Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

The rigors of the march had reduced the prince’s ability to keep up his accustomed style, though his entourage made the best effort they could. He had an enormous tent, sewn together from four of the regulation army tents, but the exterior was plain blue canvas and the inside not much better ornamented. Much of what the royal household had been able to carry away from Ashe-Katarion had been loaded onto the fleet at Fort Valor. A few furs and some silk cushions were all the luxury the rightful occupant of the Vermillion Throne could manage.

Razzan-dan-Xopta was on hand to greet the two officers, but much of the rest of the entourage had been left behind, including the Heavenly Guard. Marcus approved-nothing slowed down an army like useless impedimenta-but he doubted the prince shared his reasons. He got the feeling the Khandarai ruler was skeptical about their chances.

Perhaps still stung from his last audience with Janus, the prince dispensed with the formalities. He barked out a question, and Razzan translated, for Marcus’ benefit if not the colonel’s.

“His Grace is concerned,” the minister said. “He wishes to know how you propose to defend him from his enemies when your army is on the other side of the river.”

“I must admit that I cannot,” Janus said. “Please tell His Grace that I would feel much more assured about his safety if he were to cross with us.”

The prince said something petulant. Razzan said, “The Chosen of Heaven points out that, on the other side of the river, escape would be impossible in the event that you are defeated.”

Marcus eyed Prince Exopter with distaste. The nobleman had made his preferences clear through an endless stream of “polite” missives, directing Janus to appear before him to “receive guidance on the direction of the campaign.” What that amounted to, apparently, was retreat. In spite of the victory over the Redeemer army, the prince wanted to flee to Vordan with his gold. But the fleet would not sail without orders from Janus, and Janus had simply ignored the messages.

And this is who we’re fighting to keep on the throne? Marcus wondered again who, exactly, would be hurt if they just let Exopter scuttle away, if he wanted to so badly. The Khandarai certainly don’t want him back. In the end, though, it was the honor of the King of Vordan that was at stake, and implicitly the worthiness of a pledge of support from the House of Orboan. Not to mention the small matter of the screaming fanatics who want to burn us alive, prince or no prince.

Among the things that had been left behind was the royal makeup artist. The elaborate red-and-white powder that had been the prince’s mask was nowhere in evidence. Underneath it was a rather ordinary face, with sagging jowls and thick, pouting lips. A thin fuzz of hair was just beginning to sprout around the crown of his head, but a patch on top remained bare.

“If we are defeated, Your Grace. .” Janus paused. “You may tell His Grace that if we are defeated, all hope of regaining his throne falls with us, and so I regard it as my duty to press the campaign to the utmost.”

“Your duty to His Grace is to obey,” Razzan said, almost before his master had finished speaking.

“My pardon. I mean no offense, but my duty is not to His Grace the Prince of Khandar. Rather, it is to His Majesty the King of Vordan, to whom I have sworn my sacred oath. He has directed me to secure the Vermillion Throne, and I intend to do so or perish in the attempt.”

There was a long silence. The prince muttered something that sounded like an insult. Razzan, perhaps remembering that Janus understood well enough without the translation, rendered it after only a slight hesitation.

“You are a most impudent man, His Grace says. He promises that his friend and cousin the king will hear of your conduct.”

“I have no doubt of that,” Janus said.

Through the Last Duke, if nothing else. He’d seen Miss Alhundt around the camp a few times since the battle, but he’d avoided speaking to her. So far she hadn’t pressed the issue. He wondered if he had justified an entry in the reports she sent home.

“His Grace will consider what you have said,” Razzan said. “You are dismissed.”

“Thank you,” Janus said. “The last of the regiment crosses by this evening.”

The two Vordanai bowed and retreated from the royal presence. The Chosen of Heaven did not look pleased in the least.

“He’ll consider what you have said?” Marcus repeated, once they were outside. “What does that mean?”

“It means he’ll cross,” Janus said, “but he didn’t want to say it, because he’d lose face. The last of the baggage train is over?”

“It should be by now,” Marcus said, glancing at the reddening sun. “I’ll speak to Fitz.”

“Good. Then get the Fourth moving. Save space on the boats for the prince and his retinue when they decide to turn up.”

“What if they don’t?”

Janus didn’t bother to answer that.

• • •

The prince turned up, of course. Janus embarked with the second-to-last boatload, and Marcus with the very last. He settled in for the trip among the stacked cargo at the front of the barge. It was well after sundown, and the colors were beginning to fade from the western sky. Ahead, a few stars were already winking. Fortunately the crossing was not hazardous, even in the dark-the broad, flat Tsel was as hospitable a river as could be imagined.

The prince’s servants had thrown up a silk curtain around him, cordoning off their lord and his noble attendants from the rest of those on the barge. The boat was only half full in any case, and the Colonials seemed inclined to give the Khandarai a wide berth. They accorded Marcus the same privilege. In the days before the Redemption, the men would have thought nothing about coming over to him to share the latest city gossip or grouse about the duty rosters. Now everyone knew he’d been spending time with the new colonel, and apparently Janus’ exalted status was contagious.

He was a little relieved, therefore, to hear the sound of boots on the deck behind him. The greeting froze in his throat when he turned to find Miss Alhundt looking down at him through her spectacles, hands on her hips, wearing a curious little half smile.

I want to know where your loyalties lie. Marcus’ eyes darted like a cornered animal, but there was nowhere to run. He stood, instead, and sketched a bow.

“Miss Alhundt.”

“Captain.” Her smile widened slightly. “I feel like you’ve been hiding from me.”

“Duties, I’m afraid. Colonel Vhalnich keeps me busy.”

“I imagine.” She gestured at the crate Marcus had been using as a bench. “Do you mind if I sit?”

Yes. “Not at all.”

She placed herself delicately on one corner, and after some hesitation Marcus resumed his own seat. Together, they stared for a few moments at the black water of the Tsel, smooth as glass except for the fading scars torn by the other barges. The torches and lanterns of the new camp were tiny specks of light on the distant bank, winking like fireflies.

Miss Alhundt broke the silence. “I heard the colonel had a disagreement with the prince.”

“I’m not really in a position to comment,” Marcus said.

“No,” Miss Alhundt said. “No, I suppose not.”

There was something odd in her tone, as though the heart had gone out of her questioning. He waited, expecting another attempt, but when he risked a look at her face she was just staring at the water.

It was a pretty face, he noted absently. Soft and round, with a small nose and wide brown eyes. The spectacles and severe hairstyle lent her an air of formality, but it felt like a borrowed thing. A mask. He cleared his throat.