remaining, given fairly tight rationing. Food will last somewhat longer, assuming we harvest the corpses of the pack animals killed in the attack.”

  “Two days?” Graff blinked. “With two days left we won’t make it back to Nahiseh even if we start now!”

  “And the colonel wants to keep going?” Winter shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I admit that I do not understand his reasoning,” Fitz said. “However, it may be that the colonel possesses private information that makes the situation more clear to him.”

  “Goddamn,” Graff said, and whistled through his teeth.

  Winter nodded in silent agreement. She’d seen the wreckage and the slaughtered pack animals, but the smoke and confusion had made it hard to assess the extent of the damage. She’d been under the impression that the Desoltai attack had been largely unsuccessful, since most of the Colonials seemed to have fought their way out of the trap.

  “It’s still no excuse for mutiny,” she said, trying to sound more decisive than she felt. “If we lose our discipline now, the Desoltai will slaughter us.”

  “Of course not,” Graff said hastily. “I didn’t mean that it was. I just . . . didn’t realize how bad things were.”

  “The colonel must have a plan,” Bobby said.

  “How many people know about the mutiny?” Winter asked Fitz.

  “I’m not certain,” the lieutenant said. “It doesn’t seem to have become general knowledge in the camp. Davis’ men, obviously, and I suspect those of the Fourth Battalion Captain Roston considers reliable.”

  “What about Captain Solwen and Captain Kaanos? If we go to them, could they put a stop to this?”

  Fitz frowned. “It’s possible. But Captain Roston must know that he can’t proceed without at least their tacit approval.”

  “Which means there’s no knowing whether he’s gotten to them already,” Graff said. “If we go running to them, they may just add us to the bag.”

  “We have to do something,” Bobby said.

  Winter grimaced. All the instincts she’d developed in two years under Sergeant Davis were telling her to lie low, let it slip by, join up afterward with whatever side seemed to come out on top.
To not make trouble, because it would only attract attention.

  But that wasn’t an option, really. She had a responsibility now to the men of her company, and some of them had been taken prisoner or worse. More to the point, if we jump the wrong way here, we’re all going to die. Who seems more likely to find a way out—the colonel and Captain d’Ivoire, or Roston and Davis? Put that way, it didn’t seem like much of a choice at all.

  “They haven’t told the camp yet,” she said. “They don’t want it to look like a mutiny. The Old Colonials might stand for that, but the recruits”—she glanced at Bobby—“I don’t think they’d go along. So they’re doing it on the quiet instead. Grab Captain d’Ivoire, the colonel, and anyone else who might cause trouble, then make some excuse in the morning and Captain Roston takes command.”

  “I came to much the same conclusion,” Fitz said. “Which, in turn, suggests a course of action, if you’re willing.”

  Graff nodded. “They’ve got Folsom, haven’t they?”

  Bobby nodded as well. Her eyes were bright, almost feverish. Winter wondered if she’d entirely recovered from what had happened on the hill. Hell, she ought to be dead.

  “You think we should break them out,” Winter said. “The colonel and Captain d’Ivoire, and hopefully Folsom and the others as well.”

  The lieutenant agreed. “Captain Roston’s actions imply that he is not confident of his ability to persuade the men if the colonel is available to argue against him.”

  “Right.” Winter frowned. “Assuming everyone is still alive.”

  “Yes. I suspect that depends on the extent to which Sergeant Davis is in charge,” Fitz said.

  “Goddamned Davis,” Winter muttered. “Why did it have to be Davis?” On some level, though, it had to be Davis. If there was something nefarious and unpleasant going on, it was virtually guaranteed that he would be mixed up in it.

  “Do we know where they’re keeping the prisoners?” Graff said.

  Fitz shook his head, but Winter smiled slowly.

  “I bet I know who does,” she said. “Just give me a few minutes alone with him.”

  • • •