Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

Niaph-dan-Yunk, one of the first to march with the Swords and one of the first to return, knocked hesitantly at the open door to Jaffa’s office. Jaffa admitted him with a wave, but the younger man stood uncomfortably in the doorway.

“Sir,” he said, “our messenger has returned.”

“About time,” said Jaffa. “And?”

“The raschem -” Niaph coughed at Jaffa’s look. “The Vordanai colonel has agreed to your request for a meeting. He says he will wait half a mile up the coast road from the gate in one hour.”

“Excellent. Tell them to saddle my horse.”

“Yes, sir.” Niaph hesitated. “Will you be wanting an escort?”

Jaffa could have laughed. The man’s thoughts might as well have been printed on his forehead. He didn’t think whoever went to meet this demon-commander of the raschem had much chance of returning alive. No doubt the feeling was widespread among the Justices.

“No,” Jaffa said. “I will go alone.” He smiled. “I have his word on my safe conduct. Why would I need an escort?”

The fear in Niaph’s eyes instantly turned to pity, with perhaps a hint of admiration. Or maybe Jaffa was deceiving himself.

“Yes, sir. Good luck, sir.”

• • •

The streets were quieter than Jaffa had ever seen them, especially here, in the direct path of the approaching army. The coast road was lined with tenements, ramshackle multistory buildings assembled from brick, wood, and scraps of stolen stone. For the most part they were empty now, the residents having fled to presumed safety on the other side of the city, but those who couldn’t or wouldn’t leave were watching from behind rag doors and curtains. Jaffa could feel the questioning eyes.

When he caught sight of the line of soldiers, he dismounted and walked the rest of the way. The Vordanai had drawn up a company across the road, muskets shouldered, their deep blue uniforms covered with the dust of hard marching. Ahead of them waited two officers on foot. Jaffa was relieved to see that the prince was not with them, though he hadn’t expected the sovereign to lower himself to this kind of negotiation. His feelings were mixed, though, when he recognized Captain d’Ivoire. He’d known the man slightly before the Redemption. Usually they’d met after the Justices had to pull drunken Colonials out of brawls, and their relationship had been cool at best.

It was the other officer who stepped forward. He wore a colonel’s eagles on the shoulders of his immaculate dress uniform and bore himself with an aristocratic mien. When they locked gazes, Jaffa felt the force of his stare as a physical blow. The rest of his features seemed to recede into insignificance around his wide gray eyes, animated by an inner fire. Jaffa approached the last few steps at something resembling a parade-ground march and bowed stiffly.

“Gentlemen,” he said, keeping to Khandarai. Jaffa understood a few words of the raschem tongue, but not enough for a formal discussion. “I am Grand Justice Jaffa-dan-Iln.”

Jaffa wondered if the captain would translate for his superior, but the colonel either didn’t require a rendering or didn’t care. Captain d’Ivoire stepped forward, offering a slight bow in return, and said, “Welcome, Justice. This is Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran.” After the colonel gave a slight nod of recognition, d’Ivoire asked, “How do things stand in the city?”

“The Redeemers have fled,” Jaffa said. “General Khtoba and the remnants of the Auxiliaries with them. The Desoltai camp to the east is also gone, though to where I cannot say.”

“Then who rules the city?”

Jaffa wondered if he was supposed to say that the prince did, but he decided to stick to practical matters. “At present, no one. I am in charge, to the extent that anyone is. My Justices are trying to keep the peace.”

“Do you intend to oppose our entry?” d’Ivoire said, with just a hint of a smile.

“Of course not,” Jaffa said. “My men are not soldiers. The gates of Ashe-Katarion are open to you.” He hesitated, then added, “I entreat you to be as merciful as you can.”

“Some of that will be up to the prince, of course.” Jaffa thought he caught a disgusted look in d’Ivoire’s eye. “But we will try to keep our men in line. We will camp on the Palace grounds, around the Heavenly Guard barracks. The colonel would like you to prepare a report on conditions in the city, the number of men you have in the Justices, and how many you think you can trust.” The captain paused at Jaffa’s surprised look. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Jaffa managed. Apparently he was not to be clapped in irons after all.

D’Ivoire lowered his voice. “I told the colonel that you were a man to be trusted. That you’d done your duty under the prince, and done the same under the Redeemers. Can we rely on you to continue to perform it?”

“Yes, of course,” Jaffa said. “My loyalty is to the people of Ashe-Katarion.”

“Good.” The captain straightened up, and seemed on the point of dismissing him, but the colonel broke in unexpectedly. His Khandarai was perfect, even down to his accent.

“Grand Justice, I wonder if you might enlighten me as to conditions on the sacred hill?”

Jaffa blinked. “The hill, my lord? What of it?”

“Did the Redeemers do much damage? Are the priestesses still in their temples?”

“I-” For a single horrifying moment, Jaffa thought that this raschem knew about Mother, knew everything . But that was impossible, of course. He mastered himself quickly. “Some remain, my lord. There was some looting and vandalism, but the Redeemers believe-believed-that they were returning to the old ways, not overthrowing them entirely. Some priests fled, and those who refused to adopt the new canon were. . punished. But there has been no wholesale destruction.”

“Excellent.” The colonel gave a bright smile. “I have read of the magnificence of the temples of Ashe-Katarion. It would be a shame if they had been destroyed before I had a chance to examine them myself.”

There was something in Colonel Vhalnich’s eyes that Jaffa did not like, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He bowed his head. “I’m sure the priestesses would be honored by your visit, my lord.”

MARCUS

As the Colonials settled down in Ashe-Katarion, Janus asked Marcus to come up with a detail of twenty men he thought he could trust to keep a secret.

Marcus was tempted to reply that twenty men could keep a secret only if you sank nineteen of them in the river, and even then you’d have to keep an eye on the last one. He was also strongly tempted to tell Janus to take a flying leap into the Great Desol. Adrecht was still unconscious in the cutter’s tents with a high fever, and the battered Old Colonials had barely finished sorting themselves out and counting the dead. You couldn’t say that sort of thing to a colonel, however, so Marcus rounded up Fitz, Senior Sergeant Argot, and a squad he thought he could rely on not to ask too many questions, and followed Janus to Monument Hill.

That was the Vordanai name for it, of course. The center of Ashe-Katarion was a double-humped hillock, tailing off rapidly into the harbor. One crest bore the Palace itself, while the other, surrounded by a second, lower wall, was the traditional domain of the priesthood. It comprised a square mile or so of ancient, rambling sandstone buildings, courtyards adorned with statues, and occasional gardens and orchards. Towering above all of these, their long black shadows cutting over the wall and into the city, were the huge black obelisks that Marcus tended to think of as the Forest of Divine Cocks.