Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

The Second Company man was leering again. He was a squat, ugly ranker, with a thick black beard and angry red welts on his cheeks. He sat by the tent flap on a biscuit crate, musket by his side, and occupied his time with tuneless whistling and staring hungrily at Jen when he thought no one was looking.

“Marcus,” Jen hissed.

He looked across at her, and her eyes flicked to their jailer.

“If he tries anything,” Marcus said in a whisper, “I’ll-”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she said. “Listen. If worse really comes to worst, just keep your head down.”

He snorted. “If you think I’m going to sit quietly while he drags you outside and has his way with you-”

“He won’t,” she said.

“You don’t know that.”

Her expression grew determined. “I mean, I won’t let him.”

“But-”

“Just trust me, would you?”

Marcus subsided. With his arms tied behind his back, he didn’t fancy his chances in a fight with the hefty ranker, but he didn’t see that he had any other options. No point in arguing, though. He looked up at a rustle from the tent flap, hoping for Adrecht but expecting Davis. The guard looked up, too, one hand going to his musket.

The pistol shot was shockingly loud at such close range. The Second Company man, eyes blank with surprise, rolled slowly backward with a hole drilled neatly through his forehead. Janus ducked inside the tent and tossed the still-smoking weapon aside.

“Good morning, Captain,” he said. “Miss Alhundt, Corporal. I thought we might repair to more congenial surroundings.”

He bent, pulled the knife from the dead man’s belt, flipped it around, and offered it to Jen. She set to work on the rope binding Marcus’ hands. Behind the colonel another man entered, and it took Marcus a moment to recognize young Lieutenant Ihernglass, who looked as though he’d been worked over by a team of men with truncheons. Blood smeared his face and trickled from his nose, his lips were thick and purple, and a bruise was swelling under one eye. He spared Marcus only a glance, then hurried toward where the corporal and the others lay.

“Don’t tell me,” Marcus said, as his hands came free. “You tricked Davis into slitting his own throat.”

“A surprisingly accurate guess,” Janus said, “but not quite. The senior sergeant was hardly my intellectual equal, but he proved remarkably resilient to persuasion. I must admit that we have the lieutenant to thank for our liberty.”

“Ihernglass? How did he find us?”

“You’ll have to get the complete story from him yourself. I understand he stumbled across Lieutenant Warus, and together they concocted a plan.”

“Fitz is all right, then?” That had been preying on Marcus’ mind.

“I believe so. The lieutenant says he left him with his company.”

“Right.” Marcus clambered to his feet, massaging his aching wrists. He spared a moment to smile at Jen, then turned back to Janus. “What about Davis? When I get my hands on him-”

“The senior sergeant has, I’m afraid, gone beyond the reach of your retribution.”

“He’s dead?”

Janus nodded at Ihernglass. “There was an altercation.”

Marcus remembered the sheer scarred bulk of Davis, his massive fists, and measured them against Ihernglass’ slim, boyish figure. He whistled softly, then shook his head. “Quicker than he deserved. What about Adrecht?”

“According to the lieutenant, Captain Roston is back at the main camp. Lieutenant Warus is endeavoring to keep him distracted.”

“Then this isn’t over,” Marcus said. “We’ve got to get over there-”

Janus held up a hand. “Indeed. All in good time. Before that, though, I wondered if I might have a word in private?”

Marcus blinked, then looked over his shoulder at Jen. She nodded encouragingly, and Janus gave another of his summer-lightning smiles. He led the way out of the tent and onto the wreckage-strewn plain beyond. The sky in the east was just beginning to lighten, and the air was still heavy with the scent of woodsmoke.

“Jen is. .,” Marcus began.

“You trust her,” Janus said mildly.

“I don’t know,” Marcus said. “She’s Concordat. But she doesn’t seem. .” He trailed off, not sure how to put it.

“It is inevitable that, even among Duke Orlanko’s minions, there are good men and women loyal to the king. Since your acquaintance with the young lady is somewhat deeper than mine”-a flash of humor in Janus’ eye made Marcus certain he knew exactly how deep that “acquaintance” went-“I am willing to trust your judgment. However, you have mistaken my purpose. My intention was not to keep secrets from Miss Alhundt, but rather to address a matter that concerns only you and me.”

Marcus straightened, taken aback. “Sir?”

“To be blunt, Captain, I wish to apologize. I allowed an unfortunate personal habit to get the better of me, and the result was a danger to this entire command as well as an insult to you personally.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

Janus sighed. “It is a failing of mine that when I encounter an intellectual problem of any complexity, I have difficulty in preventing myself from throwing every ounce of my creative energy into its solution, leaving little or nothing over for other pursuits. This has been the case for the last several days, in spite of my best intentions, and the result has been the situation in which we find ourselves.”

“I’m not sure there’s anything you could have done, sir,” Marcus said.

“Nonsense. I should have foreseen Captain Roston’s behavior, both during the battle and afterward. And snapping at you on the ridge was inexcusable. If I had left proper instructions, or better yet exercised command in person, you would not have been put in the impossible situation of a choice between rescuing a friend and defending the camp.”

Marcus stared at the colonel, searching his impassive face for something to help him respond. He’d almost entirely forgotten his anger at Janus, consumed as he’d been by a much more immediate rage at Adrecht, Davis, and his own stupidity. The colonel’s casual rebuke on the hillside seemed a thousand years ago. And yet Janus obviously felt keenly about it, on some level, which made Marcus hesitate from casually dismissing the matter. He finally settled on defensive formality.

“I accept your apology, sir,” he said. “Although, of course, you were perfectly within your rights as commanding officer.”

Janus nodded. “Nevertheless, I have expressed the wish that you and I have a relationship that is more than simply commander and subordinate, and it is incumbent on me to behave accordingly.”

“Well. Thank you, then.” Marcus scratched his chin through his beard uncertainly. “What was the problem?”

“The nature of the Desoltai tactical advantage, of course. It has become clear to me, over the course of the march, that our enemies enjoy a considerable edge in terms of information, above and beyond what their natural mobility as a mounted force should provide. Coordinating simultaneous attacks over long distances is a feat beyond the ability of most organized armies with modern timekeeping devices, much less desert raiders reckoning from the sun.”

“The Steel Ghost is famous for it,” Marcus said, glad for the change of subject. “There’s all kinds of stories about him.” He broke off, then lowered his voice. “Is it true, do you think? Could he be something. . supernatural, like the creature we fought in Ashe-Katarion?”

A smile flicked across Janus’ face. “Anything is possible, Captain. But in this case I think not. Certainly the coordination of Desoltai attacks is susceptible to a more mundane explanation.”