Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

Balls of the Beast, he’s stepped on something horrible. Khandar was home to a wide variety of things that crawled, slithered, or buzzed. Nearly all of them were vicious, and most were poisonous. It would be a poor start to a professional relationship if Marcus had to report to the colonel that his manservant had died of a snakebite. He hurried down the path, Fitz trailing behind him. The man in black popped back to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, one arm extended, holding something yellow and green that writhed furiously. Marcus pulled up short.

“A genuine Branded Whiptail,” the man said, apparently to himself. He was young, probably younger than Marcus, with a thin face and high cheekbones. “You know, I’d seen Cognest’s illustrations, but I never really believed what he said about the colors. The specimens he sent back were so drab , but this-well, look at it!”

He stepped forward and thrust the thing in Marcus’ face. Only years of army discipline prevented Marcus from leaping backward. The little scorpion was smaller than his palm, but brilliantly colored, irregular stripes of bright green crisscrossing its dun yellow carapace. The man held it by the tail with thumb and forefinger, just below the stinger, and despite the animal’s frantic efforts it was unable to pull itself up far enough to get its claws into his flesh. It twisted and snapped at the air in impotent rage.

It dawned on Marcus that some response was expected of him.

“It’s very nice,” he said cautiously. “But I would put it down, if I were you. It might be dangerous.” Truth be told, Marcus couldn’t have distinguished a Branded Whiptail from horse droppings unless it bit him on the ankle, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t give both a wide berth.

“Oh, it’s absolutely deadly,” the man said, wiggling his fingers so the little thing shook. “A grain or two of venom will put a man into nervous shock in less than a minute.” He watched Marcus’ carefully neutral expression and added, “Of course, this must all be old hat to you by now. I’m sorry to get so worked up right off the bat. What must you think of me?”

“It’s nothing,” Marcus said. “Listen, I’m Captain d’Ivoire, and I got a message-”

“Of course you are!” the man said. “Senior Captain Marcus d’Ivoire, of the First Battalion. I’m honored.” He extended his hand for Marcus to shake. “I’m Janus. Most pleased to meet you.”

There was a long pause. The extended hand still held the frantically struggling scorpion, which left Marcus at something of a loss. Finally Janus followed his gaze down, laughed, and spun on his heel. He walked to the edge of the path and dropped the little thing amidst the stones. Then, wiping his hand on his black robe, he returned to Marcus.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “Let me try again.” He re-offered his hand. “Janus.”

“Marcus,” Marcus said, shaking.

“If you could conduct me to the fortress, I would be most grateful,” Janus said. “I just have a few things I need to get stowed away.”

“Actually,” Marcus said, “I was hoping you could tell me where the colonel might be. He sent a message.” Marcus looked over his shoulder at Fitz for support.

Janus appeared perplexed. Then, looking down at himself, inspiration appeared to dawn. He gave a polite cough.

“I suppose I should have been clearer,” he said. “Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran, at your service.”

• • •

There was a long, strained silence. It felt like the moment just after you’d done something monumentally stupid-bashing your thumb with a hammer, for example-and just before the pain came flooding in. A quiet moment, in which there seemed to be all the time in the world to contemplate the destruction you’d wrought.

Marcus decided to take the bull by the horns. He stepped smartly back, coming to stiff attention, and ripped off a salute that would have made his instructors at the War College proud. His voice rose to a parade-ground bark.

“Sir! My apologies, sir!”

“No apology necessary, Captain,” Janus said mildly. “You couldn’t have known.”

“Sir! Thank you, sir!”

They matched stares for another long moment.

“We had better get the formalities over with,” Janus said. He fished in his breast pocket and produced a crisply folded page, which he handed to Marcus. “Senior Captain d’Ivoire, as ordered by the Ministry of War in the name of horses and all, I am hereby assuming command of the First Colonial Infantry Regiment.”

Marcus unbent sufficiently to take the note. It said, with the usual Ministry circumlocutions, that Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran was directed to assume command of the First Colonial Regiment and employ it, “as far as practicable,” to suppress the rebellion and protect the interests of the Kingdom of Vordan and her citizens. At the bottom was affixed the seal of the Ministry, sky blue wax impressed with the image of a diving eagle. He handed it stiffly back to Janus.

“Sir,” he said. “You have the command!”

Another salute, which the colonel returned. And that was it-with those few words command of the Colonials and all the attendant responsibilities were removed from Marcus’ shoulders. He took what felt like the first breath of air he’d had in the weeks since the rebellion.

“And with that done,” Janus said, tucking the paper away, “I hope you’ll do me the favor of relaxing a little. That stiff posture is bad for the spine.”

The parade-ground rigidity was already producing an ache across Marcus’ shoulders. He gratefully complied.

“Thank you, sir. Welcome to the Colonials.” He waved Fitz forward. “This is Lieutenant Fitzhugh Warus, my aide.”

Fitz saluted smartly, as comfortable with strict military decorum as Marcus was awkward with it. Janus nodded acknowledgment.

“Lieutenant,” he said. “You’re the younger brother of the late Colonel Warus, are you not?”

“Yes, sir,” Fitz said.

“My condolences on your loss, then. Your brother was a brave man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

That was fair enough, Marcus thought. Maybe not terribly bright, or honest, but brave , certainly. He was surprised Janus knew anything about him, though. For all the attention the Colonials had received from the Ministry of War before the rebellion, Khandar might as well have been on the moon. Perhaps he’s just being polite.

“If you’ll wait a moment, sir, I’ll have someone carry your things,” Marcus said. “We have rooms prepared for you inside.”

“I’ll carry them myself, if it’s all the same to you,” the colonel said. “Just show me the way.”

“As you wish. Shall I order some food brought in as well? You must be tired.”

“No need,” Janus said. “My man is accompanying the rest of my baggage, and he can handle all the arrangements of that nature. Besides, it seems incumbent on me to pay a call on His Grace as soon as possible, don’t you think?”

“His Grace?” Marcus was puzzled for a moment. “You mean the prince?” It had been so long since he’d given the exiled ruler any serious thought that he’d almost forgotten the man was with them.

“Of course. It’s for his sake I’m here, after all.”

Marcus quashed a frown. Janus was likely to be disappointed when he came face-to-face with the ruler of Khandar, but that was not for him to worry about it. All I need to do now, he reminded himself, is obey orders.

“Yes, sir. I’ll get someone to show you to his chambers.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d accompany me, Captain.” Janus flashed a smile. “I may need your expertise.”

If so, we’re in it pretty damned deep. Nevertheless, Marcus saluted. “Certainly, sir!”