Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

“I’m Winter Ihernglass.” There was a formula for this, somewhere, but she’d be damned if she could remember what it was, so she went on as best she could. “Senior Sergeant Winter Ihernglass. I’ve been assigned to this company. I think.” She looked around, suddenly nervous. “This is First Battalion Seventh Company, isn’t it?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” the corporal barked. “Welcome, sir!”

“And you are. .?”

The young man was practically vibrating with pride. “Senior Corporal Robert Forester, sir! And this is Corporal James Folsom, and Corporal Drake Graff. Welcome to the Seventh Company, sir!”

“You said that already,” Winter said. “But thank you.”

The corporal seemed to deflate a little. “Yes, sir.” Then he brightened. “Would you like to proceed to your tent, sir, or do you want to review the men immediately?”

“Reviewing is the lieutenant’s job, I think,” Winter said. “We have got a lieutenant, haven’t we?”

“Yes, sir! Lieutenant Anton d’Vries, sir! I understand he’s still with the other officers, sir!”

“Well, he can handle the reviewing.” She eyed the other two corporals, who seemed a little embarrassed by their comrade’s enthusiasm. “Just show me to the tent, if you would.”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

The corporal about-faced, so stiff it made Winter’s joints ache just to watch, and started down the row of tents. Winter and the other two followed.

“Corporal Forester?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You may relax a little, if it would make you more comfortable.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” The boy shot her a grin over his shoulder. “In that case, sir, please feel free to call me Bobby. Everyone else does.”

They arrived at a tent, identical to all the rest in its factory-fresh neatness, whose flap was pinned back to reveal the interior. There was only one bedroll, Winter was glad to see, along with a knee-high portable writing desk and a regulation knapsack. In the Ashe-Katarion days, Winter had gotten out of sharing a tent by buying an extra with her own money. Since the retreat, she’d been sleeping beside two soldiers of Davis’ company, which clearly made them as unhappy as it made her uncomfortable. She’d been dreading a similar arrangement in her new unit, but apparently a sergeant rated a tent to himself. Maybethere’s something to being promoted after all.

Winter went inside with the others. She and Bobby barely had to bow their heads, but Corporal Folsom, a tall, broad-shouldered man with blond hair and a drooping mustache, had to bend practically double, and once inside he squatted on his haunches to avoid brushing the ceiling. Winter sat down on the bedroll and let out a long breath. There was another awkward silence.

“Would the sergeant like me to send someone to fetch his baggage?” Bobby suggested.

“Ah, no,” Winter said. “I haven’t got any, actually. Had to leave everything else behind in the retreat. In fact, I’d be grateful if you could have someone run down to army stores. I’m going to need more shirts, trousers”-she looked down at herself-“practically everything, really.”

Bobby straightened to attention even further, if that was possible. “Sir, yes, sir! I’ll attend to it at once!”

“And a sewing kit,” Winter added. She’d grown practiced at making certain surreptitious alterations to her shirts to help conceal the shape underneath, although in that respect it helped that she didn’t have that much to conceal.

Bobby saluted, drillbook-perfect, and hurried out of the tent as though his life depended on it. Winter looked from one corporal to the other in the embarrassed silence that followed.

“Corporal. . Graff, was it?” she said.

“Yessir,” Graff said. “I have to apologize for Bobby, sir. He’s a good lad, but. . keen, you know? I imagine he’ll grow out of it.”

“I imagine so,” Winter said. “Are you three the only corporals in the company?”

“Yessir. Should be three more, but we didn’t have any others who’d admit to meeting the requirements.”

“Requirements?”

“Reading and writing, sir. And there’s a test on regulations. Bobby volunteered, I was a corp’ral already, and we talked Jim here into it.” He shrugged. “Now that we’re in the field, maybe the lieutenant will tap some more men for the job.”

Winter nodded. “What’s the lieutenant like?”

“Couldn’t say, sir,” Graff said. “Haven’t met the man.”

“But-”

“He only joined the comp’ny just before we set sail,” the corporal explained. “Officers were on a separate ship, of course. And he hasn’t stopped by yet.”

“I see,” Winter said. “And how many men have we got?”

Graff looked suddenly worried. “A hundred and twenty, sir,” he said slowly, as though explaining to an idiot. “That’s a company’s worth.”

Winter thought about telling him that none of the old companies in the Colonials had more than eighty, and some many fewer, but decided against it. Instead she turned to the third corporal, who hadn’t yet spoken.

“You’re Corporal Folsom, then?”

The big man nodded.

“Have you been with the army long?”

He shook his head. Winter, in the face of such implacable silence, looked to Graff for support. He shrugged.

“Jim doesn’t talk much,” he said.

“I can see that.”

Bobby returned, ducking through the open flap with a leather portfolio under one arm. He straightened up and saluted, again, then presented the portfolio to Winter with the air of someone offering a sacrament. Winter regarded him blankly.

“Reports, sir,” the corporal said. “Daily sick lists, equipment, and infractions. I’ve been keeping them since we left the depot.”

“Ah.” Winter tried to smile as she took the portfolio. “I’ll be sure to look through them carefully.”

“Yes, sir! And once you’ve signed your approval, I’ll forward them to the lieutenant, sir!”

“I’ve got to sign them all? Why?”

“Daily reports are only provisional until approved by a senior sergeant, sir. There’s also the company accounts in there, sir. They’ve got to be tallied and brought up to date with the reports.”

“You can’t do that, either?”

Bobby looked shocked. “Corporals are not permitted to view the company accounts, sir!”

Winter regarded the folder in her hand as though it were some new and particularly poisonous species of scorpion. The Colonials, as far as she knew, had managed without the formality of paper accounts. Admittedly, they’d managed rather badly , all things considered, with equipment constantly in short supply and pay so far in arrears that the men joked that if they’d been allowed to collect interest they’d own the kingdom by now. Apparently things were to be different from now on. She allowed herself a moment of pleasure at the thought of Davis, a pencil between his fat fingers, trying to puzzle his way through a book of accounts.

“All right,” Winter said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you, sir! And I’ve forwarded your request to the quartermasters, sir!”

“Right.”

The three men looked at her. Winter stared back. After a moment Graff cleared his throat.

“Is there anything else you need from us at this time, sir?”

“What?” Winter shook her head. “Ah. No. No, that will be all, Corporal. Corporals. Thank you.” She felt, vaguely, that something more was expected of her. “I look forward to working with all of you.”

Bobby saluted again, his whole body vibrating with attentiveness. Graff gave a nod, and Folsom said nothing.

13th of May, 1208 YHG. One hundred thirteen present, six sick, one suspended. Ranker Gabriel Sims assessed 1b 6p for loss of cap (blown overboard). Ranker Arcturo d’Venn judged in violation of Regulations Ch. 6 Part III Para 2b, Behavior Likely to Incite Disorder. Sentence: Confinement, 2 days. Ranker Falrad Inker judged in violation of Regulations Ch. 6 Part II Para 3a, Excessive Drunkenness. Sentence: Hard Labor in service of Captain Belson, 1 day.