Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

Marcus sat down heavily on the camp bed, keeping his boots well clear so as not to dirty the sheets. He stared dully at his bootlaces, trying to remember how they functioned.

Fifteen miles. Not so far, in the scheme of things. Scarcely a journey to notice, in a well-sprung carriage, and certainly nothing a good horseman should complain of. Marcus was many things, but a good horseman was not one of them, and he ached from thighs to shoulders.

He could not even blame his mount, since he’d chosen her himself. He had purchased the mare a year or so earlier, after making a search of the Ashe-Katarion markets for the calmest, most stolid, least demanding mount that could be had. The sort of horse frail old ladies rode to church, or whatever it was that Khandarai old ladies did. He’d named her Meadow, on the theory that this might help.

And it had, in a way. Meadow was as unflappable an animal as had ever been bred, which meant that Marcus had to confront the fact that his frequent equine misadventures were solely the result of his lackluster horsemanship. The upshot was that up to now Meadow had led an extremely comfortable life and was hardly ever called upon to do any actual work, while Marcus walked or rode on carts whenever he could and saddled up only when it was absolutely unavoidable.

But senior officers were expected to ride while on the march. And not just in a straight line, either, but up and down the column, watching for problems and encouraging the men when their spirits flagged. Janus had set the example here, eschewing his black sun cape for full dress uniform to let the men get a good look at him. Marcus, perforce, had to follow, with the result that it felt like he’d ridden closer to thirty miles than fifteen.

For all that, the men in the ranks had it worse. Fifteen miles was a good day’s walk under the best of conditions, but it was hellish with a full pack and the Khandarai sun blazing down. The Old Colonials, toughened by years of trudging through the heat, had grumbled and produced all manner of unorthodox headgear to keep off the vicious rays. The recruits, feeling they had something to prove, had shuffled gamely in their veteran comrades’ wake and dropped like flies from exhaustion and heatstroke. Give-Em-Hell’s cavalry were even now ranging back along the route of march, gathering up the stricken and delivering them to the regimental surgeon to be given a cold compress and a jot of whiskey.

Fifteen miles. Damn the man. It was Janus who’d insisted on the pace. At least the Redeemers had the courtesy to start their revolution in April instead of August. Even in spring, in spite of the coastal breezes, the Khandarai heat was trying. By high summer, the coast would be baking, and the inland desert would become a bone-dry furnace. Be thankful for small graces.

A rap at the tent pole made Marcus raise his head. That would be Fitz, ideally with dinner. He shifted, gingerly, to a sitting position and said, “Come in.”

Fitz entered, but not alone. Val was as dusty and sweat-stained as Marcus, but didn’t look half as exhausted. An aristocrat’s son, Captain Valiant Solwen had learned to ride about the time he’d learned to walk, and no doubt considered the day’s journey merely a bracing jaunt. He was short and broad-shouldered, giving him an almost apish appearance when not on horseback. His looks were not improved by a ruddy face that hinted at his ability to consume truly heroic amounts of alcohol. He adorned his upper lip with a pencil-thin mustache, which he claimed gave him a rakish air, and he spent an inordinate amount of time maintaining it. In Marcus’ opinion it made him look like a penny-opera villain.

“I’m sorry,” Val said, with a half smile. “I didn’t realize you were going to bed straightaway.”

“Just resting my eyes,” Marcus muttered. He turned to Fitz. “Have they got dinner going yet?”

“Yessir,” the lieutenant said.

“Mutton again, I suppose?”

“More than likely, sir.” Khandar was rich in sheep, if little else. “Shall I fetch you something?”

“Please. Val, will you join me?”

“I suppose so,” Val said, without enthusiasm.

Marcus swung his legs down and unlaced his riding boots, letting his feet emerge with an almost audible creaking as his bones flexed back into shape. He stood up in his socks and winced.

“Always meant to get new boots,” he said. “A hundred boot makers in Ashe-Katarion, there’s got to be one who can get it right. Kept putting it off, though, and now here we are.” He grinned at Val. “There’s a lesson in that, I think.”

“‘Make sure you’ve got decent boots, because you never know when a pack of bloodthirsty priests are going to take over the place’? Doesn’t sound very widely applicable.”

“More like, ‘Don’t put things off too long, because you may never get a chance at them.’” Marcus went to one of his trunks, flipped it open, and rooted amongst his assorted rags until he found what he wanted. He held the bottle up to the lamp. The wax seal over the cap was still intact, and amber liquid glistened seductively inside the lumpy glass. Bits of green stuff floated on the surface. Herbs, Marcus hoped. “I’ve been saving this one. Damned if I know why. Scared to drink it, maybe.” He held the bottle out to Val. “Join me?”

“Gladly,” Val said. While Marcus hunted for his tin cups, Val added, “Adrecht has the same idea, I think. He’s convinced that we’re all going to die, so he’s drinking his way through that liquor chest of his.”

“Serve him right if he falls off his horse and hits his head,” Marcus said.

“Small chance of that. Last I heard, his head already hurt so badly he was riding in a wagon and cursing every bump in the road.”

Marcus laughed and came up with the cups. He broke the seal, poured, and offered one to Val, who took it gratefully.

“To Colonel Vhalnich!” Val proclaimed. “Even if he is mad.”

He emptied his cup and made a sour face. Marcus only sipped from his. The sensation on his tongue made him think Val had the right idea after all. He frowned.

“Mad?”

“What else, marching us out here like this?” Val leaned forward. “That’s what I came to ask you. You’ve been spending a lot of time with him. Has he let you in on the big secret?”

Marcus thought for a moment of Miss Alhundt and Janus’ feud with the Last Duke. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“The plan!” Val gestured violently with the cup, spraying a few drops of liquor against the tent wall. “He can’t be planning to just march up to Ashe-Katarion and knock on the gates, can he? You know as well as I do what’d happen next. The Redeemers have a goddamned army in the city. What are we supposed to do against that with one regiment?”

“I know,” Marcus said, downing the rest of his drink in one brutal swallow.

“But does he ? In other words, is he ignorant, stupid, or deluded?”

“He knows,” Marcus said. Then, echoing his words to Fitz, “He’s clever.”

“Clever! Clever’s the worst. God save us from clever colonels.” Val shook his head. “Have you talked to Mor?”

“Not recently.”

“He’s not happy.”

“I can imagine.” Captain Morwen Kaanos was irascible at the best of times, which these hardly were. And his dislike of anything related to the nobility was well-known. He and Val had a long-simmering feud on the subject, based on nothing more than Val’s being a distant cousin to some peer or other. Janus was an actual count , and taking his orders was certain to send the captain of the Third Battalion into a rage.

“He’s not the only one,” Val said quietly. “I’ve been hearing a lot of talk, Marcus.”