Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

“All right,” Marcus said uncertainly. “What does that have to do with Khandar? I would have thought we’d be the last thing on his mind.”

“Indeed. When the Minister of War suggested a Khandarai expedition, everyone expected Orlanko to oppose it. Instead, he not only threw his own weight behind it, but demanded that one of his people be sent along as an official observer.”

“Why?”

Janus smiled. “I have spent most of the past few months trying to figure that out. One possibility is that he guessed that I would be chosen for the command. The Duke and I are. . not on good terms. He may think that we are doomed to either bloody failure or ignominious retreat, and in either case he could use the fallout to destroy me.”

Marcus, somewhat alarmed by the casual reference to “bloody failure,” kept his expression carefully neutral. “But you don’t think that’s it.”

“I don’t. It’s too roundabout, even for a compulsive schemer like Orlanko. No doubt my downfall would be gratifying, but there’s something here that he wants.” Janus pursed his lips. “Or something that someone wants. It may be that Orlanko is merely an errand boy for his friends in the Sworn Church. There have been a great many clerical comings and goings from the Ministry of Information lately.”

“What would the Sworn Church want from Khandar?”

“Who knows?” Janus shrugged, but his eyes were hooded. “It could be anything. They still believe in demons up in Elysium.”

“It doesn’t seem very clever of Orlanko to put his agent out where everyone can see her,” Marcus said. “I can have a couple of men tail her, if you like.”

“Thank you, Captain, but don’t bother. As I said, I suspect she’s harmless in her person. The real agents are no doubt salted amongst our new recruits.”

Marcus hadn’t thought about that. All those new men, and how was he supposed to know which to trust? He felt a sudden, irrational stab of rage at Janus. What the hell have you brought down on my regiment?

After a moment he said, “Why tell me all this, sir?”

“I take it you’re not accustomed to senior officers speaking plainly?” Janus chuckled. “No, don’t answer that. I’m trying to be honest with you, Captain, because I need your help. You know the country, you know the Khandarai, and most important, you know the Colonials. I’m not foolish enough to think I can do this without you and your fellow officers.”

Marcus’ back straightened involuntarily. “I will perform my duty to the best of my ability, sir. As will the others.”

“I need more than obedience. I need a partner, of sorts. With the Redeemers in front of us and Orlanko behind, I need someone I can trust.”

“What makes you think you can trust me?”

“I’ve read your file, Captain,” Janus said. “I know you better than you might think.”

There was a long pause.

“What is it that you intend to do?” Marcus asked eventually.

“Whether he intended it or not, Orlanko has backed me into a corner. My orders require me to suppress the rebellion, but no one at the Ministry of War understood how badly out of hand things had gotten here. The only way out is to fight the campaign and win, while keeping one eye on Miss Alhundt and whatever friends she may have brought with her.”

Marcus considered for a moment. “May I ask something, sir?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t fancy the idea of my men being used as pawns in this game between you and the Duke. I want. .” Marcus hesitated. “I would like your word, as an officer, that you really think this can be done. I’m not interested in helping you die gloriously.” Or doing so on your behalf.

He’d been worried that Janus would take offense, but the colonel gave another quick smile. “Of course, Captain. You can have my word as an officer, a count, or in whatever other capacity you’d like.”

“As an officer will be sufficient,” Marcus said, fighting a grin. “I never did place much trust in nobility.”

WINTER

Winter returned from breakfast to find all of her worldly possessions smashed into the dirt.

Someone had taken down her tent, folding it neatly around the poles in accordance with regulations. Before they could do this, they’d had to dump everything out of it, and from the look of things there had been a fair bit of stomping back and forth to make sure her belongings were ground to bits against the parched earth of the courtyard.

Davis was nowhere in evidence, of course, but she could see Peg sitting in front of his own tent, a little way down the row, looking on with a sly smile. No doubt he was hoping to see her scrabbling in the wreckage to rescue what she could, and Winter decided abruptly that she wasn’t going to oblige him. Her worldly possessions didn’t amount to much, anyway. She’d had to leave almost everything behind in the retreat-her pillows, sheets, and other comforts, her private tent, the little hoard of Khandarai books she’d gathered while studying the language. The only things left were a few mementos and curios she’d picked up in Ashe-Katarion, and she wasn’t going to grub on her knees in front of Peg for those.

Instead she turned on her heel without a word and went in search of her new company. This was not an easy task, as the encampment had nearly tripled in size overnight. The new soldiers were marked out by the solid blue of their still-creased tents, but since they outnumbered the old Colonials three to one, that alone wasn’t a great deal of help. Winter ended up collaring a staff lieutenant and asking directions to the First Battalion, Seventh Company, which the harassed young man provided with bad grace.

Walking through the neat rows of tents, fresh from some Vordanai factory and laid out in perfect accord with the instructions in the Regulations , Winter couldn’t help feeling out of place. Despite the addition of a new jacket, her uniform was a long way from perfect, and she felt like the pips on her shoulder drew every eye. She returned the curious stares.

Children, she thought. This is an army of children.

The men she saw eating breakfast or chatting in little groups in front of their tents looked more like kids playing dress-up than like proper soldiers. Their uniforms were too neat, with every bit of seam and trim still in place. Most of the faces she saw were as little in need of a razor as her own.

The tents of the Seventh Company were marked by a stenciled sign tied to a post. Otherwise, there was nothing to distinguish them from the surrounding sea of humanity. Winter had never felt like she was part of an army until now-the Colonials had been more like a tribe, small enough that you had at least a nodding acquaintance with anyone you were likely to meet. Now she understood a little of what some of the older men talked about, having served with real armies on the continent. The sheer busyness of the camp felt oppressive.

She shook her head, wandering down the row of tents. A wave of whispers and stares preceded her. When it reached a small knot about midway down, a trio of soldiers broke away and hurried over, planting themselves stiffly at attention in her path. When she stopped, they gave a simultaneous salute, and she had to clench her fist to keep herself from automatically saluting back.

Instead, she nodded, noting the single copper pip on each shoulder. That made these three corporals, half of the six that were standard complement for an army company. For a long moment, they stood in silence, before it dawned on Winter that it was up to her to make the next move. She cleared her throat.

“Ah. . thank you, Corporal. Corporals.”

“Sir!” said the young man in the middle. He was short, no taller than Winter, and with lank brown hair and the pasty skin of someone who’d spent too much time indoors. Despite his rigid bearing, he looked as though he was about sixteen.