Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

14th of May, 1208 YHG. On hundred fourteen present, four sick, two suspended. Ranker George Tanner assessed 4p for damage to civilian property (ship’s rope). Ranker-

Winter closed her eyes and massaged her temples, which had started to throb alarmingly. Bobby’s handwriting was not helping-it had the careful precision of someone who’d practiced under a tutor’s switch, but he wrote so small the words all ran together. No doubt the corporal had been motivated by a sincere desire not to consume too much of the king’s paper.

She leaned back from the miniature desk, hearing something pop in her back, and looked at the discouragingly large stack that remained. Fatigue settled on her like a heavy blanket, payment for the keyed-up nervousness she’d been feeling ever since her interview with the captain. She crawled over to the bedroll and flopped onto it facedown.

This could almost work. She shied away from the thought, as though even to contemplate it invited disaster. I could live with this.

So far, her secret seemed safe. And being a sergeant had definite advantages: the privacy of her own tent, and a certain automatic distance from the rankers. If a stack of account books was the worst she had to deal with, then it was undeniable that Captain d’Ivoire had done her a favor.

The remaining unknown was the company lieutenant-she’d already forgotten the man’s name-and what his attitude might be. Even there, though, signs were encouraging. The less time he spent with the men, the better, as far as Winter was concerned.

For the first time in weeks she allowed herself to contemplate the future with something other than a sense of dread. The fleet had been dispatched weeks ago, in response to reports of rebel strength that were themselves weeks out of date. Even rankers like Buck and Peg could see that it was fruitless to remain here now that the Redeemers had taken the capital. “Fort” Valor was a joke, a death trap. It might be a few days until the new colonel resigned himself to the situation, but soon enough they’d all be packed aboard ship and set a course for home.

The voyage itself loomed large in Winter’s apprehensions, but that was only a discomfort to be endured, like so many others. And then. .

The Colonials will get some awful posting. They were more or less a penal regiment, after all. Far away from the city, maybe up north, keeping the king’s sheep safe from Murnskai raiders. Either way, they would be a long way from Mrs. Wilmore’s, and anyone who might connect a boyish sergeant with the ragged girl who’d made her escape from that institution.

Winter closed her eyes. Honestly, I’m sure they’ve forgotten all about me.

• • •

“Sergeant?”

Winter surfaced from a dream of cavernous, echoing halls and a pair of haunting green eyes. For one confused moment, she was convinced she was back at Mrs. Wilmore’s Prison for Young Ladies, and that Khandar and everything that had come after that was the dream.

“Sergeant? Sergeant Ihernglass?”

Winter opened her eyes.

Bobby stood by the open tent flap, looking embarrassed. Beyond him was the gray darkness of early evening, broken by the flickering, reflected light of campfires. Winter slowly sat up, feeling her cheeks redden. She coughed.

“Y-yes? What is it, Corporal?”

“Sorry, sir,” Bobby said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s all right.” Winter yawned. “It’s been a long day, that’s all.”

“Yes, sir. For all of us, sir.” The boy hesitated. “Dinner’s on outside, sir. Would you care to join us?”

Winter felt a sudden complaint from her stomach-she hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. But she shook her head.

“I’m not sure that would be. . appropriate.”

“Then I’ll bring you something, sir, as soon as it’s ready,” Bobby said.

“Thank you, Corporal,” Winter said, with real gratitude. “In the meantime I suppose I’d better get back to this paperwork.”

The corporal saluted and left, letting the tent flap fall closed behind him. Winter rubbed her cheeks, trying to massage some life into them, and then her temples, to discourage the headache she still felt looming.

From outside, there came the low buzz of voices in conversation, punctuated by the sound of laughter. She wondered, idly, how much of it was at her expense. Nothing new there, of course.

She pulled herself over to the desk and tried to focus on the accounts ledger, but the figures swam across her vision. Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms, she caught a sudden flash of green. A pair of green eyes, and a half smile.

Her fingers curled through her hair. Why now, Jane?Three years. . Fingernails tightened on her scalp, to the point of pain, hands tightening to claws. What more do you want from me?

With some difficulty, Winter forced her hands into her lap and sat back. Her heart thumped a fast tattoo, matched by answering pulses in her temples.

Red hair, dark and slick as oil, slipping through my fingers. .

Can you be haunted by someone who isn’t dead?

There was a rap at the tent pole. Winter opened her eyes and took a long, shaky breath.

“It’s me, sir. Bobby.”

“Come in.”

The corporal entered cautiously, obviously determined not to embarrass his sergeant again. He carried a platter with a steaming tin bowl, which filled the tent with the smell of spiced mutton, and a couple of hardtack crackers. Winter took it from him, set it on the desk on top of the accounts, and attacked it with genuine enthusiasm. The retreat had wreaked havoc with the army’s supply trains, and the quality of food had seriously declined since their Ashe-Katarion days. The new officers had obviously put things back in order. The mutton was in a sort of soup, not quite a proper stew, and the hardtack absorbed the juices and softened to something approaching an edible consistency.

It wasn’t until she was mostly finished that she noticed the folded slip of paper on the platter beside the food. Catching her expression, Bobby gave a polite cough.

“It’s a message for you, sir. We had a courier just now from the lieutenant.” He paused, torn between curiosity and propriety. He obviously hadn’t risked a peek.

Winter nodded and picked up the paper, breaking the blobby wax seal. The contents were short and to the point, although the scribbled signature was illegible. Winter read the note again, just in case she’d gotten something badly wrong.

“Sir?” Bobby prompted, watching her face.

Winter cleared her throat. “We’re ordered to strike tents at first light tomorrow, and be ready to march by ten o’clock. Can you inform the men?”

“Yessir!” Bobby said, saluting. He turned, obviously pleased with this responsibility, and left the tent.

Ready to march? Winter gratefully let this new worry banish both the account book and her memories. Where? Down to the fleet? That was possible, of course, although she’d have thought the ships would need longer to replenish their supplies. But if not there, then where?Against the Redeemers? She allowed herself a smile. She couldn’t believe even a colonel would be mad enough to try that .

MARCUS

Marcus awoke to the groans and curses of the First Battalion soldiers as their lieutenants rousted them from their tents. He dressed hurriedly, had a brief conference with Fitz, then went in search of Janus.

He found the colonel waiting by the gate, watching the men break camp. Aside from his horse, which stood quietly with all the well-bred dignity befitting Vordan’s finest, he was alone. All around the courtyard, tents were coming down and stacked arms were being reclaimed by their owners. The First Battalion, entitled to the place of honor at the head of the march, was already starting to form up.