The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  Instead he scuttled through the mist, searching the scattered gear for something he could use to try to kill the girl he’d begun to think he was in love with. There were muskets in abundance among the dead Auxiliaries, and he’d filled his pockets with cartridges. Now he was going through the loading drill with one weapon after another, stacking them against one of the statues.

  “Come on, Marcus,” Jen called. Her voice echoed strangely through the smoke-filled room, coming from every direction at once. “We both know how this has to end. Don’t drag things out.”

  “Why?” he said over his shoulder, trusting to the echoes and the smoke to keep his position hidden. “Are you planning to let me live?”

  “If you behave.”

  “Forgive me for dragging it out, then.” He had four weapons ready. Putting two under each arm, he ran over to another pile of corpses and set about gathering more. “If we’re just waiting around, would you mind satisfying my curiosity?”

  She gave a heartfelt sigh. “Will it make you come out any faster?”

  “It might.”

  “You’re stalling. Your precious colonel didn’t look healthy, you know.”

  “Humor me,” Marcus growled, ramming another round home. “You said you were a clerk.”

  “I lied about that,” Jen said. The half-playful tone in her voice was so familiar it made him want to vomit. “I lie a lot. It’s part of my job.”

  “What about the rest?”

  “The rest of what?”

  Marcus tore open another cartridge with his teeth, tasting the salty powder on his lips. He spat the ball down the barrel of yet another musket. “You know. Us. Did you ever really give a damn about me?”

  Jen sighed again. “What do you want me to say? ‘At first it was just an assignment, but after everything we’ve been through . . .’” She snorted. “Honestly, you ought to have known better. It wasn’t exactly difficult to earn your trust. All I had to do was show a little fear, a little vulnerability, and you came riding over like a white knight in a storybook.”

  “I believed you,” Marcus said.

  “Of course you did. I knew you would. It’s all in your file. It makes for some interesting reading, actually.” She paused. “How about it, Marcus? Would you like to know the truth about the fire?”

  “I know the truth,” Marcus said, ramming the ball into place and tossing the ramrod aside.

  “Are you certain?” He knew exactly the kind of smile that would be on her face. “It does make very interesting reading.”

  He had seven muskets. It was probably enough. She won’t give me time for seven shots. Marcus picked up the first one, blew out a deep breath, and stepped out from behind the statue. Jen was just barely visible, a shadowy figure in the uneven light of the distant bonfires.

  “I thought I was in love with you,” Marcus said.

  “Poor Marcus,” Jen said caustically. “All he wanted—”

  Marcus pulled the trigger. The weapon went off with a ear-shattering bang, delivering the usual mule kick to his shoulder. A flood of white sparks exploded around Jen, but Marcus was already moving, snatching up the remaining muskets and hurrying to the cover of another statue.

  “What exactly are you trying to accomplish?” Jen said, as another ball ricocheted off her invisible shield and whined into the darkness. “Or is this just one of those doomed last stands you military types are so fond of?” He took another shot, this one missing by yards. She laughed. “I suppose I can oblige you.”

  Marcus, fighting for breath, threw himself to the ground. There was a sound like the world tearing in two, and the statue he’d just left exploded into flying shards. Jen took a few steps forward unhurriedly, and leaned forward to peer through the smoke and dust. Marcus rolled to his feet, leveled another musket, and fired. This time the shot was dead on target, and for an instant he could see the ball, squashed motionless against the field of livid sparks. Then it was hurled outward, almost straight back at him, and he ducked as it pinged off stone behind him. Jen was laughing.

  Three shots left. She would be expecting him to move again, so he grabbed one of the still-loaded muskets and fired from where he was. The shot went high, but he didn’t wait around to see the result. Last two weapons in hand, he rolled sideways, scrambling to his feet just as Jen blasted out a stone-chipped crater with a lazy wave.

  Another statue loomed in front of him. This one was a lobster with two humans in its claws, raising them above its head. Marcus wondered idly if it was exalting them or getting ready to snip them in half. He raised a weapon to his aching shoulder, sighted on the vague silhouette that was all he could make out, and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked home, and something sizzled, but the shot didn’t go off. Bad powder, maybe, or a block below the pan. We always did give the Auxiliaries junk. It was too late to regret that particular decision of His Majesty’s Ministry of War now. Marcus snatched up the last weapon and charged.

  Jen was standing beside one of the statues flanking the entrance, hands spread wide, still smiling. Marcus skidded to a halt at twenty yards and brought the weapon to his shoulder. Her expression was almost pitying as she brought her hand up—

  —and turned, at the crunch of stone on stone. The statue beside her, the well-endowed grasshopper, began to topple in a slow, awful arc. At its apex, riding it down, was the young assassin, spattered with blood but still baring his teeth in a rictus of defiance.

  Jen raised her left hand, fingers splayed. The wall of sparks sprang into being, its glass-cutter screech climbing to a wail that rose and rose until Marcus could feel it in his teeth. White sparks turned dull red, then crimson, flaring wildly under the strain of holding a ton of stone in midair.

  Marcus sighted down the barrel of the musket. Twenty yards. Not an easy shot, not with a worthless Auxiliary musket, loaded in haste, but far from impossible. He was never going to get a better chance, that was certain. He pulled the trigger, and felt the jolt against his shoulder.

  He had a sudden vision of Jen—not this Jen, this horrible parody, but the woman who’d leaned gently against his shoulder as they crossed the Tsel. His mind’s eye watched her gunned down, musket ball taking her in the stomach and blowing out through her back to leave a wound the size of his fist. Blood on her lips, her last, shuddering breaths. Her eyes, staring up at him—

  The shot was wide. He saw it spark against the stone wall and hum off into the distance. Jen’s grin became an animal snarl, and she brought her other hand around in a vicious swipe. The roar of the rippling wave filled the world, striking the grasshopper statue head-on. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then Jen turned her hand like a man twisting a knife in a wound, and the statue and the assassin exploded together with unbelievable force. Fragments of rock zipped past Marcus, as fast and deadly as any load of canister.

  He turned to run, throwing away the useless empty weapon. It was a dozen steps to the nearest statue, but it took a thousand years to cover them, expecting another one of those awful waves to strike him at any moment and smash him to paste. He passed that statue and would have kept going, but something snagged his sleeve. Marcus spun to find a young man holding on with both hands. He blinked slowly.

  “Lieutenant . . . Ihernglass?”

  Ihernglass nodded. “Captain. I need your help.”

  WINTER

  Leaving Feor had been among the hardest things Winter had ever had to do. The Khandarai girl seemed barely alive, pale and unresponsive, her breath shallow and her pulse humming. Nothing Winter had tried seemed to make any difference. In the end she’d dribbled a little water across Feor’s lips, covered the girl with her uniform coat, and left her among the ancient steel tablets. It felt like a betrayal, but she couldn’t see any other option.

  She could feel the naath, coiled within her. It had settled down somewhat, like a man sinking into a favorite armchair, but every so often it would shift unpleasantly and she would feel the world swim around her. She swallowed hard, fighting off nausea, a
nd crept as quietly as she could through the maze of statues.

  Ahead, brilliant light cut through the miasma, along with the more familiar yellow-pink flash of a musket. There was another shot, and another, followed by the ripping explosion and the clatter of stone. Winter pulled up short at the sight of the captain raising a musket to his shoulder. He fired into the murk, and a moment later there was another explosion and a rain of stone. Whatever effect he’d been hoping for, that apparently wasn’t it, because he turned and ran. Winter caught up with him and grabbed his sleeve. He spun, panicked, then finally recognized her.

  “Lieutenant . . . Ihernglass?”

  “Captain. I need your help.” Winter looked over her shoulder, toward where the light had been. Nothing was visible now except an expanding cloud of dust. “Is that Alhundt?”

  “It’s her,” he said. “Or a demon wearing her skin.”

  “What about the colonel? Is he—”

  “He’s trapped under one of the statues,” the captain said. “I think he’s all right for now, but he won’t be if Jen gets a chance at him.”

  “Saints above,” Winter swore. She chewed her lip. Touch her, Feor had said. She found herself wishing the girl had been a bit more informative. Touch her where? What do I do then? How long does it take?

  “What are you doing here?” the captain said. “I thought—”

  “I’m not sure we have time to get into it.” Another thought had been preying on Winter’s mind. It wouldn’t take Bobby, Folsom, and Graff long to figure out she’d stayed behind. Bobby, at least, would insist on coming back in to look for her. Brave young idiot that she is. Graff might be a voice of caution, but he wouldn’t wait forever. They’d gather up some kind of a rescue party and come searching. And when they do, they’ll run straight into Alhundt. “We’ve got to stop her.”

  “I’m open to suggestions.” The captain sagged against a statue’s plinth and ran his hands through grimy hair. “At this point I’m not sure I’d try it with anything short of a siege gun.”

  “I may have a way,” Winter said. “It’s . . . hard to explain. I need to get close to her.”

  “Close to her? What, and slit her throat?” The captain frowned. “I think our Khandarai friend has proved pretty conclusively that doesn’t work.”

  “It’s not like that.” I hope. “This is . . .” Winter drew in a long breath. “Magic.”

  “Magic,” the captain said flatly. “You?”

  “I know it seems crazy,” Winter said. “But—”

  He waved a hand. “The things I’ve seen today, I’m not sure I still believe in crazy. But you—you really think you can stop her?”

  The naath gave a twitch, as though it could feel when it was under discussion. “I do.”

  The captain leaned back, eyes closed, for a long moment. When he looked up, his expression had hardened. “All right. What do you need me to do?”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Marcus. Call me Marcus. At least until we get out of here.”

  Winter waited in the shadow of one of the statues, listening for the sound of footsteps.

  The statue was some kind of lizard, rendered with a terrifying mouth full of fangs, each impaling a screaming miniature figure. Whatever god it represented seemed like a particularly unpleasant one. Probably judging the sins of man, or some such. It seems to be a popular theme. There had been frescoes in the church at Mrs. Wilmore’s depicting sinners writhing in the torments of hell, while a cadre of saints looked on. The painter had given the blessed ones a set of rather self-righteous expressions, Winter had always felt.

  If tired old Father Jellicoe was to be believed, what Winter had done back among the steel tablets was a sin worse than any murderous rampage or carnal debauchery. What awaited her upon her earthly demise would make her envy the sinners in the fresco. Being whipped and violated with red-hot pokers would seem like a vacation. Or so she assumed, anyway. She’d always dozed during sermons, and in any case the nearsighted priest had been a bit vague on the specifics. But willingly consorting with demons and magic was heresy by any lights, and deserving of divine retribution when the time for judgment came around.

  All the more reason to put it off as long as possible. Her mouth was dry. From where she was sitting, she could see one of the statues Alhundt had shattered. Fragments of stone and gravel had sprayed for yards in every direction, as though someone had packed the thing with powder and set it alight. What that would do to flesh and blood she couldn’t imagine. Or, more precisely, she could imagine it all too easily.

  “Jen?” It was the captain’s—Marcus’—voice, somewhere off to her left. “Jen, I’m here. I’m not running anymore.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Alhundt emerged from the smoke some distance away. She’d discarded her spectacles, and singed hair was escaping in wisps and strands from her tight bun. There were burns and scorch marks down her pants and vest, and a few stray splatters of blood. She cradled her left hand in her right, as though it pained her.

  “I’m done,” Marcus said. He stood between two statues, some distance past the one behind which Winter was hiding. “It’s over. Any idiot could see that.”

  “Any idiot could have seen it right from the start,” Alhundt said. “I suppose it took a while for the news to trickle down to you.”

  Marcus raised his empty hands. “As you say. I give up.”

  The Concordat agent stared at him, eyes narrowed. “I should cut you down right now.”

  “I can help you. You said it yourself.”

  “You could.” Alhundt started forward again. “If you really meant it. But I don’t buy it, Marcus. I know you. You missed your place as a knight-errant three hundred years ago. Always defend a lady, always stand by a friend, and never betray your lord.” She gave a heavy sigh. “You do a good job of hiding it, though. I admit when I first met you I thought you were a little more . . . pragmatic.”

  “Then cut me down,” Marcus said.

  “There’s the Marcus I know,” Alhundt said. “Always ready to take a bullet for the cause.” She stopped, ten paces from Marcus and just short of the statue where Winter was hiding, and gave him a long look. “So what’s the plan this time? Got a pistol shoved up your ass?”

  Marcus winced. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “It won’t work, whatever it is. This isn’t a game of cards with the other captains. You’re up against the Divine here.”

  “Jen . . .” Marcus hesitated.

  Alhundt started forward again. “Just do it. Get it out of your system. Maybe that will finally convince you.”

  She passed Winter’s statue, barely a yard away. Winter tensed.

  Now or never.

  When Alhundt took another step, Winter sprang, rounding the plinth with one hand extended. The moment seemed to stretch, as though she were running through molasses. Her fingers were inches away from the Concordat agent’s back when Alhundt spun, graceful as a dancer, and brought her left hand up. A wall of scintillating sparks snapped into existence, and Winter felt herself leaving the ground. A moment later she slammed against the belly of the lizard statue, pressed upward against the stone by a force so strong it was a struggle just to draw breath. Through the screeching, fizzing wall of light, she could see Alhundt step closer, hand extended, head cocked to one side as though examining a fascinating insect.

  “This is your plan? Have some idiot boy try to stick a knife in my back while you keep me talking?” She snorted. “Honestly, Marcus, I would have thought that even you could have come up with something better than that.” Alhundt peered closer. “Has he even got a knife? What were you going to do, boy? Try to strangle me?”

  Through the scream of the sparks, Winter could barely hear Marcus’ voice. “He’s a distraction.”

  There was the thunderclap of a musket going off in close quarters. The force holding Winter up abruptly vanished as Alhundt turned away, and Winter fell heavily across the stone lizard’s taloned feet. The Co
ncordat agent was facing Marcus now, her unearthly reflexes having easily deflected the musket ball. Her other hand came up, ready to unleash a devastating wave of force that would tear the captain to shreds—

  Something felt like it had given way in Winter’s chest. Pain radiated from her much-abused side, as if she’d been stuck with a knife, and even drawing breath was a painful effort. It took all the energy she could muster to extend her hand a couple of feet. Her fingertips brushed Alhundt’s shirt. With a supreme effort, she tugged herself forward and pressed her palm into the woman’s back.

  Do it, she told the naath. Come on. Whatever it is you do, do it!

  Something flooded out of her. She felt the naath rush through her chest, down her arm, through the tenuous contact and into the other woman. At the same time, she could sense Alhundt’s power, a spiky, twisted thing coiled around her essence like a wall of thorns. It flared as Winter’s naath leapt the gap between souls, and pure energy sparked and coiled on a plane far from the merely physical.

  Alhundt screamed. Winter would have joined her, but she didn’t have the breath.

  The two entities slammed together. Or joined together, mixed but separate, like oil and water. Wherever they touched, dangerous energy crackled. Winter remembered what Feor had said about naath, that they were jealous things, and she suddenly understood the girl’s pain. During the recitation, she had had this conflict roaring inside her, as the half-complete incantation warred with her own. Maybe that’s what the naath does. Tears people apart with the force of their own magic. But whatever Alhundt was feeling, Winter also felt, echoing down the link between them. So does it shred me as well? The prospect left her curiously ambivalent. She seemed to have passed beyond fear.