Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

“He’s not bad,” Marcus said. “I think we can work with him. He just needed a little lesson on what’s possible and what isn’t. If he thinks he’s going to take this lot into battle after a week of forced marches. .”

“Battle?” Mor said. “You think it’ll come to that?”

“Probably. We aren’t marching all this way for our health.”

“Last time I checked, there were a hell of a lot more of them than there are of us. Has anybody told His Lordship?”

“I told him myself,” Marcus said. “Fighting isn’t just about counting noses, though.”

“Let’s hope you’re right about that. Though I’d lay ten to one we come scampering back down this road before the month is out.”

“Either way,” Marcus said, starting on the other boot, “it’s not our problem.”

“True. Our problem is currently sprawled in a supply wagon, making a solid try at drowning himself in wine.”

Marcus swore softly. “Adrecht.”

“Adrecht. You saw the way his men behaved today?”

Marcus nodded. Adrecht’s Fourth Battalion hadn’t even managed to stay together, let alone form square. “Where was he?”

“Search me, but he wasn’t with them. Lieutenant Orta said he rode off around midday and never came back.”

“Saints and martyrs,” Marcus cursed. “Is he trying to get himself brought up on charges?”

“Last I talked to him, he was convinced we were all going to end up on Redeemer spikes, so I’m not sure he cares anymore.” Mor gave Marcus a careful look. “What do you want to do?”

Marcus heard the question under the question. Do we cover for him , he translated, and try to snap him out of it? Or ignore it and let the colonel deal with him? He suspected he knew what Mor’s opinion was. Mor had never had much use for the mercurial, unreliable captain of the Fourth.

“What do you think of this. . Orta, was it?”

Mor shrugged. “He seems competent enough. A little hesitant to cuss an’ shove when he needs to, though. The new lieutenants your colonel gave us are a bunch of spoiled-rotten assholes, and they like to talk back.”

Marcus wondered if Fitz had the same problem and hadn’t mentioned it. Somehow he doubted it. Fitz had a way of getting what he wanted, though he never raised his voice.

“Right. Have you got a sergeant with a big mouth you’d be willing to part with for a while?”

Mor laughed. “You can have your pick of a dozen.”

“Send one or two of them over to Orta, and tell him to work on getting the Fourth into shape. Hopefully that will buy us enough time to have a word with Adrecht.”

“I suppose that’s fair enough. It’s going to have to be you that talks to him, though. He’s never paid me much mind, and I doubt he’ll start now.”

Marcus nodded. “I’ll wait until morning. Hopefully he’ll have dried out a bit by then.”

“Either that or he’ll still be sleeping it off.” Mor sighed. “I hope he appreciates this.”

“I’m sure you’re not likely to let him forget.”

The big man laughed. “Bet your ass.”

• • •

By rights, it ought to have been easy to get to sleep. The day had left Marcus near exhaustion, though more from anxious fretting than physical exertion. On the way back to his tent the only thing he’d been able to think about was collapsing into bed, but now that he was actually there sleep refused to come. He felt alert, even twitchy. If someone had tapped his shoulder he might have jumped a foot. Lying on his side, he could feel the thump-thump of his pulse, fast enough to march to.

After an hour, he dragged himself up with a silent curse, slipped his boots on without tying the laces, and staggered outside. The sky was a blaze of stars, dimmed only slightly by the torches and fires that still burned amidst the rows of tents. The moon hung huge and horned just above the western horizon, washing the labyrinth of blue canvas in a ghostly light.

When he started out, Marcus had the notion of taking a walk to convince his body to let him rest, but by the time he passed the last row of tents his steps had acquired more purpose. Beyond where the camp ended, across a few hundred yards of scrub, a line of torches marked the ring of sentries.

Sentries carried loaded weapons, and on a night like this they were bound to be jumpy. Marcus stopped a good fifty yards from the line, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted, “Sentry, ho! Friends approaching!”

The torch waggled in response. Marcus crossed the remaining distance at a brisk walk and found a young man with a musket resting on his shoulder and a torch in one hand. The shadows made everyone seem pale and hollow-eyed, but from the deep blue of his uniform Marcus could tell he was a recruit. He straightened up when he saw the captain’s bars on Marcus’ shoulder and tried to figure out how to salute with a torch in one hand and a musket butt in the other.

“No need, Ranker,” Marcus said. “I’m just taking a quick look at the lines. What’s your name?”

“Ranker Ipsar Sutton, sir!” He tried to salute again and nearly singed his forehead. “First Battalion, Fifth Company, sir!”

“One of mine,” Marcus said. “I’m Captain d’Ivoire.”

“I know, sir!” the young man said proudly. “I saw you at the drill this afternoon.”

Drill, Marcus thought, is one way to put it. “How long is your shift, Ranker Sutton?”

“Another three hours, sir!” He gestured with the torch. “Nothing to see so far, sir!”

“It does us good knowing you’re out here,” Marcus said. “I for one couldn’t sleep otherwise.”

“Yes, sir!” Sutton stood up even straighter. “Thank you, sir!”

“Keep up the good work.” Marcus patted him genially on the shoulder and walked on, into the darkness.

He went along the line of sentries, meeting each man in turn and exchanging a few words of greeting. They were all recruits-apparently this section of the perimeter was held by the Fifth and Sixth companies-and to man they seemed distressingly keen. Getting a word from him seemed to cheer them up immeasurably, and by the time he turned back to his tent Marcus felt like he’d actually done some good.

It would have been different with the Old Colonials. Familiarity bred contempt, of course, and after the long years in the camp near Ashe-Katarion even the rankers had come to treat officers with a genial disregard. It might have been different if Ben Warus had been the sort of colonel to take offense at insubordinate conduct, but he’d always been an easygoing type, and the others took their cues from him. Seeing the straight postures and bright young faces of the recruits reminded Marcus of his last year at the War College, drilling squads of sweating underclassmen out on the Long Field.

That was what the army was supposed to be like. Not. . this. He’d long ago resigned himself to the fact that Khandar wasn’t much of a post. It certainly wasn’t what he’d envisioned when he’d started at the College. But that had been before , when he’d still cared about his career and his standing in the world, before he’d volunteered for service at the edge of the world with the hope that it would let him outrun his ghosts. He’d done his best to enjoy the soft life of a sinecure and not to dwell on the past. Then, during the retreat, he’d been too busy to think. But now, with his comfortable routine broken-

“Good evening, Captain,” said a woman’s voice from the darkness. Such women as were with the regiment-laundresses, cooks, and whores, those who’d been brave enough to accompany the column when it had marched-would be on the other side of camp, with the supply train. That left a field of one, so Marcus hazarded a guess.