Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

Marcus remembered, uncomfortably, being on the other side of this argument in Adrecht’s tent. He nodded slowly.

“I understand that he is your friend,” Janus said, letting a little sympathy into his tone. “But you must admit I would be justified.”

You don’t know him, Marcus wanted to say. Janus hadn’t been at the War College with Adrecht, hadn’t nursed him through vicious hangovers or watched in mystified envy as he effortlessly charmed young women with his smile and the glitter of his uniform. He hadn’t been at Green Springs, where Adrecht and a company of the Fourth had charged across open ground under fire to rescue a half dozen wounded men.

And, of course, he saved my life. Marcus wondered whether that had been in Janus’ files.

“Sir,” Marcus said, “may I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“What if I speak to Captain Roston and make it clear that, were he to offer his resignation, you would accept it? That would be. . kinder.”

“I’m afraid not,” Janus said. “The effectiveness of the demonstration would be lost.” Janus considered. “You may break the news to him, if you like, and ask him to present himself for arrest if you think that would be easier on him. I have no wish to be unnecessarily cruel.”

“Thank you, sir,” Marcus said hollowly. He saluted. “If you’ll excuse me.”

• • •

“All in all,” Fitz said, “we got off astonishingly light.”

He had to speak up to be heard over the screams. There was a man strapped to the surgeon’s board, a mangled arm held in place by a burly orderly while the cutter worked with the bone saw. They’d given the patient a leather-padded stick to bite down on, but apparently he’d lost it. At least his voice drowned the noise of the saw itself, a high-pitched singsong whine that gave Marcus the shivers.

“Counting the scouts,” the lieutenant continued, “we have less than a hundred dead or seriously wounded. Another hundred or so that should recover. Given the numbers engaged-”

Marcus nodded as Fitz went on. No one had troubled to count how many Khandarai had died, of course, but it had been a great many. Details were still stripping the field of corpses, stiff and bloated now after a day in the desert sun, and carrying them to the pyres that burned day and night. Gleaners brought back what they could find, but there was little enough. Most of the Redeemer’s supplies had burned with their tents.

They walked through the little patch at the edge of the camp that had been designated as the hospital. Open-sided tents shielded the wounded from the sun, and the regimental surgeons bustled back and forth with brisk efficiency. Marcus suspected that much of the activity was for his benefit. As Fitz had said, they’d gotten off lightly. Many of the tents were empty, and of those that were occupied most of the men Marcus could see looked hale enough. Even a minor wound could fester, of course, and a man might lose a limb like the poor bastard back on the table if it got bad enough. But nevertheless-lightly.

He still felt a little sick. The worst engagement the Colonials had been in before the Redemption had been the ambush that killed Colonel Warus. They’d lost six men in that fight, and had two so badly injured they’d died later. One more had been invalided home. Nine altogether, and that had been considered a disaster, with the whole regiment in mourning. And now this.

That’s war , he told himself sternly. The First Colonials had never been a battlefield regiment until now. What fighting they’d done had been bushwhacks and bandit chasing. I should count myself lucky the men stood up to it. Indeed, the mood of the camp seemed to have taken a sharp upward turn. The mutters and sour looks had stopped, replaced by smiles and quick, crisp salutes.

“Sir?” Fitz said.

“Hmm?”

“Is something wrong? You seem preoccupied.”

“Why do you say that?”

Fitz cleared his throat. “For one thing, sir, we left the camp a few minutes ago. Perhaps we should turn back?”

Marcus looked around. Fitz was right, as always-they’d left the last line of tents and the latrine pits behind, and Marcus had been absently strolling out into open scrub. Twenty yards back, a few confused sentries watched curiously.

“Ah.” He looked back at Fitz. “A bit farther, actually.”

“Yes, sir,” Fitz said, in that way he had that actually meant, I see that you’ve gone mad.

Marcus headed toward a big rock, a boulder half buried in the parched earth with a clump of wiry trees growing from one side. He put his back against it, feeling the warmth, and let out a sigh. Fitz stood in front of him, prim and correct. They were a good sixty yards from camp now. No chance of being overheard.

“The colonel,” Marcus said, “is going to arrest Adrecht.”

Fitz didn’t even blink. “On what charge, sir?”

“Dereliction of duty. I talked him into letting me break the news.”

“That was very kind of you, sir.”

“But now I have to tell him.” Marcus grimaced. “I’m not sure I can.”

Fitz maintained a diplomatic silence.

“It wasn’t really his fault,” Marcus said, to no one in particular. “I mean-partly, of course, but-” He shook his head.

“Perhaps if you spoke to the colonel again, he would accept some lighter form of discipline?”

“No,” Marcus said. “He wants to make an example.” He hesitated, then added, “He talked about giving you the Fourth.”

Fitz’ expression didn’t change. “I see.”

Marcus looked at him curiously. “Do you want a battalion command?”

“It would certainly further my career, sir. However, I would worry about the First in my absence. With you spending so much time with the colonel. .”

That was true enough. Fitz practically had a battalion command already.

Marcus pushed away from the rock. “I need to talk to the others. Can you track down Val and Mor and have them meet me in my tent around sundown? Make sure you don’t let anyone know why.”

“Certainly, sir.” Fitz saluted.

The walk back to camp felt longer than the walk out had, and the rest of the day seemed to pass only grudgingly. There were account books to sign off on, stores and inventories to approve, sick lists and casualty reports-that was only the top of the stack. Marcus didn’t dare wonder what lurked in the bottom layers. By the time he looked up and saw that the horizon had gone crimson, his right hand was stiff and aching, and his fingers were blotchy with spilt ink.

Mor arrived first, red-faced from hours in the sun and in a foul mood. He shrugged out of his uniform coat before Marcus could say a word, tossed it into a corner of the tent, and tugged at his collar.

“They’re a bunch of children,” he said. “A bunch of spoiled children. Tell them they’ve done something wrong and they look at you like they’re about to cry. I don’t know where the colonel dug up this lot.”

“The recruits?” Marcus said.

“The rankers are fine. It’s the lieutenants that are the problem.” Mor paced the length of the tent twice, then aimed a kick at his own jacket. “Bunch of stuck-up goddamned paper soldiers. Not one of them had seen any action, and before the battle yesterday they were just about pissing their pants, but now they all think they’re Farus the Conqueror come again.” Mor shook his head. “Are your lot any better? Want to trade?”

Marcus shook his head, feeling guilty. He barely knew his own company commanders, aside from the Old Colonials. Janus had monopolized the time he ought to have been spending with them.

“Next time we drill I’m going out myself,” Mor said. “Make them eat a little dust instead of just wagging their chins. Maybe that will teach them something.” He let out a long sigh. “Got anything to drink?”