Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

“Yes, sir.” The manservant bowed again, deeply, and withdrew.

“Augustin has been with my family since he was a boy,” Janus confided as the man bustled away. “He thinks of it as his mission in life to maintain the dignity of my station. Don’t let him bother you.”

Somewhat to Marcus’ surprise, the largest and outermost chamber of the little suite had been converted into a passable imitation of a dining room. The walls were still bare rock and there were no carpets on the floor, of course, but a table big enough for six had appeared, complete with chairs, napkins, and cutlery. Even plates-Marcus hadn’t seen real china since he’d arrived in Khandar. He wondered whether the colonel planned to carry it all into the field.

“Take a seat, Captain! Take off your jacket, if you like.” Janus was in his shirtsleeves, his blue coat tossed carelessly on top of a trunk in one corner. “You may have gathered that I don’t stand on ceremony.” When he saw Marcus still hesitating in the doorway, he commanded, “Sit! I’ll be back in a moment. I need to sort something out.”

He bustled off through the flimsy curtain that divided the dining room from the rest of the suite. Marcus, somewhat uncertainly, took one of the chairs and settled into it. It was a more complex affair then it appeared at first glance, with a canvas seat and back, and was surprisingly comfortable. After a bit of investigation Marcus decided the thing could be folded up for transport.

His curiosity piqued, he picked up his plate. The lack of heft told him it wasn’t porcelain after all; it felt more like tin. He rapped it with his fingernail.

“A special alloy,” the colonel said, from the doorway. “And the glaze is an interesting design. It has nearly the look of proper china, doesn’t it? But it’s practically impossible to scratch.” He shook his head. “The food won’t be much, I’m afraid. Augustin is a wizard, but there’s only so much that can be done with salt beef and hard bread.”

Marcus, whose last meal had been a thin mutton soup from a wooden bowl, shrugged.

“Once we’ve had some time to settle in, I hope that you’ll introduce me to the local delicacies,” the colonel went on.

“When we left Ashe-Katarion,” Marcus said, “the thing to eat was roasted imhalyt beetles in the shell. Under the right conditions they can grow to be eight inches long, and the meat is supposedly delightful.”

Janus didn’t bat an eye. “It sounds. . fascinating. Did you spend a great deal of time with the locals?”

“Before the Redeemers, we had reasonably good relations,” Marcus said, considering. “On the whole I wouldn’t say they loved us, of course, but I had friends in the city. There was a little place by the harbor that sold arphalta -that’s a sort of clam-and I used to spend my free evenings there. The damn things are hard to get open unless you know the trick, but the meat is sweet as candy.”

Marcus paused, wondering suddenly if the little arphalta shop was still there or if it had been consigned to the flames by the Redeemers. Wondering, for that matter, how many of his friends might have shared a similar fate.

“I wish I’d been here,” the colonel said. “It’s a fascinating culture, and I’d have loved to have explored it in peace. I imagine any further interactions will be somewhat-strained.”

“Quite probably,” Marcus deadpanned.

Augustin came back in with a silver tureen of thick red soup and a pair of bowls. He placed and poured with all the noiseless elegance of the ancient retainer, then went back to the kitchen for glasses and a bottle of wine. He presented the latter to Janus for approval.

“Yes, that will do,” Janus told him. Glancing at Marcus, he said, “You have no objection to Hamveltai flaghaelan , I hope?”

Marcus, whose appreciation of wine began and ended with what color it was, nodded uncertainly.

“Augustin was quite upset with me when I didn’t allow him to bring half the cellar,” Janus said. “I kept telling him that we were unlikely to require a Bere Nefeit ’79 while on campaign, but he was most insistent.”

“One never knows what may expected of one,” Augustin said. He poured deftly. “A gentleman must always be prepared to entertain guests in the manner of a gentleman.”

“Yes, yes.” Janus took up his glass and raised it. “To the king’s health!”

“The king’s health,” Marcus echoed, and sipped. It was good, truthfully, though after years of Khandarai rotgut it felt like drinking fruit juice. He was more interested in the soup-if the ingredients were salt beef and hard bread, they had certainly been well concealed. Before he realized it he had cleaned the bowl and found himself looking around for more.

“Another helping for the captain,” Janus said.

“Thank you, sir,” Marcus said. He cleared his throat. “You’d best know, I had a visitor this afternoon-”

“Our Miss Alhundt? Yes, I thought you might.”

“She. .” Marcus paused, looking at Augustin. Janus caught his expression.

“You may trust in Augustin’s discretion. I certainly do. However, if it makes you more comfortable-Augustin, would you leave us for a few minutes?”

“Certainly, sir.” The manservant bowed. “I will be outside if my lord requires anything.”

He ghosted out. He should get together with Fitz, Marcus thought. Both men had obviously mastered the art of noiseless movement in order to sneak up on their superiors.

“You were saying something about Miss Alhundt?”

“Ah, yes, sir.” Marcus shook his head. “She works for the Ministry of Information. I suppose you know that.”

“I do indeed,” Janus said. “What did you think of her?”

“Personally?” Marcus shrugged. “We didn’t talk long enough to form much of an opinion. A bit stuffy, perhaps. Harmless.”

The corner of Janus’ lip twitched. “Harmless in her person, perhaps. How much do you know about the political situation back home?”

Politics. Marcus fought back a surge of panic. “Almost nothing, sir. We don’t even get the gossip until it’s six months stale.”

“I won’t bore you with the details of plots and counterplots. Suffice it to say that for some time now His Majesty’s government has been divided into two factions. One-call them the ‘peace’ party-favors a greater accommodation with the Borelgai and Emperor of Murnsk, and particularly with the Sworn Church of Elysium. The other side would prefer an aggressive policy toward both. Precisely who belongs to which faction is never entirely clear, but the leader of the peace party has for some time been His Grace Duke Orlanko.” Janus cocked his head. “You’ve heard of him at least, I trust?”

“The Last Duke,” Marcus said. “Minister of Information.”

“Indeed. It was the ascendancy of the war party that brought us the War of the Princes, which ended so disastrously at Vansfeldt.”

“You don’t need to remind me of that ,” Marcus said. “I was there.”

He’d been on his tour as a lieutenant, supervising a supply company well short of any action. He’d been close enough to catch the distant flash and grumble of the guns, though, and to be caught up in the panicked rout that followed.

Janus nodded. “After the treaty was signed, the peace party found its rule nearly uncontested. The death of Prince Dominic had robbed the war party of its leader, and the king was too debilitated by grief and illness to interfere. Orlanko forged closer ties than ever to the Borelgai and the Church. As the king’s sicknesses have become more frequent, Orlanko’s power has increased. If His Majesty were to die-Lord forbid, of course-Princess Raesinia might take the throne, but Orlanko would rule, to the extent that he does not already.”