Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

The room she led him to was furnished in the same eclectic mix of ancient and cheap as the rest of the post-Redeemer Palace. Here the ancient included a massive bed with brass poles, big enough to sleep six or seven, with equally ancient faded linen obviously scrounged from the bottom of some dusty closet. Beside it was a little table and chair, and a couple of open trunks.

Whoever was staying in the room was not very organized, and the floor beside the trunk was strewn with clothes. Marcus spotted a few undergarments of a notably feminine nature and felt his cheeks color slightly. He turned to find Jen tugging the thick door closed behind them.

“This is your room?” he said.

She grinned wickedly. “Of course. Where better to secretly murder you?” Catching his expression, her smile faded a little. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Marcus cleared his throat. “It’s just been a long time since I was in a lady’s bedroom.”

Jen arched an eyebrow. “Oh, come on. The gallant captain must have had some conquests among the impressionable native girls.”

“About the only Khandarai women who would have anything to do with us wanted to be paid afterward,” Marcus said. He reflected a moment. “Actually, mostly they wanted to be paid in advance.”

“Well, I think I can get by without a chaperone just this once,” she said. “I don’t want to share this.”

“Share what?”

She brushed past him, heading for one of the trunks. The casual touch left Marcus feeling even more awkward than before, but Jen didn’t appear to notice. She tossed more clothing aside, then a couple of blankets, and finally emerged with a wooden crate the shape of a coffin, a couple of feet long. Words had been burned onto the outside, in such an elaborate script that Marcus couldn’t read them, but he recognized the shape immediately.

“Where did you get that ?” he said.

“It was a gift,” she said, setting the little box reverently on the table. “From some of my friends at the Cobweb.” She looked up at him. “Looking back on it now, I don’t think they ever expected me to come back.”

“And you haven’t opened it yet?”

“Sort of silly, I know,” she said. “If I really had been killed at one of the battles, I expect I would have regretted it. But somehow just sitting by myself didn’t seem. . I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Let me borrow your knife, would you?”

Marcus wordlessly drew his belt knife and handed it across. Jen pried up one of the thin wooden planks, which were nailed only loosely into place, and pulled the top of the box off. Inside, nestled in spun wool like a fresh egg, was a thick-bellied glass bottle that glistened amber all the way up to the wax seal at the neck. Another seal, pressed with a fanciful rendition of the charging-bull standard of Hamvelt, adorned the front.

“It always seemed vaguely unpatriotic to me,” Jen said, lifting the bottle gently from its cradle. “I mean, we’ve got brandy in Vordan. Why does everyone love this Hamveltai stuff?”

“Because it’s better,” Marcus said fervently. “You’ve never had any?”

“I could never afford it. Clerking for the secret police doesn’t pay as well as you might imagine.”

Marcus smiled. Just the sight of the bottle sent him back in time, to his days at the War College. He and Adrecht had had-not friends, not really, but cronies, men they lived, studied, and drank with. Drank with most of all. He’d sometimes thought that the War College was really a thinly disguised royal subsidy to the local tavern industry. Adrecht had once obtained a half-empty bottle of Hamveltai brandy, through some unexplained but presumably nefarious method, and there had been just about enough for everyone to have a sniff. He’d never forgotten the taste, which compared to even the best of the local stuff like pure spring water to sewer sludge.

Jen worked the point of the knife delicately under the wax, split the seal up one side, and peeled it off the top of the bottle. She’d produced a couple of glasses from somewhere, and Marcus watched as she expertly tipped two fingers of the liquid amber into each. She handed him one, held up her own, and met his eyes.

“To Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran,” she said. “God grant that he know what the hell he’s doing.”

“God grant,” Marcus said fervently. They both sipped. The bite on his tongue seemed to dissolve into smoke before it reached the back of his mouth. It was better even than he remembered. From the look in Jen’s eyes, she was similarly enraptured. She put the glass on the table slowly, and stared at it as though she thought it might move.

“Saints and martyrs,” she swore. “Now I am glad I didn’t get killed in the battle.”

“If only we had a bottle for every man in the regiment, they’d all come back alive,” Marcus said.

Jen laughed. “If we had that much, we could probably buy the throne of Khandar.”

“You’d be surprised. You remember those carts, the really heavy ones at the end of the train? The ones that were always getting stuck.”

“Vaguely.”

“Supposedly the prince packed them full of gold before he fled the city. All the treasures of the Exopterai Dynasty, or at least all the ones he could carry. Now he’s probably got them tucked away safe in his dungeons again.”

Not every treasure.These “Thousand Names” weren’t in the prince’s hoard. But someone else must have had the same idea as Exopter did. His mood darkened. Whatever it is, it’s clearly more important than a few sacks full of coin. If only he’d tell me, I might be able to come up with something.

Jen, sipping from her glass, watched his face. “Something wrong?”

Marcus shrugged and looked down. “Not really.”

“No?” She leaned closer, until they were only inches apart. “You can tell me. I won’t even put it in a report. I promise.”

Her tone was still light, but there was an undercurrent of real concern. Marcus sighed.

“I was just wishing the colonel would take me a bit more into his confidence. Then I might be able to say something when people ask me what happens next.”

Jen nodded sympathetically. “It’s only natural that they’d want to know, I suppose.”

“Of course it is. It’s not just the officers, either. Val and Mor are lifers; they’re used to this sort of thing. But what about the recruits?” Marcus shook his head. “Most of us Old Colonials got sent to Khandar because we’d pissed off the wrong person, but the recruits just signed up on the wrong day and drew the short straw. How long are they going to stay here? Until we catch the Divine Hand and the Steel Ghost? That could be years-or never.”

“Have you asked him about it?”

“Asked who? The colonel?”

She nodded and raised the bottle toward him. He hesitated, then held up his glass, and she poured a generous portion for both of them.

“I’ve never had the chance,” Marcus said. “I barely see him anymore.”

“Why not?”

Marcus shrugged. “He spends his time in his room, or in with the prince.”

“Has he ordered you to stay away?”

“No,” Marcus said, uncomfortably. “But-”

He suddenly wanted to tell Jen about the underground room. The mysterious Names, so important that they warranted a royal command. She might know what Janus had meant. She might be able to help-

Don’t be a fool, something whispered at the back of his mind. She’s Concordat. They’re killers, spiders, eyes and ears and knives in the dark. She works for the Last Duke, not for the king, and certainly not for the colonel. Tell her anything and God alone knows what she’ll do with it. But looking at her, her head tipped as she studied the glistening brandy through a thin fall of brown hair, he found it hard to picture her in the company of the sinister figures in leather greatcoats that haunted the sets of bad dramas.