Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

The regiment, Marcus thought, resembled a snake. At rest it was coiled tightly around itself, forming a more-or-less orderly camp with lines of tents, horses, and artillery parks. The work of picking up all the accoutrements would go on for some time, even as the head of the column started out. Each battalion had its assigned tasks in making or breaking camp, depending on its place in the order. The First would march out, dragging the Second after it, and so on, until the snake was fully extended and crawling down the road.

It was the tail that worried him. The Preacher’s guns could keep up, more or less, but on the retreat the ox-drawn supply carts had ended up strung out over miles of rough track, straggling in well after dark. Now, Marcus looked at the route ahead and imagined every rock hiding a Desoltai scout, and every defile a gang of Redeemer fanatics.

The sound of hooves from behind him took a moment to penetrate his gloom. Janus glanced back and said, “Ah. I believe this is our chief of cavalry. Captain, would you be so kind as to provide an introduction?”

“Of course, sir.” Marcus waited while the horseman dismounted, spurs jingling. “Colonel, may I present Captain Henry Stokes? Captain, this is Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran.”

“Sir!” The captain saluted, with his usual ferocity. Henry-that was what Marcus called him to his face, although he was more commonly known to officers and men alike by the nickname “Give-Em-Hell”-was a short, bandy-legged man with a pigeon chest and a peacock’s disposition. His weapons were always brightly polished, and Marcus didn’t doubt that he’d given them an extra rubdown today. He wore an expression of fierce concentration.

A major contributor to Henry’s inferiority complex, in addition to his height, was that the Colonials hardly had any cavalry. Members of that branch of the service were generally wealthier and better connected than those in the infantry, and thus less prone to-or at least more able to get out of-the kind of official disapproval that got a man sent to Khandar. To add insult to injury, the great Vordanai stallions and geldings so beloved of the horsemen fared poorly in the arid climate, so by now most of the captain’s hundred or so troopers were mounted on smaller, sturdier Khandarai breeds.

“Captain,” Janus said. “I regret that we have not had the chance to meet before now. Matters have, unfortunately, been busy.”

“Sir!” Henry was practically vibrating with excitement. “Think nothing of it, sir! Just glad to be on the march again, sir!”

“Indeed. I’m afraid there is a great deal of hard work ahead for you and your men.”

“Sir!” The cavalryman’s chest was so puffed up he looked in danger of leaving the ground. “Just point the way, sir, and we’ll give ’em hell!”

Janus coughed. “I’m sure you will. At the moment, however, I require them to serve in a more reconnaissance-oriented capacity.”

Henry deflated a little. “Yessir.”

“You’re to range ahead of the advance, make sure the road is clear, and report on any potential opposition.” Janus had obviously picked up on some of the captain’s attitude, because he added, “That’s report , not engage. And make sure your men travel in groups. I understand the Desoltai delight in ambushes.”

Henry looked sour. That was light cavalry work, and Marcus knew his heart was in the cut-and-slash of the cuirassiers. He saluted anyway.

“If anyone’s out there, sir, we’ll find them.”

“Excellent. Once you’ve gone fifteen miles, or thereabouts, detail some men to start laying out a campsite.”

“Yessir!” Henry turned and remounted. Janus watched him ride away.

“He seems a most. . enthusiastic officer,” the colonel said, once the captain was out of earshot.

“Yes, sir,” Marcus said. “Very keen.”

“I must say, a little more cavalry would be a comfort.” Janus sighed. “Ah, well. We must work with what we’re given.”

“Yes, sir.”

Janus shot him a penetrating glance. “You seem dissatisfied, Captain.”

“No, sir,” Marcus said stiffly. “Just a little bit anxious, sir. That matter we discussed last night.”

“Ah.” Janus shrugged. “If it helps relieve your mind, we’re hardly likely to run into any opposition this far out. Any raid they could mount would have only nuisance value.”

Marcus nodded. In the courtyard, the march had begun, and the snake was uncoiling and on the move. Standing beside the colonel, Marcus was forced to see his men through an outsider’s eyes, and the perspective made him wince.

It was easy to see, even at a distance, the distinction between the recruits the Colonel had brought with him and what everyone already called the “Old Colonials.” Rather than break up existing companies, Janus had simply installed the new men as additional units onto the regiment’s four battalions. The old companies, being lower-numbered, led the way on the march, which meant that the long blue snake appeared to be suffering from some sort of skin disease that started from the head. The Old Colonials had done their best, digging long-forgotten blue jackets out of trunks or wheedling them from the quartermasters, but their shirts and trousers didn’t match, and everything was ragged and worn. Here and there a flash of color marked a man who’d refused to give up some treasured bit of silk.

The recruits, by contrast, were an unrelieved mass of blue, broken by the sparkling steel and brass of polished weapons. They marched in the vertebrae-shattering, knee-smashing style dictated by the Manual of Arms , rather than the world-weary slouch of veteran soldiers. Even their packs were all identical, tied up with the bedroll behind the neck, just so. The Old Colonials looked more like a pack of beggars, with clothes tied around their heads to keep off the sun and extra waterskins dangling from their belts.

Before too long, the tramp of thousands of pairs of boots raised such a cloud of dust that the men were nearly obscured. Marcus derived a slight satisfaction from the knowledge that all those bright blue uniforms and all that flashing steel wouldn’t be quite so pristine by day’s end. The leaders of the march-Marcus’ own First Battalion-had already passed through the gate and up the road, and the companies of the Second were forming up. The sound of drums came through faintly, under the rumble of thousands of footsteps.

“Musicians,” Janus said, apropos of nothing in particular.

“Sir?”

“I knew I had forgotten something. One always does, when leaving on a long journey.” He smiled at Marcus. “The Colonials lack a regimental band, do they not?”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, we don’t have one. I suppose it’s hard to earn yourself a tour in Khandar as a musician. We make do with the battalion drummers.”

“Music can have a fine effect on troops on the march. De Troyes wrote that, in his experiments, merely including bands reduced straggling by up to thirty percent, and that he was able to extend the daily distance by almost a mile.” He trailed off, looking thoughtful. Marcus cleared his throat.

“Hadn’t we better mount up, sir?”

“Yes,” Janus said, shaking his head. “Don’t mind me, Captain. Sometimes I find myself. . distracted.”

“Of course, sir.”

MARCUS

R ank, Marcus thought, has its privileges. And in an army on the march, any little bit of comfort was to be savored.

In this case, the privilege was having someone else to erect his tent. It had been carried with the rest of the First Battalion baggage and put up for him at the center of the area allotted to his men. No doubt Fitz had supervised the furnishings, such as they were-camp bed, folding desk, a pair of trunks, and the leather portfolios full of paperwork.