Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

“Sir,” Davis said, with a lazy salute.

“Sergeant,” Marcus acknowledged. “Where’s Lieutenant Warus?”

“He’s been unavoidably detained, sir,” Davis said.

“They told me-”

The sound of canvas and a prickle at the back of his neck made Marcus turn. Two of the men from outside-men from Davis’ company, he now recalled-had entered. Both carried muskets with bayonets fixed, shouldered and trained on Marcus.

From behind him he heard the click of a hammer drawing back. He turned back to Davis. The second figure had stepped up beside the fat sergeant, cocked pistol in his hand.

“Sergeant?” Marcus said, with more calm than he felt. “Care to explain yourself?”

Davis smiled hugely. “I’m afraid you’re under arrest, sir. Orders of Senior Captain Roston.”

“ Senior Captain Roston?” Marcus matched the man’s stare. “I suggest you take that up with the colonel.”

“Regrettably, the colonel has been relieved of his command, on grounds of mental unbalance.”

“Don’t be stupid, Davis.”

“Sorry, sir.” The sergeant shrugged. “It’s nothing personal. I’m only following orders. Men?”

The men behind Marcus took him by the arms, and the man with the pistol lowered his weapon. Davis sauntered forward. Then, brutally fast, he buried one hamhock fist in Marcus’ gut.

“That-” He bent to speak in Marcus’ ear as he doubled over in agony. “That, sir, was personal.”

WINTER

“Take the knife,” Jane said, as though instructing a friend in how to carve a roast. “Put the point of it about here”-she raised her head and put a finger on her throat, just under her chin-“and press in, upward, as hard as you can.”

The knife was in Winter’s hand. Jane was naked, silken red hair cascading down over her shoulders, green eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I can’t,” Winter said miserably. “I can’t do it.”

“You did it then,” Jane said. “You can do it now. Come on.”

Haltingly, Winter raised her hand. The knife was a long, narrow spike of silvered steel, shining in the pale light. The hilt was cold as ice in her hand.

“Do this one thing for me,” Jane said. “Just this once.”

The point of the blade seemed to move of its own accord. It pressed against the hollow of Jane’s throat, dimpling the skin, then raising a single drop of blood where it pricked through.

“I didn’t want to,” Winter said, her throat thick. “I never-”

“Shhh.”

Jane’s hands came up, warm around the icy chill of Winter’s fingers. Gently, almost tenderly, she pressed the knife home, until their entwined hands were flush with the skin of her throat. Then she let go, and when Winter opened her fingers the knife was gone.

Blood pulsed from the wound, trickling down Jane’s body in a steady stream. It pooled along her collarbone and washed down between her breasts. A crimson rivulet twisted down the smooth skin of her belly and lost itself in the thatch of hair between her legs.

“I’m sorry,” Winter, swallowing a rising sob. “I’m sorry.”

“Shhh,” Jane said. “It’s all right.”

Wherever the blood had trailed, Jane’s skin changed. It went pale and gray, shot through with sparkling dark veins, and shone like polished marble. The transformation spread, accelerating as patches joined together, until it was racing over Jane’s body like a tide. Her hair turned to silver in a sparkling wave, and the green in her eyes widened until they were a brilliant emerald from edge to edge.

“Obv-scar-iot,” Jane said, her voice resonating with a strange harmonic. “You see?”

Winter gave a weak smile. “You’re beautiful.”

Jane stepped forward and kissed her. Winter bent eagerly, pressing her body against the shining creature. Jane tasted of dust and centuries, like licking a statue, but her skin was warm and pliant, and her hair fell soft across Winter’s bare shoulders. Jane’s hand stroked Winter’s flank, wandered down across the curve of her thigh, then up again to caress her sex. Winter shivered, pressing herself more tightly into the embrace, even as the cold began.

Her fingers froze first, screaming in protest and then going numb. From there it moved inward, down her arms and up from her toes. Jane nibbled playfully at Winter’s neck, and behind her head Winter held up one hand and found her own flesh turning to brilliantly polished stone. Where Jane’s was warm and vital, hers was as cold and dead as any statue.

It’s all right. She watched the marble spread across her skin, past her elbows, onto her shoulders. Her hair frizzled as it turned to silver. Jane’s warm, wet mouth kissed a trail down Winter’s neck, past her collarbone, toward her breasts, and in its wake her flesh hardened to lifeless stone. Her vision dimmed as her eyes became sparkling, sightless gemstones.

It’s all right. She wanted to say it aloud, but her lips were frozen. The cold pressed inward, until it finally reached her heart.

• • •

Winter opened her eyes.

The cold was still in her, colder than the worst winters at the Prison, when the fires went out and the girls shivered and slept three or four to a bed for warmth. It felt as though she were thawing from the outside in as reality gradually reasserted itself, leaving her with pins and needles racing across her skin. She could still feel the ghost of Jane’s lips against her breast, and the shivery tingle of deft fingers between her legs.

Saints and fucking martyrs . Her heart was beating like a drummer calling the charge. I think I preferred my old set of nightmares.

Bobby lay beside her, huddled into the crook of her arm. They’d started out on separate bedrolls, Winter recalled, but the girl must have rolled over in her sleep. Overhead, the fabric of the tent was as dark as pitch. It was still well before dawn.

The recent past was a blur, coming as it did at the end of thirty or forty hours without sleep. From the hillside where they’d fought the three Khandarai, she’d enjoyed a panoramic view of the Vordanai encampment, and she’d watched the first blossom of musketry spread into a general engagement until smoke had shrouded the scene.

It wasn’t until late in the day that Winter had dared to venture down, after Bobby had regained a groggy semiconsciousness and the sound of firing had died away. She was relieved to find that there was a camp to return to, although the destruction had obviously been extensive. In the confusion no one seemed to be concerned about her absence.

The returning First Battalion had finally gotten around to erecting those tents that had escaped the conflagration, which included hers. She’d taken Bobby and Feor inside with instructions to Graff that she not be disturbed until at least the Day of Judgment. After that, she recalled nothing but the fading echo of her dream.

She sat up cautiously, worming one arm out from under Bobby. The corporal shifted uneasily, mouth moving as though carrying on a silent argument, but did not wake. Groping past her, Winter located her trunk by feel and after some rummaging managed to find a box of matches and a candle.

Bobby was still in her uniform from the previous day, stained and dampened by sweat and grime. In the opposite corner of the tent, Feor was curled into a miserable ball, huddled around her still-splinted arm.

And what am I going to do with her? Winter sat back against the trunk, chewing her lip. She couldn’t help but feel responsible for the girl, as she felt responsible for Bobby, for all that both of them had come of their own free will. In Bobby’s case, she had at least the excuse of military duty. Feor she’d adopted willy-nilly, like a little girl taking in a stray cat with no thought of who was going to care for it. But what else am I supposed to do? Let her get herself killed?