Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

Mor started expertly spinning cards across the scarred surface of the ancient table. Marcus was an indifferent cardplayer at the best of times, and this was shaping up to be one of his worse nights. Coins slid back and forth across the table, occasionally catching in a deep rut and bouncing salmon-like into the air. The first of these bounced off the top of Val’s head, to general laughter.

In the pause while Fitz collected and shuffled the cards after the first round was over, Val said, “Marcus, you’re the colonel’s right-hand man these days, aren’t you?”

Marcus shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m not sure he has one of those.”

“You’re the best we’ve got,” Val persisted. “So have you got any idea where we go now?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Oh, come on,” Mor said. “Everyone’s been talking about it. Are we going to just dig in here, or go after the Divine Hand and his gang of malcontents?”

The Divine Hand’s escape had become common knowledge over the past couple of days. As the initial shock of the Vordanai arrival had worn off, the citizens of Ashe-Katarion had come to see how few of the foreigners there really were, and the continued resistance of the Redeemer leader and the Steel Ghost had caused some dangerous rumblings. Jaffa’s Justices were spread thin, and Marcus didn’t dare send his men out in groups smaller than a dozen.

“The colonel will have to hunt him down,” Val said. “Until we bring that bastard’s head back and put it on a spike, they aren’t going to believe we’re here to stay.”

“How many of them even know what he looks like?” Mor retorted. “I don’t think spiked heads are going to solve anything.”

“Strategically,” Fitz said, “going after him would be very dangerous. Until now we’ve been keeping ourselves fed from local resources, but if we have to leave the valley that will mean a proper supply train, which has to be based here in Ashe-Katarion. And that base would hardly be secure.”

“What, then?” said Val. “Sit here in the Palace and wait for the mob to get angry enough to storm it?”

“Yes,” Fitz said. “Rebellion has always been a fear of the Khandarai princes, and the inner city is quite defensible. Four battalions can hold it against almost any conceivable force of irregulars.”

“It didn’t do the prince much good the first time,” Marcus put in.

Fitz ducked his head respectfully. “The prince didn’t have four battalions the first time. Once General Khtoba threw in with the rebels, the inner city was already compromised.”

“There’s another bastard I’d like to see on a spike,” Val muttered. “Ungrateful son of a bitch.”

“If he’s still alive,” Mor said. “We know he was at Turalin, and the Auxiliaries lost a lot of men there.”

“He’s alive,” Marcus said. He’d known Khtoba, slightly, in the old days. “He’s not a man who’d hang around when things went sour.”

“Witness him going over to the Redeemers in the first place,” Val said. “Like I said-heads, spikes. End of problem.”

“Assuming you can lay your hands on the heads,” Mor said.

They were interrupted briefly when Fitz began to deal. Mor peeked at his hand, grunted, and dug in his pocket for a few more coins. Val sighed.

I wonder what they would say if I told them it wasn’t the Divine Hand the colonel was worried about. Whatever the Thousand Names were, Janus wanted them very badly. He says he just wants to keep them away from Orlanko, but the look on his face. . Marcus shivered at the memory. Janus had been on the point of carving up a helpless old woman to get the information he wanted, and his plan to send her to the prince’s torture chambers had been thwarted only by the fact that the torturers had all run away or been burned by the Redeemers. The two priestesses were currently languishing in cells under the Palace.

Marcus played even more poorly in the second round than he had in the first. He’d been dealt a decent hand, for once, but his attention kept wandering. By the time Val collected the cards and shuffled for the third round, Marcus had decided his heart wasn’t in the game. He was just preparing his excuse when there was a knock at the door. Fitz, as the lowest-ranking member of the quartet, got up to open it, revealing Jen Alhundt. Marcus stiffened.

“They told me I could find you here,” she said. “Gentlemen, I wonder if I might borrow the senior captain for a few minutes.”

“Hell,” Val swore, looking at Fitz and Mor, then sighed. “I suppose so.”

“I’m sorry to take you away from your game,” Jen said, when the door had closed behind them.

Marcus waved a hand. “The way things were going, you probably saved me a month’s wages.”

They walked a while in silence, Marcus awkward, Jen apparently serene. He hadn’t spoken to her since that night on the Tsel crossing, which seemed like a thousand years ago. That night, fear and the knowledge of impending battle had closed the distance between them, but here in the Palace it had opened back up into a bottomless pit that threatened to swallow any attempt at small talk.

Jen broke the impasse. “The colonel seems to be a bit. . distant recently.”

Marcus sighed theatrically. “If you ask me what he’s planning to do next, I swear I’m going to scream.”

“Oh?”

“I just got out of my last interrogation,” Marcus said, jerking his head toward the drawing room. “Why everyone seems to think the colonel confides his secret plans to me I don’t understand.”

“You do spend a great deal of time with him,” Jen said.

“Yes, but you know what he’s like.”

“Not really. I’ve read his file, but we’ve hardly spoken.”

Marcus paused, reflecting. He’d spent so much time in Janus’ company it hadn’t occurred to him that the rest of the regiment hadn’t had similar opportunities, but thinking back he couldn’t recall the colonel speaking to Val, Mor, or any of the others outside of a terse order or the acknowledgment of a report. His longest conversations had probably been with the Preacher, with whom he shared an interest in artillery, and Give-Em-Hell, who more and more practically worshipped at Janus’ feet.

“He’s. .” Marcus sighed again. “Sometimes I think he just likes being dramatic, like a penny-opera villain. It’s always, ‘Oh, you’ll see, Captain,’ or, ‘Matters will become clear soon, Captain.’” Marcus managed to produce a reasonable simulation of Janus’ erudite accent, and Jen chuckled.

“You must know something , even if it’s just from standing around behind him,” she said.

Marcus shifted awkwardly, and smiled to cover it. “If I did, I couldn’t tell you. You’re a spy, after all.”

“A clerk,” she insisted. “Just a clerk. But I do have a report to write.” She tipped her head and looked at him slyly. Stray hairs escaping from her bun hung in front of her eyes. “I’m really not going to get any more out of you?”

“I think that’s all I can say that’s consistent with my duty as an officer,” Marcus said, with mock gravity.

“The hell with it, then.” She pushed up her spectacles and rubbed her eyes, then reached behind her head and tugged at her hair until it came loose from its bun and flopped free. He’d never seen her let it down before. It fell just to her shoulders, mouse brown and slightly frizzy. “I’m officially off duty. What about you?”

Marcus looked down at his uniform. “We haven’t really worked out a duty schedule, to tell the truth. But nothing seems to be going on at the moment.”

“Come with me, then. I’ve got something special I want to show you.”

• • •