Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

It didn’t take Captain Roston long to regain his composure. “As the colonel wishes. May I have a moment?”

“Of course, sir.”

Roston disappeared back into his tent. Winter could only imagine the whispered conversation going on within. So far as Roston and Davis knew, they had the colonel and Captain d’Ivoire tied up somewhere, and they certainly weren’t attending any councils of war. On the other hand, Fitz was also supposed to be a prisoner, and possibly dead. Her smile widened as she pictured Davis’ fat face going red with anger.

They couldn’t just grab Fitz again, not here, with twenty of his own men and half the Fourth watching. It would either have to be open mutiny, here and now, or else Captain Roston would have to keep the charade going a little longer.

Winter let her breath hiss between her teeth when Roston reappeared. She’d been reasonably certain he would play along, but with Davis involved there was always a chance. .

“Lead the way, Lieutenant,” Captain Roston said, with all the appearance of affability.

Fitz saluted again. “Follow me, sir.”

Winter tensed as they made their way from the tents back through the encampment toward where the colonel’s empty tent stood. It wouldn’t be long-Davis had never been a patient man.

“There,” Graff whispered.

A bulky shadow had slipped from the unlit rear of Captain Roston’s tent and taken off at a run. Winter and Graff gave him a dozen heartbeats to get well ahead, then followed.

• • •

A couple of tents, larger than the usual army issue, stood among the detritus of the wrecked, smoking wagons. During the day they’d been used as a clearinghouse for the scavenging teams and a refuge from the sun for the corporals who had to tally and record it all to produce the new supply estimates the colonel had demanded. Now that dark had curtailed these activities, the tents were abandoned, and ideal for quietly keeping prisoners. They were far enough from the rest of the camp that any noise would go unnoticed, and no one was likely to wander casually through the gruesome wreckage of the Desoltai attack.

Davis had headed straight for them, breaking into a jog once he’d left the Fourth’s encampment. Winter and Graff had to hurry to keep up. When he reached his goal and ducked inside, they took shelter behind a wrecked cart and waited. After a few minutes, Winter gave a satisfied nod and turned to Graff.

“This has to be it,” she said.

The corporal nodded. “It’s a clever spot. I have to hand it to Captain Roston.”

“Get going, then.” Her eyes were still glued to the tents. There were no lights inside.

Graff hesitated. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine. I’m just going to sit here and watch, in case they get any ideas about moving the prisoners.”

“Right.” Graff straightened up and brushed dirt from his knees. “Just stay put. I’ll be back as soon as I can round up the men.”

“Hurry,” Winter said. “Fitz will stall Roston as long as he can, but he has to know something’s wrong. We need to have things in hand here before he does anything drastic.”

Graff nodded and started back the way they’d come, breaking into a run when he was a safe distance away. Winter turned her attention back to the tents, watching for any sign that Davis was bringing the prisoners out.

At least there were prisoners, she reflected. Buck had said there weren’t to be any killings, aside from Fitz, but Winter hadn’t been certain until she’d seen Davis scuttling away from Captain Roston’s tents. The fact that he’d immediately gone to confirm that the colonel and Captain d’Ivoire were still in custody implied that both were still alive, which probably boded well for Folsom and the other men from the Seventh. Still, she felt a thrill of tension. What if Davis decides now is the time to play for keeps? She imagined an unsheathed knife and blood spilling from slit throats, and tensed herself to move at the sound of a scream. She’d promised Graff and Bobby not to do anything rash, but if Davis was going to murder the prisoners. .

No sound came. The tents remained dark, without even the faint glow of candlelight leaking through at the flaps.

How long would it take for Graff to make it back with a squad of trustworthy Seventh Company men? How long could Fitz keep Adrecht occupied? Winter shifted uneasily and shuffled a little closer. What the hell is Davis doing in there in the dark?

A faint sound behind her gave her an instant of warning. She spun, reaching for the knife at her belt, but not fast enough. One big hand grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her forward, off balance. She felt something strike hard in the small of her back, and the stumble turned into a fall. A splinter of wood from the broken cart scraped painfully against her cheek and drew blood before it snapped. Winter struggled to push herself to her feet, but her attacker already had his boot planted between her shoulder blades, and even a fraction of his weight pressed so hard it made her fight for breath.

“Well, well, well,” Davis said. “The Saint, as I live and breathe. Oh, that’s Lieutenant Saint now, isn’t it? Forgive me if I don’t salute.” He pressed down a little harder, and Winter whimpered. “You don’t think very highly of ol’ Sarge, do you? You think ol’ Sarge isn’t smart enough to know when he’s being followed? Think he isn’t smart enough to nip out the back way?”

Davis snorted. The pressure increased again and then, mercifully, relaxed. She felt him take hold of her wrists again.

“Get up,” he said. “Sir.”

Winter was all too aware Davis had muscles like steel bars under his layers of fat. She felt herself shriveling up under the mockery of his voice. For a moment she wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball, hide from him, hope he’d go away.

I can’t. She struggled to her feet, then started walking as he shoved her forward. He’ll kill me now. He has to. Her legs trembled, and not only from pain. She’d faced the Khandarai, walked to the sound of the regimental drum into a storm of fire and lead shot, but this was worse somehow. This is personal. She flexed her wrists, searching for an opening, but he was unbending.

Inside the tent, he transferred both her arms to one enormous hand while he struck a match with the other and lit an oil lamp. Piles of scrap wood and discarded, ruined supplies lined the edges of the tent, with only a narrow clear path in the center. Beside the one tent pole, leaning against one of the heaps, was Colonel Vhalnich himself. He was bound hand and foot, and gagged with what looked like a spare shirt. Davis glanced at him and snorted.

“You and him ought to get along famously, Saint. He’s a talker , just like you. You know, the first time I left him here with Peg to look after him, and by the time I got back he’d nearly talked Peg into letting him out? Mind, Peg always was a bit of a horse’s ass. But I like him better quiet.”

Winter met the colonel’s eyes. They were gray, deep, inscrutable. It shook her. She’d expected rage, or maybe fear, but the only thing she saw there was cold calculation.

“Right.” Davis’ free hand groped around Winter’s midsection. She froze while he patted her down, coming up with the pistol she’d taken from Buck and her belt knife. He tossed both into a corner, then let go of her wrists and pushed her away. “Now, you’ve got some questions to answer.”

Winter turned on him, doing her best to imitate the colonel’s nonchalance. “Where’s Folsom? And Captain d’Ivoire and the others?”

“I said you were going to answer questions, not ask ’em,” Davis said. “Are your friends on their way here?”