Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

He put the thought out of his mind as he picked up his coat and emerged from his tent for the first time all day. The encampment outside bore little resemblance to the usual neat army camp town. Most of the tents had gone up in flames with the rest of the supplies, and order had decayed badly in the aftermath of the morning’s fighting. Each battalion was sprawled in a rough circle, working to light fires in anticipation of the night’s chill. The sun was sliding toward the horizon, and the reddening light turned the rocky ground the color of rust.

Eyes followed Marcus as he picked his way through the First Battalion troops and headed in the direction of Adrecht’s Fourth. He studiously ignored the muttering in his wake, but couldn’t help but notice that the recruits and the Old Colonials seemed to have separated again, like oil and water. The recruits sat around the fires, but the veterans drifted to the shadowy spaces in between, holding earnest, whispered conversations in small groups. Marcus did his best to convince himself that it didn’t mean anything.

It was much the same with the Fourth Battalion. Adrecht’s tent was one of the few still standing, and Marcus made his way through the scattered troops to reach it. The stares here were considerably more hostile. The Fourth was obviously aware of the blame Janus had placed on it and its commander for the morning’s events, and just as obviously considered Marcus party to that decision. I wonder if I should tell them that the colonel chewed me out as well.

Adrecht appeared in response to his rap at the tent pole. He wore his uniform pants and a white silk shirt, one sleeve of which hung loose and empty. When he saw Marcus, he managed a smile, but his eyes were brittle.

“You wanted to see me?” Marcus said.

“Of course. Come in, come in.”

Reluctantly, Marcus stepped into the interior of the tent. No candles burned, and not much of the setting sun came through the canvas, leaving the interior in shadow. Adrecht seated himself on a pile of cushions and invited Marcus to do the same. On the low table he saw a copy of Janus’ order, and beside it a bottle of Khandarai wine, its wax seal already broken.

Adrecht indicated the bottle. “Help yourself, if you like. We found it while we were gathering undamaged supplies. Some ranker must have been saving it for a special occasion, poor fellow.”

“No, thank you.” Marcus crossed his arms in his lap and sat stiffly. “What do you want, Adrecht?”

“Just to talk.” A grimace of pain flitted across Adrecht’s face, and his good hand went to the stump of his arm. “God. It feels like my hand is still there, you know that? Like I’ve got it clenched into a fist, so tight it hurts my knuckles, but I can’t make it relax. It aches . Does that make any sense?”

“I’m sorry,” Marcus said quietly. “When this is all over, we can send you to the University. I’m sure they’ll be able-”

“To grow it back?” Adrecht gave a death’s-head grin.

“To do something for the pain,” Marcus finished.

“Could be. It makes me wonder what happens to fellows who’ve had their heads cut off. Does their whole body ache like this?”

Marcus eyed the wine bottle. Adrecht, following his gaze, chuckled weakly.

“I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re wondering. Just. . thoughtful. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“In the morning,” Adrecht said, “we’re to march farther into the Desol.”

“Those are the colonel’s orders,” Marcus said.

“Farther from any source of food or water.”

“There are oases in the Desol,” Marcus offered. He knew it was a weak response.

“Hidden springs,” Adrecht agreed. “Which are, of course, hidden . Only the Desoltai know how to find them. I suppose we could always ask.”

“What do you want me to say?” Marcus said. “The colonel doesn’t consult me when he makes his plans.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Today?” Marcus shook his head. “He wouldn’t see me.”

“Did he say why not?”

“His man said he was busy.” Marcus couldn’t disguise a hint of bitterness.

“Busy. Well, I should hope he’s busy.” Adrecht picked up the bottle of wine, considered it for a moment, then took a swig. “The situation certainly calls for it.”

“You’ve been talking to Mor and Val.”

“I have,” Adrecht admitted. “And to Give-Em-Hell, and the Preacher. And the lieutenants and sergeants. To the Old Colonials.”

“Performing an assessment of morale?”

“You might say that.” Adrecht smiled thinly and set the bottle down. “The opinion of the camp is that the colonel is crazy.”

“Mor said the same thing. We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

“Some of us aren’t eager to find out.”

Marcus chose his words carefully. “I don’t think any of us are eager . But I don’t see that we have any choice.”

“A man with a weapon always has a choice,” Adrecht said. “I said from the beginning that we ought never to have come out so far. Are you willing to admit now that I was right?”

“I don’t know,” Marcus said. “And I don’t see that it matters.”

Adrecht’s lip curled. “What would it take, Marcus? How far does he have to go before you understand?”

“He’s the colonel of this regiment,” Marcus said. “He has his commission from the king and the Minister of War.”

“The infallible Ministry of War,” Adrecht said bitterly. “The ones who dumped us here in the first place.”

“Get to the point, Adrecht.”

Another spasm of pain crossed Adrecht’s features. He closed his eyes, breathing deep, until it passed. Then he said, “The regiment will not march tomorrow. Not to the east.”

“It’s mutiny, then.”

“It’s common sense. You have to see that.”

“Don’t do this.” Marcus fought to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Please.”

“Tell that to the colonel.” Adrecht reached for the wine again. “I was hoping you would listen to reason. Mor told me I was wasting my time.”

“I’m going back to my tent,” Marcus said. “In the morning, I expect the Fourth to be mustered and ready to march. You can still back away from this.”

“Go, then.” Adrecht swigged from the bottle and gave a crooked smile. “And keep your head down.”

Marcus turned and left without another word. The men of the Fourth were still sprawled in their disheveled camp, but he couldn’t help but feel an air of menace in their looks as he hurried past them. He wondered how many would follow Adrecht. How many would follow Adrecht and Mor and Val together, against this new colonel who had led them, finally, to the brink of disaster?

Janus has to be told. He’d given Adrecht until morning, but they couldn’t afford to wait that long. A real mutiny would tear the regiment apart, and given their precarious position it would as good as sign the death warrant for every one of them. We have to stop them now, Marcus realized, and felt a sick weight settle in his gut. Adrecht would have to be arrested, and maybe Mor and Val as well. And Give-Em-Hell? The Preacher? That had to be a bluff. He couldn’t imagine either of them going along with anything so underhanded.

Lost in thought, Marcus found his way back to the First Battalion’s encampment and headed for his own tent. Three men were waiting for him outside it, Old Colonials. They saluted.

“Lieutenant Warus is inside, sir,” said one wearing a corporal’s stripes. “He had a message for you. Said it was urgent.”

Maybe he finally got in to see Janus. Marcus gave another nod and slipped through the tent flap. Only a couple of candles and the light of the failing sun illuminated the interior of the tent, leaving it almost as dark as Adrecht’s. A couple of men stood at the other end, both too large to be Fitz. The bigger of the pair stepped forward, and Marcus recognized the rotund form of Sergeant Davis.