Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

“In my experience, the colonel is always serious,” Fitz said.

“I know.” Marcus glared, as though he could force the neat writing to change shape by force of will. Tomorrow morning, the Colonials will continue the march northeast by north. .

He looked up at Fitz. “This is going to be trouble.”

“The water situation?”

“Not just that. When the news of this gets out-”

The lieutenant nodded. “I’ve already received messages from captains Solwen and Kaanos. They want to see you.”

“I’ll bet they do. Go and tell them to come over, and Adrecht, too. Then. .” Marcus hesitated, embarrassed.

“Sir?”

“See if you can find Jen,” he said. It felt wrong employing Fitz on personal business, but he couldn’t help it. She’d been gone from his tent when he’d returned from the ill-fated expedition, and he’d been too busy since then to find her, despite his worry. “I just need to know if she’s okay.”

“Of course, sir,” Fitz said. He saluted and slipped out.

It wasn’t long before Val and Mor arrived. The former had changed into a clean uniform and applied fresh wax to his mustache, while the latter was still in the grimy coat he’d worn in the battle. Both clutched their own copies of Janus’ orders. Mor waved his in Marcus’ face, the creased paper flapping like a broken-winged bird.

“What the hell is this?” he exclaimed.

“Orders,” Marcus managed to say. He gestured for the pair to sit. Val took a cushion beside the low table, but Mor remained standing, and so Marcus had to stand awkwardly between them.

“Orders, my ass,” Mor said. “‘Continue the march’? We’re just going on as though nothing has happened?”

“Not exactly,” Marcus said. “We’re changing direction-”

“We’re still going deeper into the Desol! We’ve got maybe two days of water left, and then we’ll be down to drinking blood and horse piss. And when that runs out we’re all going to end up dead!”

“He’s right,” Val said. He didn’t look up, as though ashamed to be agreeing with Mor. “I know the colonel is determined, but this is madness. He must give up the campaign.”

“Even if we turned around now, there’s no guarantee we’d make it,” Marcus said.

“We can strike toward the coast,” Mor said. “There’s streams there, and it’s only four days’ march. We’ll be thirsty, but we’ll live if we stretch the supplies.”

“Some of us,” Marcus said.

“Better than none,” Mor shot back.

Val smoothed his mustache with one finger. “More important, if we move deeper into the Desol another confrontation with the Desoltai is inevitable. After a few days without water, the men are going to be in no condition to fight. If we retreat, we may be able to regroup and resupply.”

“Assuming the Desoltai leave us alone,” Marcus said. “Do you really think the Steel Ghost is going to pass up an opportunity to annihilate this army if he has the chance?”

“So the best you can offer is that it’s certain death either way, so we might as well march off the cliff?” Mor said. “Is that what the colonel told you?”

“He didn’t tell me anything,” Marcus said. “He never tells me anything, I told you. Except when I’ve done something wrong.”

“Then why are you taking his side?” Mor said.

“I’m not taking his side!” Marcus paused. “Suppose I agreed with you in every particular. What am I supposed to do about it?” He gestured at the folded paper. “Orders are orders.”

“Only if we obey them,” Mor said.

Marcus stared at him. “You don’t mean that.”

Mor’s lip curled, but it was Val who spoke. “There are provisions for this sort of thing. In the regulations, I mean. In the event that a commanding officer is deemed to be mad, his senior subordinate can remove him from his post pending an investigation by a court-martial.”

“There isn’t a court-martial within three thousand miles,” Marcus snapped. “Don’t mince words. You’re talking mutiny.”

“I have a duty to the men of this regiment,” Mor said stiffly, “not to get them killed to no useful purpose.”

“You have a duty to obey orders. An oath .”

“I have an oath to the king , and to defend Vordan. How the hell does leading my men to die in the desert serve either?”

“You don’t get to pick and choose,” Marcus said. “The colonel gives the orders that he decides are in the interests of the king, and we carry them out. That’s all .”

“Fine,” Mor said. “Then let him come and explain to me what he’s trying to do.”

“He’s under no obligation to do that.”

“He owes us something .”

Val cleared his throat. “It doesn’t need to go that far, Marcus. What if you just tried to talk to him? He’ll listen to you. He has before. Explain it to him-”

“I have a feeling that my stock with the colonel is fairly low at the moment,” Marcus said. He sighed. “I’ll talk to him. I was going to try that anyway. But I will not disobey orders. You understand? No matter how mad you think the man is. And if you try it, I will have you put under arrest for treason.”

“Good,” Mor said. “Then you can shoot me and spare me a slow death from dehydration.”

“Just talk to him,” Val said soothingly. “That’s all we wanted.”

“I’ll talk to him.” Marcus pursed his lips. “Have you spoken to Adrecht?”

“Not since the fighting,” Mor said. “Why?”

“The colonel was not happy with the stunt he pulled this morning,” Marcus said. “At this point, it may be better if he resigns after all.”

“You really think that matters now?” Mor said.

“It matters to Adrecht. If the colonel has to force him out, and we get out of this, he’ll face charges.”

“I’ll try to talk to him,” Val said. “You worry about the colonel.”

Marcus promised again that he would, and managed to usher his friends out. Soon after, Fitz arrived to report that Jen was fine and in her own tent, and Adrecht had retreated to the Fourth Battalion camp and was not receiving visitors. Sulking, Marcus decided. He sent the lieutenant off again, this time to Janus to request an audience, and settled down to wait.

• • •

“Busy,” Marcus deadpanned.

“Busy,” Fitz confirmed.

“What the hell is he doing?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. Master Augustin said that the colonel was busy and was not to be disturbed.”

Marcus shook his head, bewildered. It smelled like panic. Many senior officers in a desperate situation might deliberately shut the door on their subordinates, but it was hard to picture Janus in such a panicked state. Apart from one flash, under Monument Hill, he’d never shown any emotion more vehement than mild disapproval.

Maybe it’s a plan? Marcus frowned. Maybe it’s a test. Maybe-no. He would only drive himself mad thinking like that. Maybe Mor is right after all.

“I had another note from Captain Roston,” Fitz said. “He wants you to come to speak with him.”

“I’m the senior captain,” Marcus groused. “If he wants to talk, he should come here.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll inform him-”

“Don’t bother.”

Marcus stood up from his cushion, legs groaning in protest. His lips were dry and cracked in the desert heat, and his throat was parched. That was nothing new, of course, but thinking of all those smashed, empty barrels brought his thirst inexorably to the front of his mind. He did his best to ignore it.

The table in front of him was covered with hastily scrawled reports, from which he’d been trying to put together some coherent picture of what supplies the regiment had left. A leather-backed map was marked with penciled circles, indicating how far they could march while the water held out and his estimate of what they could make beyond that, but Marcus would be the first to admit it was only guesswork. Mor had been right about one thing, in any event-even making it back to the coast would be difficult. If we march any farther east. .