Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

“Water!” Adrecht made a double circle over his heart with one hand, the ancient Church ward against evil. “Don’t say that so loud. God may hear you and strike you down. Water!” He snorted. “I made good progress last night, but if I recall there was a little something left in the purple bottle. .” He fumbled with a bottle, which glugged the last few swallows of its contents into the carpet. Adrecht shrugged and tossed it aside. “Oh, well. There’s still a few more.”

Marcus located a carafe of lukewarm water and handed it over. Despite his protests, Adrecht drank greedily, without bothering to locate a cup. He swirled the final mouthful around, then swallowed it thoughtfully.

“I don’t remember drinking any gun oil,” he said. “But now my mouth seems to be coated with the stuff. Are the lads playing pranks, do you think?”

“Adrecht. .” Marcus looked for somewhere to sit, but after a survey of the rancid carpet he decided against it. He squatted instead. “Adrecht, where were you yesterday?”

“Yesterday?” He blinked slowly. “Yesterday. . yesterday. .”

“Drinking somewhere?”

“Oh, yes. One of the quartermasters invited me to spend the march in his wagon, since I offered to share my spirits with him. Great fellow, absolutely wonderful. He-I can’t recall his name, actually, but he was kindness itself.”

“You were at it all day?”

“Not all day. I wouldn’t call it all day. Just. . you know. .” He shrugged. “So what?”

“You should have been with your men.”

“Why? For moral support? They know what they’re supposed to do. It’s just marching, after all.”

“When I called for emergency square-”

Adrecht snorted. “Why would you do a damfool thing like that?”

“If there’d been an attack, we might all have been killed.”

“If there’d been an attack. .,” Adrecht said mockingly. “Come off it, Marcus. Sit down and have a drink with me.”

“Damn it, Adrecht,” Marcus said. “What in hell is wrong with you?”

There was a long pause while Marcus tried to regain control of his temper. Adrecht was a good officer and a good friend. He was smart enough, God knew-at the War College his help had gotten Marcus through a half dozen examinations. And in the field he was personally brave almost to a fault. He was prone to black moods, however, and a bad one could last for weeks, especially when it was exacerbated by drink.

“I should think that would be obvious,” Adrecht said. He staggered to his feet, using one of the tent poles to aid him, and started toward the liquor chest. Marcus moved to intercept him, and Adrecht leaned back and glared at him with exaggerated irritation.

“I’m trying,” he said, “to become a monk. Obviously. The Preacher has finally convinced me that the time of the Beast is upon us. Only I have to get rid of all my worldly possessions first, d’you see? You gave me a good head start”-he narrowed his eyes-“but there was still the liquor to think of. Not really fair to tip it out, I thought. So I’m working my way through the lot. Once I’m done, then”-he clapped his hands-“it’s off to the monastery with me.”

“It’s going to be off to the Vendre with you,” Marcus shot back. “And in irons. We have a new colonel, if you haven’t noticed. If you keep this up, sooner or later-”

“Please, Marcus,” Adrecht said with a chuckle. “The Vendre? Really? You don’t believe that, do you?”

“You’d be lucky to get the Vendre. More likely it’d be a firing squad. Dereliction of duty-”

“I’d be happy to die by an honest Vordanai bullet,” Adrecht said. “At least if I’m allowed to get drunk off my ass beforehand. It’ll make me better off than the rest of you.” He shook his head. “Come on, Marcus. Do you honestly think any of us are going home, in irons or otherwise? The Redeemers don’t exchange prisoners; they eat them.”

“We’re not prisoners yet,” Marcus said.

“We might as well be. Or has the colonel explained his secret plan to you? I’m curious to hear it.”

Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “The colonel doesn’t explain his plans to me. But he’s not just marching off to be a brave sacrifice for king and country, if that’s what you mean.”

Adrecht snorted. “We ought to have gotten right back aboard those ships. This is a death march, and most of the men know it. Can you blame them if they’re not responding well?”

“The other battalions still obeyed orders.” Eventually.

“I always did have more than my share of smart ones.” Adrecht caught Marcus’ expression and sighed. “Marcus-”

“I’m trying to help you,” Marcus said. “If you’re not up to the job anymore, best say so now.”

“Oh, very clever, Doctor-Professor d’Ivoire. Play on Captain Roston’s pride, maybe that’ll get him back into the firing line.”

“Damn it-”

“All right, all right!” Adrecht held up a hand. “I’ll be at the drills. That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?” He shook his head again. “Though it’s a hell of a thing to force a man to spend his last few days on earth sweating and shouting orders.”

It’s really bad this time. He’s already given up. There was something bright and brittle in Adrecht’s eyes, as if a dark, cynical humor was the only thing keeping him on his feet. The only time Marcus had ever seen him like this was five years ago, when he’d first got word he was shipping out to Khandar. Saints. Maybe Mor was right. If this Lieutenant Orta is any good, maybe we should keep him in charge.

That would mean getting rid of Adrecht, though. Unless Janus could be persuaded to accept his resignation, the only way for a captain to leave his company was in disgrace. He’d never do it. And Marcus owed him whatever help he could manage.

“Well?” Adrecht said. “Was there anything else, Senior Captain?”

“No.” Marcus turned to leave, but paused at the tent flap. “I really am trying to help, you know.”

“Oh?” Adrecht snapped. “Why?”

Sometimes I have no idea. Marcus shook his head and slipped out.

WINTER

The day was typical for spring in Khandar-that was to say, merely unbearably hot, rather than actually lethal as the summer heat might have been. The sun was a physical presence, a weight pressing down on the shoulders. It blasted any exposed skin and left uniforms soaked and heavy with sweat. Even after three years, it could catch Winter by surprise. The men in the ranks had it worse-for one thing, they didn’t have the luxury of officer’s caps-and some them were already swaying on their feet. Winter hoped d’Vries would call a halt before anyone actually collapsed.

She’d nearly collapsed on that first day’s march. The hundred miles or so from Ashe-Katarion to Fort Valor was the longest trek the Colonials had ever undertaken, and before that, Winter’s experience with marching had been limited to a few parades in honor of Prince Exopter.

On the retreat, they’d covered the distance in a fortnight, and they’d been accompanied by so many wagons the soldiers hadn’t even carried their own weapons. The return journey was apparently going to be much faster. None of the recruits had seemed surprised when they received orders for a fifteen -mile march, carrying not only muskets but full packs, but Winter had nearly groaned aloud. She’d made it, barely, but the pains in her legs and shoulders afterward had been an uncomfortable throwback to her days at Mrs. Wilmore’s. The old woman had firmly believed that backbreaking labor was a cure for immorality.

The second day’s march had been cut short by the fiasco of an alarm, and the poor performance of the troops had apparently made an impression on someone. The officers had announced that the third day’s march would be only five miles, and that they’d be in their new camp by noon. By this time Winter had rediscovered the muscles in her legs and found them not too badly decayed from the old days, and she was beginning to think she could handle this after all.