Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

Anna and Leeya must have told someone. Her friends had sworn up and down that they would take the secret of her escape to the grave, along with her tentative plan to be free of Mrs. Wilmore’s clutches forever by using the army to get beyond her reach. Looking back, though, Winter could see that was a lot to expect from a couple of teenage girls. I’m not sure I could have held my tongue, if I were in their place.

“I never thought about becoming a bandit concubine,” Winter said dully. “Maybe I should have.”

“When I got here,” Bobby said, “and you became our sergeant, I thought it had to be the same Winter. It’s not that uncommon a name, but. . it felt like it was meant to happen.” Her young face had regained some of its eagerness.

“But how did you escape?”

“I stole a bag of coin from the office,” Bobby said proudly. “And I got to know one of the carters who brought in food. After a while I convinced him to smuggle me out.”

“Sounds like you had an easier time of it than I did,” Winter muttered. Then, catching Bobby’s flushed cheeks, she got an idea of the sort of “convincing” the carter had required, and shook her head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“I couldn’t believe I’d actually met you,” Bobby said, looking as though a weight had been removed from her shoulders. “I thought for the longest time about whether I should tell you, but it seemed like a risk. You had everyone fooled, and I couldn’t bear being the one who screwed it up. So I just went along.”

“These. . legends,” Winter said. “Do they mention anyone besides me?”

“Not that I recall,” Bobby said. “Saints, I wish I could tell the girls at the Prison that I’d met you. Sarah would just about explode.”

Winter fought down a looming specter, with green eyes and long red hair. Can you be haunted by someone who isn’t dead? Her throat was tight as she poured herself another drink. They don’t even remember her.

“All right,” she said again. “Is that enough secrets for one night?”

Bobby looked a bit startled. “I wanted to ask you-”

“Later. Right now I am planning to get very drunk. The two of you are welcome to join me.” She repeated this in Khandarai, as a courtesy.

Feor looked down at her beer. “Alcohol was not permitted among the sahl-irusk when I was growing up,” she said. “The eckmahl were fond of it, however, and I was always curious as to what they found so attractive.”

“There you go.” Winter turned to Bobby. “What about you? Ever been really drunk?”

Bobby shook her head, blushing. “Some of the girls at Mrs. Wilmore’s would sneak a little bit, but I never did.”

“Can’t be a soldier if you’ve never been really drunk,” Winter said. “I’ll get us another bottle.”

And maybe then, she thought, I won’t dream.

MARCUS

After drinking to Adrecht, they’d had to drink toasts to the other captains, to be polite, and then to the king, the Princess Royal, and the Last Duke, and of course to Prince Exopter their royal host. At that point Marcus’ memory became a little blurry, though he was fairly certain Jen had suggested getting out the regimental roll and going through every name on the list, amidst a fit of giggles.

While things had not actually come to that , they’d made a fair start on the bottle, and it had been all Marcus could do to find his way back to his room at the end of the night. Jen, one arm thrown around his shoulders like an old comrade, had suggested he sleep where he was, but he was fairly certain she was drunk enough that she didn’t mean it the way it sounded.

He woke the next morning feeling surprisingly fresh, and moreover suddenly confident of what he had to do. He passed over his usual shabby uniform in favor of his dress blues, which Fitz had carefully laundered. His room included a mirror, miraculously unsmashed during the sack, and he stopped for a moment to regard himself with some satisfaction. If not the spitting image of the young man who’d graduated from the War College, he looked at least like a proper Vordanai officer.

Fitz was waiting in the antechamber, immaculate as usual, bearing a sheaf of paperwork under his arm. He saluted smartly as Marcus emerged. Marcus wondered if the young man’s hearing was good enough to tell when his chief was up and about, or if he just stood poised in front of the door all morning, like a guard dog.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning.” Marcus glanced at the papers. “Anything really important in there?”

“Nothing urgent, sir.”

“Good. Put it somewhere and come with me, then.”

Fitz saluted again, set the papers on a broken end table that Marcus had been using as a desk, and fell into step behind his superior.

“May I ask,” the lieutenant said as Marcus led him through the mazelike corridors of the Palace, “where we’re going?”

“We’re going to see the colonel,” Marcus said.

“Ah.” His tone didn’t indicate what he thought of the idea.

Marcus struggled to keep hold of the mood he’d had on waking. Jen had been right. Whether the colonel was sulking or not, there were questions that needed to be answered. He tried not to picture Janus’ face, gray eyes sharp with irritation, an eyebrow raised in sarcasm. “Really, Captain? Well, if you’re not capable of attending to such matters yourself. .”

He shook himself mentally, looked back to make sure that Fitz was still there to provide moral support, and turned down the last corridor that led to the suite of rooms the colonel had claimed for himself. Somewhat to his surprise, the lieutenant stopped in his tracks.

“Something wrong, Fitz?”

Fitz shook his head. “I’m not sure, sir. But the colonel requested a pair of guards for this corridor, and I’m fairly certain I added the post to the duty roster.”

“Which company would have it today?” Marcus said. Fitz seemed to keep the entire schedule of the First Battalion in his head, writing it down only for the benefit of mere mortals.

“Davis’, sir.”

“That explains it,” Marcus said darkly. “Remind me when we get back to have a word with him.”

“Yessir.”

Marcus continued down the corridor, his good mood draining away. They were deep in the interior of the Palace, and apart from occasional skylights, illumination was provided by braziers of burning candles in discreet alcoves. It was probably his imagination telling him they were getting farther apart as he approached the colonel’s door, as though he were descending into a realm of shadows.

Or possibly not. Just up the corridor from the entrance to Janus’ suite, one of the braziers had fallen over. The candles had drooled wax all over the flagstones before guttering out, leaving that section of the corridor in semidarkness.

“Sir,” Fitz said urgently, “something is definitely wrong. I know there should be guards on the colonel’s door.”

“You’re right.” Marcus’ skin started to crawl, and he let one hand drift to the hilt of his sword. “Maybe he’s gone off somewhere and taken the guards with him?”

“Possibly-” Fitz sniffed the air and pointed. “Over there!”

They hurried past the colonel’s door. The corridor beyond was disused and mostly in darkness, but the huddled shape Fitz had spotted was wearing Vordanai blue.

“Saints and martyrs,” Marcus said, pulling up short. The sentry lay in a boneless heap against the wall, blood leaking from his ear and the back of his skull to pool on the floor underneath him. A spray of dark red stained the wall itself, as though he’d been slammed against it with great force. His musket lay forgotten nearby.