Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

The colonel, his expression once more a mask, reached for the note and flicked it open. It wasn’t long, just a few lines. A moment later he tossed it aside and looked back up at Marcus.

“Would you care to explain, Captain?”

“Sir. I don’t believe it requires-”

“Captain.” Janus’ voice cracked like a whip.

Marcus swallowed. “The charges against Adr-against Captain Roston. Your original order was relayed to him through me, and I was the officer in overall command. Therefore the failure is mine, as are the consequences. If you required Captain Roston’s arrest, I could not in good conscience refrain from submitting my resignation.”

“I see.” Janus tapped his index finger on the desk. “I assume you’re aware that I can reject this?”

“Yes, sir. And I can refuse to recognize your rejection.”

“And since we are engaged in an active campaign, that qualifies as desertion,” Janus said. “I see.” The finger tapped again. “You agreed with me that Captain Roston was not the best man for the job.”

“Yes, sir.” Marcus hesitated, but there was no going back now. “That doesn’t make it right to remove him like this.”

Tap, tap, tap. Then, all at once, Janus’ face became animated again, as though someone had shone a spotlight on it. “Very well.” He pushed the letter back across the table. “You may keep this.”

Marcus blinked. “Sir?”

“Getting rid of Captain Roston is not worth losing you in the bargain. You win, Captain.” Another flicker, this time a smile. “As usual, it seems.”

“Captain Roston-”

“You will convey my displeasure to Captain Roston at the conduct of his men. But unofficially.” Janus fixed Marcus with a penetrating stare. “You understand that should the captain fail in his duty again, you will bear the responsibility for it?”

“Yes, sir.” Marcus took what seemed like his first breath in hours. “Thank you, sir.”

“No thanks are necessary,” Janus said. “Now sit. We have plans to go over.”

“What-? Now, sir?”

“Time is short,” Janus said. “We’ve wasted far too much on peripheral matters already.”

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus’ mind felt like a clockwork engine thrown suddenly into reverse, gears screeching and stripping. He tried to focus on the map, but it seemed like nothing but a random set of painted splotches.

He did his best not to show his confusion, but hiding his feelings from Janus was apparently beyond his ability. The colonel gave him a cool glance, then waved a hand vaguely.

“A few minutes, on the other hand, will not greatly delay us. I suggest you go and change into your usual uniform. You seem-uncomfortable.”

“Yes, sir.” Marcus hesitated. “Thank you, sir.”

Janus was already bent over the map again, leafing through a stack of scouting reports. Marcus beat a hasty retreat.

Stepping outside, he practically ran into Val. The other captain was approaching at a jog, his uniform sending up a gentle jingling sound like a fool with his cap and bells. He’d embellished it, over the years, with bronze and silver trinkets and embroidery in the Khandarai style. None of them had anticipated needing their dress blues for official Vordanai functions again.

“Marcus,” Val said, breathing hard. “I’m sorry. I came as quickly as I could.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Have you given it to him already?”

“Given it. .” Marcus stopped as realization dawned. “You’ve come to resign ?”

“Of course!” Val said stoutly, then abruptly looked sheepish. “I admit that Mor nearly had me convinced last night. But this morning I thought-hell-” His blush deepened. “I couldn’t stand leaving you in the lurch, and that’s that. But it took me a while to get dressed and write the bloody thing out.” He fished in his pocket. “Please tell me it’ll still do some good.”

Marcus smiled. He felt, abruptly, like a weight had fallen from his shoulders, as though he could only now acknowledge the reality of what had happened.

“I don’t think the colonel has any need of it,” he said. “But it’s certainly a great comfort to me .”

“But. .”

Marcus clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. I still need to change.”

• • •

Half an hour later, back in his regular sun-bleached uniform and fortified by a cup of coffee strongly flavored by a splash of Khandarai liquor, Marcus ducked into the colonel’s tent again and snapped another textbook salute. The colonel was in the same attitude as when he’d left, though most of the scouting reports had been converted into pencil notations on the maps.

“Captain,” Janus said, “will you actually sit down this time?”

“Gladly, sir.” He hesitated. “I must apologize for disturbing your planning earlier-”

The colonel gave an affected sigh. “Think nothing of it. We have more important matters to discuss.”

Marcus nodded and sat. The colonel turned the leather map so that it faced him, and tapped a finger on it. It took Marcus a moment to parse-the script was Khandarai, and the mapmaker had used unfamiliar symbols-but once he found the label for Ashe-Katarion, the landscape snapped into place. Janus’ finger marked the regiment’s current position, roughly thirty-five miles from the city.

“We march tomorrow,” Janus said. “The question, of course, is where.”

“To the city, presumably,” Marcus ventured.

“Indeed. But getting there is going to be a problem. News of our victory has reached them by now, and General Khtoba appears to have bestirred himself at last.”

“You think he’ll meet us on the road?”

“Unfortunately, I doubt that he’ll be quite so bold. No doubt he’ll keep to the west bank of the Tsel, and therein lies the difficulty. You see?”

Marcus frowned. He’d never claimed much of a gift for strategy, but the issue here was clear enough. Ashe-Katarion clustered around an inlet called the Old Harbor, repository of the trade that formed the city’s lifeblood. In ancient times, the river mouth had been there as well, but the channel had silted over and the mighty Tsel had dug a new path to the sea, some twenty miles to the west of the city. The kings of Khandar had cut a canal south from their city to a bend in the river rather than relocate their temples and palaces to the new outlet.

The result was that the Tsel was squarely between the Colonials and the Khandarai capital. Upstream to the south, the great river wiggled like a snake as it crossed the wide, flat plain, but here at the coast it ran fairly straight. Slow-flowing it might be, but it was nearly a mile wide and presented a formidable obstacle.

There was a bridge a few miles up from the sea, where a pair of rocky islands provided a decent footing. The Vordanai cartographers, in their unimaginative way, had dubbed the triple span Westbridge, and the town that had grown up on both banks Westbridge Town. It was through here that the coast road ran, over the river and down the last few miles into the city.

Marcus had ridden through the town many times, most recently on the retreat from the Redeemers that had ended at Fort Valor. There were no purpose-built defenses, no fortress walls or emplaced artillery, but the place would be a nightmare to take nonetheless. The bridges were narrow, barely wide enough for a pair of wagons to pass one another, and the islands commanded the approaches and provided excellent fields of fire. Troops attempting to cross would have to do so without cover, in the face of every gun the defender could muster, and even if they succeeded in storming the first island they would only have to accomplish the same task twice more. Then, on the far bank, they’d need to hold the bridgehead against whatever counterattack the enemy would have waiting.