Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

“Adrecht!” Marcus said. “Sorry I wasn’t here earlier. I’ve been with the colonel all morning. Fitz just told me you’d woken up.”

“It’s all right,” Adrecht said. “I wasn’t in a fit state to meet anyone until just now anyway. I finally kicked up enough of a fuss that they brought me a bath and a change of clothes from my room.”

Marcus chuckled. Adrecht’s smile was strained, and an awkward silence descended as Marcus realized he had absolutely no idea what to say. He owed Adrecht his life, but any kind of “thank you” seemed pitifully inadequate in view of the price his friend had paid. To acknowledge the debt would be unbearable, but to do anything else seemed ridiculous. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and gritted his teeth.

Somewhat to his surprise, Adrecht came to the rescue. He held up the paper he’d been reading. “Have you seen this?”

“What is it?”

“Orders. The colonel wants the Fourth Battalion to get ready to march.”

“He sent the orders to you ?” Marcus had a flash of incredulous rage.

“Not as such. The colonel informs me that the Fourth will be marching with the rest of the regiment, and inquires whether or not I feel competent to take up the command. If not, he quite understands.”

Adrecht gave the phrase a nasty spin, but Marcus couldn’t help agreeing with his tone. Janus must have written those words while Adrecht still lay unconscious, so he could hardly have expected an answer in the affirmative.

“Have you told him anything?” Marcus said.

“I wanted to talk to you first.” A sudden, pained expression crossed Adrecht’s face, and he grabbed at the stump of his left arm with his right. The note from Janus fluttered to the floor. “Karis’ fucking blood,” he growled. “You’d think the goddamned thing would stop hurting once they’d taken it off.”

“Should I send for someone?”

“No.” Adrecht closed his eyes. Marcus noticed how thin his face had become. His cheeks were sunken hollows, and rings of black circled his eyes. “I’ll be all right. Listen, have you talked to Janus about this?”

“About you leading the Fourth?”

“About the march!” Adrecht said. “You know as well as I do that it’s madness. Have you explained it to him?”

“I. .” Marcus hesitated. “I’m not sure I would call it ‘madness.’”

“Chasing the Desoltai into the Great Desol? What else would you call it? The Desol eats armies and spits out bleached bones. Damn it, you know what it’ll be like. No water, no food, Desoltai raiders snatching up our pickets, night attacks and ambushes-” He broke down into a fit of coughing, violent and disturbingly wet-sounding. Marcus found a basin and cup nearby and poured some water.

“You can’t let him do it,” Adrecht said weakly when he’d recovered. “Come on, Marcus. Anyone who goes into the Desol isn’t coming out again. The Redeemers and ‘General’ Khtoba are one thing, but this is the Steel Ghost. They say he can’t be killed.”

Marcus had heard those rumors, too. He’d always discounted them, but in the light of what he’d seen. . He shook his head.

“The colonel is aware of the difficulties. I’ve given him my opinion. Fitz is working on the supply problem-”

“The hell with your opinion,” Adrecht rasped. “Tell him no . Tell him you’re not going to do it. The First will follow you, and so will Val and Mor. The Colonials know you. If you just explain it to them-”

There was a sharp intake of breath that Marcus took a moment to recognize as his own. Adrecht halted, aware that he had gone too far.

“I think,” Marcus said, “that you may still have a touch of fever.”

“I think you’re right,” Adrecht said dully.

“Shall I inform that colonel that you’re not ready to resume command yet?”

“Tell him whatever you like. You can go and die in the Desol if you’re so determined, but I’m staying here.”

“No,” Marcus said. “Everyone comes with the regiment, even the wounded. Relations between the colonel and the prince have. . deteriorated. Anyone left behind wouldn’t be safe.”

“Saints and fucking martyrs.” Adrecht clutched his head with his remaining hand, face contorting as another spasm of pain ripped through him. His breath hissed from between clenched teeth.

“Should I-”

“Get out,” Adrecht managed. “Just. . go, all right?”

• • •

Marcus turned a corner of the battered sandstone Palace and found Fitz directing a company of the First hauling the battalion baggage to the edge of the field, where wagons and teams were lined up three-deep. Along with the usual transport for food, ammunition, and guns, Marcus was not surprised to see stack after stack of wine barrels.

“Throwing a dinner party, Lieutenant?”

Fitz saluted. “Sir. I need to report-”

Marcus waved a hand. “I think I get it. For water, right?”

“Yessir. Most of the city coopers practiced their trade in the lower city. It was necessary to obtain a supply quickly, so I took the most expedient route.”

“I had a gang of wine merchants waving papers in my face all morning. I take it you handed out promissory notes for compensation, as per regulations?”

“As per regulations, sir.” Fitz’s face was straight, but his tone held the barest hint of humor. “I’m sure the Ministry will compensate them.”

“I’m sure,” Marcus said dryly. “How are things progressing?”

“On schedule, sir. We have a slightly longer sick list than usual, but other than that everything is in order.”

“Something going around?”

“Mostly hangovers, I suspect, sir.”

“Ah.” He lowered his voice. “You’ve been here all morning?”

“Yessir, directing the preparations.”

“Do you have a sense of the. . feeling of the men? About this expedition, I mean.”

“Sir?”

Marcus sighed. “I spoke to Adrecht. He’s. .” Marcus paused. “Well, he’s not in a good state, but that’s to be expected. But he was convinced that the march is going to be a disaster. I was wondering if that was a widespread opinion.”

Fitz nodded, considering. He spoke quietly. “I don’t believe so, sir. Among the Old Colonials, there may be a few, especially those who’ve spent time chasing the Desoltai in the past. But the recruits are confident in the colonel, and I have to say many of the Old Colonials have come around as well. Morale seems to be high, sir.”

“That’s good to know.” That meant that Adrecht’s complaints-technically treasonous-could safely be dismissed as grumbling. “Do we have our marching orders yet?”

“Yessir. We’re to head for a town called Nahiseh. The colonel wants us to reach it by nightfall. I understand that he intends to secure additional supplies there.”

At least he’s thinking about it. Marcus didn’t flatter himself that it was his own harangue that had gotten Janus’ mind onto that track, but he hoped it had helped. Looking at the rows of wagons, and the troops forming beyond them in the field, he felt momentarily comforted. It didn’t last. Out to the east was the Great Desol, the desert that devoured armies and laughed at mapmakers. And somewhere, hiding amidst the sands, the Steel Ghost.

• • •

Once again the long blue snake wound out, flowing through the gate, under the stone walls of Ashe-Katarion, and into the burned-out wasteland that had been the lower city.

The column had changed a great deal since the last time Marcus had watched this scene, back at Fort Valor. For one thing, it had shortened considerably. The battalions themselves had slimmed-the Colonials had lost nearly five hundred fighting men, most of them in the action around Weltae-but the “tail” of wagons was also considerably shorter, shorn of the prince and his entourage as well as the usual gaggle of Khandarai camp followers. Marcus had decreed that nothing that was not absolutely necessary would accompany them into the desert, making the maximum possible use of available wagon space and beasts of burden. Cartload after cartload of barrels rumbled past, weighed down with heavy, precious water.