The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  Janus stepped forward to face Adrecht and waited. Little by little, the susurrus of whispers and conversation died away, as every man in the vast crowd strained to hear. The Fourth Battalion men behind Adrecht shuffled uncertainly, but Adrecht himself stepped forward, came to attention, and saluted stiffly.

  “Captain Roston,” Janus said.

  “Colonel Vhalnich,” Adrecht said. “I did not expect to see you here.”

  “No, I imagine not.” Janus looked around. “I must ask these men to stand down at once.”

  Adrecht glanced over his shoulder. “Lieutenant Gibbons?”

  One of the Fourth Battalion men saluted. “Sir!”

  “Please place Colonel Vhalnich under arrest.”

  Gibbons swallowed hard. “Yessir!”

  Marcus stepped beside Janus, his own men coming up to stand beside him. Adrecht’s men spread out to face them, hands on their weapons. Marcus’ hands were clenched so tight that his nails dug painfully into his palms.

  If it comes to a fight, this is going to be a riot. Adrecht’s people looked nervous, as did the Second Company men. If any one of them fires a shot . . .

  Janus held up a hand, his voice rising to ring out over the crowd. “Am I permitted to know the charges against me?”

  “Being a goddamned lunatic,” Mor said. He caught Marcus’ eye, winced, and looked away.

  “Captain Kaanos is broadly correct,” Adrecht said. “Your latest orders indicate your mental unfitness for command.”

  “Which orders, specifically?”

  Adrecht hesitated. Janus’ expression was as blank as always, but there was something in his voice. An edge of confidence, the voice of a cardplayer who knows that he holds the last trump.

  “Last night, I received an order under your seal to prepare for a march to the northeast,” Adrecht said. He looked away from Janus, addressing the crowd. “Given the Desoltai raid and our lack of supplies, further pursuit of the enemy is clearly a serious danger to this regiment. If we don’t turn back now, none of us will make it out of the Desol.”

  There was muttered assent from the assembled soldiers. Those close enough to catch sight of Janus didn’t dare voice their opinion openly, but those farther back were less reticent. The words were unintelligible, but their shouts and grumbles conveyed their meaning.

  Adrecht seemed to take heart from this backing. “I conveyed my doubts to Captain d’Ivoire, who indicated that he had discussed them with you, to no result. With all other options exhausted, duty to the men under my command forces me reluctantly to take steps to ensure the best chance of our survival.”

  “It’s not relevant, I suppose, that the success of the Desoltai raid was primarily your responsibility?”

  Adrecht swayed slightly, as if he’d been slapped. His hand came up and clutched at the stump of his arm.

  “No,” he said. “Whether true or not, I hardly see the bearing on the current situation.”

  Janus was silent for a long moment. Bit by bit, the noise of the crowd rose, and shouts and jeers started to come from those safely in the rear. Marcus looked again at Mor and Val, but neither would meet his eyes.

  “As you say,” Janus began, “our supply situation is critical. Under the circumstances, I thought we ought to make for the nearest source of water.”

  “The nearest source of water is on the coast,” Adrecht snapped. “And we’ll be hard-pressed to make it even that far.”

  “To the contrary. There is an oasis only a day’s march to the northeast.”

  Janus spoke quietly, but the men in the front ranks who heard him repeated what he’d said to their neighbors. Shouts and jeers cut off abruptly as his words spread through the crowd, like a ripple across the surface of a pond. Absolute silence replaced them, the entire regiment holding its collective breath.

  “You don’t know that,” Adrecht said. “How could you?”

  “The Desoltai must draw their supplies from somewhere,” Janus said. “They can’t survive on sand any more than we can.”

  “Everyone knows they have hidden bases,” Adrecht admitted. “But they are hidden. Marching into the desert in the hopes of finding one is still a death sentence.”

  “Fortunately, I know the precise location of this particular base. The fact that it presents an opportunity to destroy the Desoltai force along the way is an additional incentive.”

  “So you claim,” Adrecht said. He sounded rattled. “How could you possibly know for certain?”

  Janus turned to one of the men beside him, who handed over the pack Lieutenant Ihernglass had taken from the Desoltai scout. He extracted a wooden box, about a foot to a side, with a small lever protruding from one corner. Adrecht watched, puzzled, and another tide of whispers rose from the crowd. It stopped at once when Janus began to speak.

  “This,” he said, “was taken from a Desoltai patrol. It’s really quite an ingenious creation.” He pressed down on the lever with two fingers, and a circular panel at the front of the box opened. Something gleamed bright inside. “The interior is a ring of mirrors, which collect all the light of a candle placed inside and direct it through the aperture. It’s similar to the lights used for theatrical productions, though less intense.” When he let go of the lever, the covering slid back.

  “By manipulating this, one can create a very bright directional beam. In the clear air of the Desol, it can be seen at a great distance.” He looked out at the crowd. “I’ll hazard that some of you have seen them when you were on sentry duty.”

  Mutters of assent from the crowd. Adrecht frowned. “A clever trick,” he said. “But—”

  “Nothing particularly clever so far,” Janus said dismissively, handing the box back. “Similar devices are used on many occasions—aboard ships at night, for instance. Typically, they display a small range of precoded signals. One light for a request to approach, two for approval, four for bad weather sightings, and so on. Our Desoltai friends have gone considerably further than that. They have developed a true language of light, capable of expressing any information they require. Moreover, they have perfected a procedure for repeating these signals from one post to the next, so that this information can cross long distances at fast as light itself.”

  Marcus nodded slowly. A simple signal might be good enough to start a coordinated attack, but in order to respond to changing conditions, something more was required. That explains a great deal.

  “This is their secret weapon,” Janus went on, “and not surprisingly they are quite reliant on it. They believe that messages passed this way are impervious to interception, because their language of light is a secret they share with no one. They are incorrect. Given a sufficient number of intercepted messages, and with knowledge of the movements that resulted, a sufficiently clever man might be able to learn this language on his own.”

  Adrecht had gone pale. “And you claim to have done this?”

  Janus shrugged modestly. “I am a clever man.”

  Silence fell by stages. One by one, the men in the crowd stopped talking to their fellows or shouting at one another and went quiet, waiting to see what came next. Janus watched Adrecht, imperturbable, and Adrecht stared back with the desperate eyes of a cornered animal.

  Marcus watched the crowd. He doubted one in a hundred had understood Janus’ explanation, even among those close enough to hear the colonel’s words. But they could see Adrecht giving ground. Marcus could feel the balance wobbling around him.

  “I don’t believe you,” Adrecht said. His voice rose to a screech. “You’re bluffing.”

  “I can show you the records,” Janus said amiably. “Although I admit I did the final ciphering in my head, while I was confined. You did me a favor in that respect. Silence concentrates the mind wonderfully.”

  “Shut up!” Adrecht barked. “You led us out here, and you’d rather let us die than take the blame for it!” He turned away from the colonel and faced the crowd. “Don’t you understand? He’ll kill us all just so he doesn’t have to admit
he was wrong!”

  Janus looked bemused. Mutters were starting again in the crowd, and the moment was slipping away. Marcus stepped forward.

  “We won’t make it to the coast,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Not all of us. And for those of us who do, what then? Will the Desoltai just leave us be?”

  “It’s the best chance we have,” Adrecht hissed. “The only chance.”

  Marcus stared at his friend, his gut churning. At the top of his mind was a black rage that made him want to slam Adrecht’s face in, here and now. After everything I’ve done for him. After I nearly resigned for him. After I came to Khandar for him!

  Under that, though, was a sick kind of sympathy. Marcus knew Adrecht, in a way he knew almost no one else in his life. He could follow along, step by step, through the decisions that had led the Fourth Battalion captain to this decision. Marcus forced himself not to look at Adrecht’s empty sleeve. Would I have done the same, in his position?

  “Why, Marcus?” Adrecht whispered. “I’ve always been able to count on you.”

  Marcus gritted his teeth. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  He stepped away and raised his voice to a shout. “If the colonel is willing to give us a shot at the Desoltai in the bargain, I for one am ready to take it!”

  Adrecht glared at him in silence. Marcus looked over his shoulder, to where Mor and Val were standing. He sought their eyes, one at a time.

  It was Mor who moved first, to Marcus’ surprise, stepping forward to stand beside Marcus.

  “Hell,” he said. “I’d march for a week without water if you told me we’d get to string up this steel bastard at the end of it.”

  Val was nodding, too. “It seems to me,” he said to Adrecht, “that whatever else the colonel is, he is not mad. He’s made a reasonable decision in the light of the available information. I think you have no basis for declaring him incompetent.”

  “But—,” Adrecht began.

  It was too late. The balance had tipped, and the men were cheering. Even the Second Company men had joined it, lowering their weapons and helping the Seventh Company soldiers to their feet. Whatever Adrecht had to say was lost under the sound, and eventually he fell silent, clutching the stump of his arm and glaring daggers at the colonel.

  “Captain,” Janus said, nearly inaudible under the roar, “would you please escort Captain Roston to my tent?”

  Marcus gave a grim smile. “Gladly, sir.”

  • • •

  Paperwork. Marcus would have thought that out in the desert, facing potential annihilation, he would at least be free of his own personal demon. Unfortunately, Janus wanted things done properly, and that meant papers for every man.

  “Sir?”

  Marcus looked up at Fitz and winced. “Have you seen a cutter about that eye?”

  Fitz touched the purpling bruise that covered almost half his face. “It looks worse than it feels, sir. I’ll be all right. Captain Solwen is here, sir, and would like to speak with you.”

  Marcus frowned. That was unusually formal for Val. “Send him in, then.”

  Fitz held the tent flap open, letting Val duck inside. Marcus got up from his writing table with relief, feeling muscles pop all down his legs and back. He’d been at it longer than he’d realized, but the stack didn’t seem any smaller.

  “Val,” Marcus said, then stopped. His friend stood at attention, eyes forward. After weeks in the desert, his uniform was showing signs of wear, but his mustache was newly waxed and perfectly pointed.

  “Senior Captain,” Val said in a tone as stiff as his posture.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I would like . . . That is . . .” He paused and his shoulders slumped a little. Then he straightened them again and managed, “I would like to consult you on a matter of some urgency.”

  Marcus looked up for Fitz, but the lieutenant had already slipped outside. Clever lad. He waved vaguely at Val. “Of course. Sit down. Would you like a drink? Fitz rescued a couple of bottles.”

  “No, sir.”

  Marcus sighed. “Val, we’ve known each other for five years now. If you’re going to start ‘no, sir’-ing me, you can damn well keep your urgent matter to yourself.”

  “Sorry, sir.” Val let his shoulders fall again. “Marcus. I just—I don’t know what to do.”

  “Sit down, to start with.” Marcus seated himself beside the hated desk, where he could stretch his legs, and gestured Val to the other cushion. “And tell me what the problem is.”

  “The problem—” Val let out a long breath, making his mustache quiver. Then, all in a rush, he said, “The problem is that I ought to resign.”

  “Resign?” Marcus blinked. “Why?”

  “For not seeing through Adrecht from the start,” Val said miserably. “He damn well kidnapped you, and the colonel, and I was ready to follow along and say, ‘Yes, sir!’ It’s a disgrace.”

  “You didn’t know that at the time,” Marcus pointed out.

  “I ought to have guessed,” Val said. “Besides, it was obvious that what he was up to was mutiny. It was my duty to stop him.”

  Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “With me gone, Adrecht would have been senior captain. You’d have been perfectly within your duties to follow his orders.”

  “You know what I mean, damn it.” Val twisted his mustache anxiously, then smoothed it out again. “I went along with it because I thought he might be right.”

  “A lot of people went along with it,” Marcus said. Everyone, really, except Fitz and Lieutenant Ihernglass.

  “But they weren’t in command of a battalion,” Val insisted. “They couldn’t have stopped it all.”

  “What would you have done? Ordered the Second to fire on the Fourth?”

  “If necessary,” Val said stiffly.

  “That would have been worse than anything that actually happened,” Marcus said. “Believe me.”

  “But—” Val hesitated. “After all that, how can the colonel have any confidence in me?”

  That was the heart of the matter, Marcus thought. It was one thing to make a wrong decision, and quite another to believe your commander held a grudge against you because of it. He picked his words carefully.

  “The colonel hasn’t given any indication to me that he’s lost confidence in any of the senior officers. If anything, he blames himself.” And isn’t that a wonder?

  “You think so?”

  Marcus shrugged. “He confides in me as much as he confides in anyone, and he hasn’t mentioned anything of the kind. Besides, do you think he would want you to resign now? We’re going to need every man in the next couple of days.”

  “I could carry a musket, if necessary.”

  The images of Val, with his neat uniform and his waxed mustache, walking in the ranks with the common soldiers was enough to make Marcus chuckle. After a moment, Val managed a weak smile as well.

  “You understand what I mean, don’t you, Marcus? I just thought I ought to . . . to make amends somehow.”

  “I know. The best way to do it is to make sure the Second is ready. There’ll be action tomorrow.”

  “You think so?”

  “The colonel as good as told me so. And he never tells anyone anything.”

  Val nodded. “Just as well. Water won’t last much longer. The lads are eager for a fair shot at the cowardly bastards, too.”

  “I think we all are.” He gestured at the writing desk. “Anything but this.”

  “What is all that, anyway?”

  “Discharges. For the men of the Second Company who were involved in the mutiny, and a few others in the Fourth as well.”

  Val frowned. “Discharges? Aren’t they being held for court-martial?”

  “The colonel said we can’t spare the time or the men to keep prisoners. He’s going to give them as much food and water as they can carry and turn them loose. Let them make for the coast, if they can.”

  “Across the Great Desol?” Val sucked in his c
heeks. “That’s small mercy.”

  “They’d all hang, if we ever get back to civilization,” Marcus said. “The Ministry takes a dim view of mutiny.”

  “Still . . .” Val looked up. “Is Adrecht going with them?”

  Marcus nodded. Val shook his head.

  “Poor Adrecht. He ought to have stayed in the city. Losing a limb can have a terrible effect on a man.”

  “Maybe he’ll make it back there.”

  “Maybe.”

  They sat for a moment in silence. After a while Val said, “I think Mor feels the same way I do.”

  “About Adrecht?”

  “About resigning. He thinks he’s guilty.”

  “He certainly didn’t look it this afternoon.”

  “You know Mor,” Val said. “He’s either angry, or pretending to be angry. But underneath—”

  “Will you talk to him? Or send him to me, if that’s easier.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Val said. “It may take a while to bring him around.”

  Another silence.

  “Well.” Val slapped his knees and levered himself to his feet. “I had better get some rest myself. Action tomorrow, you say?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  • • •

  It was full dark, but sleep eluded him. He lay in the bedroll, thin blanket wadded beside him, and stared at the tent ceiling. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Adrecht. They hadn’t spoken a word to each other while the colonel had pronounced sentence, but Adrecht’s eyes hadn’t left Marcus for a moment.

  How can he tell me I betrayed him? He’s the one who raised a goddamned mutiny. And yet . . .

  When he closed his eyes he saw Adrecht, not grim and one-armed but laughing and gambling like he had in their War College days. Sharing a drink, kissing a pretty blond girl with delicate skin and powder-darkened eyes. Offering a pistol in one outstretched hand, his eyes full of pain. “If you’re going to kill yourself, Marcus, at least be a man about it . . .”