Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

Janus turned to one of the men beside him, who handed over the pack Lieutenant Ihernglass had taken from the Desoltai scout. He extracted a wooden box, about a foot to a side, with a small lever protruding from one corner. Adrecht watched, puzzled, and another tide of whispers rose from the crowd. It stopped at once when Janus began to speak.

“This,” he said, “was taken from a Desoltai patrol. It’s really quite an ingenious creation.” He pressed down on the lever with two fingers, and a circular panel at the front of the box opened. Something gleamed bright inside. “The interior is a ring of mirrors, which collect all the light of a candle placed inside and direct it through the aperture. It’s similar to the lights used for theatrical productions, though less intense.” When he let go of the lever, the covering slid back.

“By manipulating this, one can create a very bright directional beam. In the clear air of the Desol, it can be seen at a great distance.” He looked out at the crowd. “I’ll hazard that some of you have seen them when you were on sentry duty.”

Mutters of assent from the crowd. Adrecht frowned. “A clever trick,” he said. “But-”

“Nothing particularly clever so far,” Janus said dismissively, handing the box back. “Similar devices are used on many occasions-aboard ships at night, for instance. Typically, they display a small range of precoded signals. One light for a request to approach, two for approval, four for bad weather sightings, and so on. Our Desoltai friends have gone considerably further than that. They have developed a true language of light, capable of expressing any information they require. Moreover, they have perfected a procedure for repeating these signals from one post to the next, so that this information can cross long distances at fast as light itself.”

Marcus nodded slowly. A simple signal might be good enough to start a coordinated attack, but in order to respond to changing conditions, something more was required. That explains a great deal.

“This is their secret weapon,” Janus went on, “and not surprisingly they are quite reliant on it. They believe that messages passed this way are impervious to interception, because their language of light is a secret they share with no one. They are incorrect. Given a sufficient number of intercepted messages, and with knowledge of the movements that resulted, a sufficiently clever man might be able to learn this language on his own.”

Adrecht had gone pale. “And you claim to have done this?”

Janus shrugged modestly. “I am a clever man.”

Silence fell by stages. One by one, the men in the crowd stopped talking to their fellows or shouting at one another and went quiet, waiting to see what came next. Janus watched Adrecht, imperturbable, and Adrecht stared back with the desperate eyes of a cornered animal.

Marcus watched the crowd. He doubted one in a hundred had understood Janus’ explanation, even among those close enough to hear the colonel’s words. But they could see Adrecht giving ground. Marcus could feel the balance wobbling around him.

“I don’t believe you,” Adrecht said. His voice rose to a screech. “You’re bluffing.”

“I can show you the records,” Janus said amiably. “Although I admit I did the final ciphering in my head, while I was confined. You did me a favor in that respect. Silence concentrates the mind wonderfully.”

“Shut up!” Adrecht barked. “You led us out here, and you’d rather let us die than take the blame for it!” He turned away from the colonel and faced the crowd. “Don’t you understand? He’ll kill us all just so he doesn’t have to admit he was wrong!”

Janus looked bemused. Mutters were starting again in the crowd, and the moment was slipping away. Marcus stepped forward.

“We won’t make it to the coast,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Not all of us. And for those of us who do, what then? Will the Desoltai just leave us be?”

“It’s the best chance we have,” Adrecht hissed. “The only chance.”

Marcus stared at his friend, his gut churning. At the top of his mind was a black rage that made him want to slam Adrecht’s face in, here and now. After everything I’ve done for him. After I nearly resigned for him. After I came to Khandar for him!

Under that, though, was a sick kind of sympathy. Marcus knew Adrecht, in a way he knew almost no one else in his life. He could follow along, step by step, through the decisions that had led the Fourth Battalion captain to this decision. Marcus forced himself not to look at Adrecht’s empty sleeve. Would I have done the same, in his position?

“Why, Marcus?” Adrecht whispered. “I’ve always been able to count on you.”

Marcus gritted his teeth. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

He stepped away and raised his voice to a shout. “If the colonel is willing to give us a shot at the Desoltai in the bargain, I for one am ready to take it!”

Adrecht glared at him in silence. Marcus looked over his shoulder, to where Mor and Val were standing. He sought their eyes, one at a time.

It was Mor who moved first, to Marcus’ surprise, stepping forward to stand beside Marcus.

“Hell,” he said. “I’d march for a week without water if you told me we’d get to string up this steel bastard at the end of it.”

Val was nodding, too. “It seems to me,” he said to Adrecht, “that whatever else the colonel is, he is not mad. He’s made a reasonable decision in the light of the available information. I think you have no basis for declaring him incompetent.”

“But-,” Adrecht began.

It was too late. The balance had tipped, and the men were cheering. Even the Second Company men had joined it, lowering their weapons and helping the Seventh Company soldiers to their feet. Whatever Adrecht had to say was lost under the sound, and eventually he fell silent, clutching the stump of his arm and glaring daggers at the colonel.

“Captain,” Janus said, nearly inaudible under the roar, “would you please escort Captain Roston to my tent?”

Marcus gave a grim smile. “Gladly, sir.”

• • •

Paperwork. Marcus would have thought that out in the desert, facing potential annihilation, he would at least be free of his own personal demon. Unfortunately, Janus wanted things done properly , and that meant papers for every man.

“Sir?”

Marcus looked up at Fitz and winced. “Have you seen a cutter about that eye?”

Fitz touched the purpling bruise that covered almost half his face. “It looks worse than it feels, sir. I’ll be all right. Captain Solwen is here, sir, and would like to speak with you.”

Marcus frowned. That was unusually formal for Val. “Send him in, then.”

Fitz held the tent flap open, letting Val duck inside. Marcus got up from his writing table with relief, feeling muscles pop all down his legs and back. He’d been at it longer than he’d realized, but the stack didn’t seem any smaller.

“Val,” Marcus said, then stopped. His friend stood at attention, eyes forward. After weeks in the desert, his uniform was showing signs of wear, but his mustache was newly waxed and perfectly pointed.

“Senior Captain,” Val said in a tone as stiff as his posture.

“What’s going on?”

“I would like. . That is. .” He paused and his shoulders slumped a little. Then he straightened them again and managed, “I would like to consult you on a matter of some urgency.”

Marcus looked up for Fitz, but the lieutenant had already slipped outside. Clever lad. He waved vaguely at Val. “Of course. Sit down. Would you like a drink? Fitz rescued a couple of bottles.”