The Thousand Names

Chapter Eight

WINTER

Winter hiked wearily back toward the ravine where she’d left what remained of her company. The immediate aftermath of the Redeemer’s attack had been a desperate scramble to rescue what wounded they could and then run for the nearest cover. They’d ended up in a wind-carved defile through the high ridge, narrow enough at both ends to be easily defended. Only then had Winter felt secure enough to give most of the company a rest, while she and Bobby picked a cautious path up the empty hillside to find out what had happened.

When they returned, Graff shouted the men awake. Most of the survivors had dropped wherever they’d halted, sprawled across the narrow floor of the ravine like a blanket of corpses. But the corporal’s yell produced a miraculous resurrection, and as Bobby related the good news the buzz of conversation spread, punctuated by whoops and hollers. Winter pushed her way through the jubilant throng and found Graff.

“Good to see you back safe, Sergeant,” he said.

“Thanks.” She jerked her head in Bobby’s direction. “You’ve heard?”

“I’m not sure I believe it.”

“We had the whole story from a couple of Give-Em-Hell’s outriders,” Winter said. “From the top of the hill you can see the Redeemer camp burning.”

“Nice to get good news for once,” Graff said.

“Better than the alternative,” Winter agreed. “But we’ve still got a bit of a walk ahead of us, and it’d be best to make it before dark. How many of the wounded need to be carried?”

The corporal counted on grubby fingers. “Fox. . Inimin. . Gaff. . Regult. .” He looked up. “Four, I think.”

“What about Eiderson?” Winter wasn’t good with names, but she was starting to remember a few. Eiderson was a big, blond man with a sarcastic manner, prone to sneers, but he’d screamed loudest of all when they’d carried him from the battlefield with a carbine ball through the thigh.

“He died,” Graff said quietly. “An hour or so back.”

“Oh.” Winter felt guilty that this news didn’t affect her more. “Four, then. Eight men to carry them, and four more just in case. Bobby and I will stay with them. Can you take the rest of the men ahead?”

Graff frowned. “There could still be Redeemers about. Best to stick together.”

She shook her head. “The outriders said we’re in the clear. The more men we get back to a camp by nightfall, the less worried I’ll be.”

“As you say, Sergeant,” Graff said. “Take Folsom as well, then. I can ride herd on the others.”

Winter glanced up at the sun. It had touched the horizon, and lurking under the still-stifling heat she could feel the chill of the desert night, waiting to pounce.

They rigged stretchers for the four wounded men out of muskets and torn jackets, and fashioned makeshift torches from scraps and scrub grass for when night fell. Graff set off first, with the balance of the company, promising he’d send riders to escort them the rest of the way once he reached the regiment. Winter and her small party left the ravine just after sunset, picking their way down the center of the valley where the land was flattest. The wounded men whimpered and moaned, and any false step that jolted them produced heartrending screams.

At first the stretcher bearers and their escorts kept up a lively chatter, Bobby among them, though Folsom had reverted to his usual silence and walked silently at Winter’s shoulder. As twilight deepened from red to purple, though, the gathering darkness smothered conversation like a shroud. The four unburdened men lit their torches, which gave enough light to place their feet by, but no more. They filled the valley with flickering, dancing shadows, decorating every rock with a long black streamer.

A column of smoke was visible, rising from burning Redeemer stores and blotting out a chunk of the darkening sky. Winter directed them toward it, which was the direction the valley ran in any case. She’d intended to skirt the base of the conflagration once she arrived, but at ground level it was more of a cloud than a bonfire, with no clear edges. They were in the Khandarai camp, or the remains of it, before they realized it.

There was actually very little to mark it as a camp of any sort. There were no neat lines of tents, as in the Vordanai encampments. Bedrolls and sheets were scattered at random, interspersed with crude lean-tos of linen and sticks. Amidst these were all the detritus of an army on the march-weapons, spare or broken, sacks of meal or fruit, bones and offal from butchered animals, bits of clothing left behind for the final march into battle.

Most of what would burn had been blackened by fire, and here and there fitful embers still smoldered, sending up choking black smoke. Before long, full dark arrived, and the circle of light cast by the torches defined the limit of their vision. They walked in silence, objects coming into view a few paces ahead and falling into oblivion after they’d passed, like floating wreckage flowing around a ship under sail.

Winter barely noticed the first body, blackened and charred by flame, curled into a ball amidst the crisped ruins of a bedroll. Only the skull marked it as something that had once been human. The next, though, was a ragged man coated crimson from a dozen wounds in the back, lying facedown in the dirt. Past him was a man with a spear still in his hand, the side of his head shot away by a musket ball. From then on, as they entered the center of the camp, they encountered more and more corpses, until they all had to tread carefully to avoid crushing stiff, outflung fingers or stumbling over twisted limbs.

There were women, too, Winter realized with a start. Some, dressed in rags and curled around the wounds that had killed them, were indistinguishable from the men, but this far into the camp any resistance had apparently collapsed, and the victors had found time for a bit of sport. They passed one body naked and spread-eagled, her throat cut in a ragged red half circle like a broad grin. Elsewhere the torchlight revealed the pale buttocks of three women laid facedown in a row, robes hiked up to their armpits. A gray-bearded old man lay nearby, killed by a single shot to the chest.

It went on, and on, and on. Winter wanted to scream, but she didn’t dare. Inside the smoke cloud, she had no way to navigate, so all she could do was lead her men on a straight course and pray they’d come through it eventually. She watched the faces of the men in the flickering light. Folsom, behind her, might have been carved of stone, but Bobby’s eyes were wide as saucers. The boy had dropped back when they found the first corpse, and with each successive discovery he pressed closer to her side. Winter reached out and found his hand with hers, tentatively. She wasn’t sure if the gesture was unmanly, but Bobby twined his fingers through hers, and gripped tight.

She felt an odd need to explain, to make excuses. It’s war. This is what it’s always been like. After a battle, when their blood is up, men will do things they’d never consider otherwise. But her throat was too tight to speak, and the burning camp had the heavy, unbreakable silence of a cathedral.

Winter wondered how much of the devastation had been wrought by the Old Colonials and how much by the recruits. She had a depressing feeling that she knew the answer. Old Colonel Warus had taken a dim view of rape and pillage when it was committed under his eye, but he hadn’t troubled to extend that eye very far. And when a village had been suspected of harboring bandits or rebels. .

They were not the only ones in the camp, though no living person strayed into the circle of firelight. Other torches moved here and there, bobbing among the slowly dying flames like distant will-o’-the-wisps. Alone, or in groups of two or three, they picked their way through the ruins. In search of plunder, presumably, though there was little of value that Winter could see. She could hear them at times, too, rough voices calling to one another over the crackle and spit of the flames.

It seemed they’d been walking for hours in silence, and even the cries of the four wounded men were muffled. When Winter heard a low, agonized groan, she assumed it came from her party, but it was followed by a hiss and a muffled curse. She stopped, and held her palm up to halt the others.

Bobby’s hand tightened convulsively, then slipped free.

“What is it, sir?” the boy said.

“I heard something,” Winter said. “Someone’s alive, near here.”

The soldiers looked at each other. One of them, a sandy-haired youth holding one end of a stretcher, spoke up.

“Are you sure?” he said.

“I heard it, too,” Folsom rumbled, and pointed. “Over that way.”

The soldier glanced at his companions, then shrugged. “So what? It’s got to be a grayskin.”

“It could be one of ours,” Winter lied. The curse she’d heard had been in Khandarai. “We can’t just leave him.” She surveyed their faces and came to a quick decision. “You keep on. The camp can’t be much farther. If we can find him, Corporals Forester and Folsom will help me bring him in.”

The man nodded. Another soldier kindled an extra torch and handed it to Folsom. The stretcher bearers and their escort trooped off, leaving Winter and the two corporals alone.

Bobby made a visible effort to control himself, shifting his musket from one hand to the other and shaking out stiff fingers where he’d gripped it too tightly. He took several long breaths and then turned to Winter, determination written in his face. Winter found her respect for him increasing. He was obviously scared, even terrified, and equally obviously determined not to let it prevent him from doing as he was ordered. Folsom, as usual, was impassive.

“Right,” she said. “Let’s go.”

They walked in the direction of the sound, past torn blankets and smoking piles of rubbish. Corpses were everywhere, sprawled in attitudes of fear and flight where they’d been cut down by their pursuers. Winter forced herself to look around, searching for movement. Bobby cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted a greeting, but it produced no reply, and he didn’t repeat it.

Then Winter caught a flicker of motion. She pointed.

“There!”

There was an overturned wagon, a dead horse still tangled in the traces. Someone crouched behind it, a dark shadow against the dull red light from distant fires. Winter stepped forward, hands spread, trying to look nonthreatening.

“Hello?” she said, then tried again in Khandarai. “Keipho?”

She half expected whoever it was to flee. She certainly did not expect the enormous shadow that rose up from behind the broken wagon, eyes glowing with reflected torchlight. It roared like a bull, a deep, animal sound with no human language in it, and charged.

It was a man, she could see, tall and thick-limbed, shirtless, with a hairy white belly that strained at his belt. His face was wild with rage, and in his hands was a curved sword half as long as Winter was tall. He vaulted the dead horse in a single stride, weapon held above his head.

From Winter’s right came a bang that shattered the stillness like a rock through a pane of glass. Smoke billowed from Bobby’s musket, but the boy had pulled the trigger before getting the weapon level, and the ball whined off into the night. The giant barely broke his stride, headed straight for Winter, his blade raised for a two-handed downward cut that would have chopped her in half.

Folsom stepped into his path, bulling forward underneath the stroke so that the pommel of the sword glanced off his shoulder. The corporal had let his musket fall, but he still held the torch in his left hand, and he pressed it against the giant’s back. The big man roared, and his knee came up and buried itself in Folsom’s stomach. Folsom gave a grunt and staggered backward, and the Khandarai came around with a backhand slap that lifted him off his feet and sent him sprawling in the dust.

Winter dove for the musket Folsom had dropped, rolled, and brought it to her shoulder as she came up. The Khandarai had his sword raised once more, this time to decapitate the fallen corporal, and Winter had the whole of his broad back as a target. She pulled back the hammer, hoped like hell the jostling hadn’t spilled the powder in the pan, and pulled the trigger.

The bang of the weapon sounded sweet in her ear, and even the mule kick against her shoulder was reassuring. She saw dust fly from the giant where she’d hit him, and he went suddenly still, sword held high. The ball had gone in near the small of his back, and she could see blood begin to spurt, but he gave no sign of pain. Instead he turned, slowly, revealing a matching hole in his gut. His sword still raised, he took first one step toward Winter, then another.

Die, Winter begged, half a prayer. Die, please just die! But he came on, blood gouting down the curve of his belly in regular pulses. She raised the musket in a halfhearted attempt to block his downward blow, knowing he could easily hammer the weapon aside.

Another bang from behind her, and the huge man sprouted another gaping red wound, this time high on his chest. He staggered like a drunk, grounding the point of his sword as though he meant to lean on it. Then finally, mercifully, he toppled, with one last roar that was more like a moan. The impact of his collapse seemed to shake the ground, and for a long moment Winter couldn’t look away, fearing that he would once again clamber to his feet. When she finally managed to look over her shoulder, she saw Bobby standing with a leveled musket, smoke rising from the lock and barrel.

Folsom groaned, and the sound seemed to break the spell. Winter rolled over and managed to get to her knees, and Bobby let his weapon fall and hurried to her side.

“Sergeant!” he said. “Sir! Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Winter said, when she had the breath. “He didn’t touch me. Check on Folsom.”

But the big corporal was already getting to his feet. The left side of his face was blotchy and smeared with blood from a few small cuts, but he waved away Bobby’s offered hand and went to Winter’s side. Together, the two of them hoisted her to her feet and helped her remain there, in spite of some unsteadiness around the knees.

“What?” Bobby said. “What in the name of all the saints was that?”

“Goddamned monster,” Folsom muttered.

“He was a fin-katar,” Winter said. Her own voice sounded distant through the blood rushing in her ears.

The two of them looked at her. “A what?” Bobby said.

“A fin-katar,” Winter repeated. “It means ‘a divine shield.’ They’re kind of a holy order. The personal guards of the Khandarai priesthood.” She frowned. “The old priests. Not the Redeemers.”

Folsom frowned. “How d’you know?”

“Look at the size of him,” Winter said. “They all look like that. The priests do something to them.”

The big corporal made the sign of the double circle over his heart. “Sorcery.”

“I’ve heard it said,” Winter said. “Or some trick with powders and potions. Someone once told me the fin-katar eat only poison pear and drink only scorpion venom.” Her brain felt like it was slowly starting to work again. “What the hell was he doing here, though?”

“Plenty of priests with this army, looked like,” Bobby said.

“The Redeemers hate the old priesthood,” Winter said. “They blame them for leading the people astray in the first place.”

Folsom shook his head. “Infidels.”

Winter hadn’t known the big man was particularly pious, but then she knew little enough about him. Or any of them, for that matter.

“You can’t tell me that was what we heard moaning,” Bobby said, eyeing the enormous corpse.

“No.” As her heart calmed, weariness seeped back into Winter’s limbs. She found that she’d suddenly lost her taste for her mission of mercy. “But maybe we ought to go back. God only knows who else is hiding somewhere around here.”

Folsom nodded fervently. His cheek was already purpling into what promised to be a hideous bruise. Bobby looked less certain, though.

“It sounded like it came from somewhere close,” the boy said. “Maybe-”

Another voice, thin and papery, like the whisper of a ghost. “Please. I’m here.”

Bobby looked around, startled, and Folsom grabbed for one of the muskets. The words, Winter realized after a moment, had been in Khandarai. Neither of the corporals understood the plea as such. She waved them hurriedly to silence and spoke aloud in the same language.

“Where? Where are you?”

“Wagon. .” The voice was faint. “Please. .”

Winter looked at the overturned wagon. It was big and solidly constructed, really too much for a single horse. There was a space under it, where the walls held the bed off the ground. The front was blocked by the driver’s box, but the back was open where the tailgate had been knocked away.

“Are you underneath?” Winter said, still in Khandarai. “You can come out. We won’t hurt you, I swear.” The voice sounded young, and probably female.

“Can’t,” it said. “Stuck.” There was a long pause, and then a muffled scream. When it came again, the voice was thick. “I can’t. .”

“Hold on.”

Winter went to the wagon, intending to circle to the open tailgate and peer underneath. Halfway there, though, she saw the pale shape of a hand, palm up. Whoever was under the wagon had been caught when it overturned, one arm pinned to the dirt by one of the wooden walls. No wonder she can’t move. The flesh of the forearm was angry red and purple where the board pressed against it.

“Folsom!” Winter said. “Can you shift this?”

The big corporal approached, looking speculative, and circled around to the rear, where he could get a grip on the bed. He gave it a tentative pull and grimaced.

“Not much,” he said. “We’d need a couple more men to flip it.”

“Just lift it a little,” Winter said. “Only for a minute.”

By now he’d seen the hand, and he nodded grimly. He squatted, put both hands under the bed, and straightened up with a grunt. The wagon came up with him, wheels spinning slowly.

The girl screamed, high and piercing. Winter took one look at her outflung arm, which had an extra bend above the elbow where the wagon had been resting, and knelt down to grab her by the legs instead. She scrabbled for a moment in the semidarkness under the wagon, uncomfortably aware of the weight that would crash down on her back if Folsom’s strength failed him, until she managed to get a grip and pull. The girl slid free, but her broken arm shifted, and she gave another shriek right in Winter’s ear. Bobby grabbed her shoulders as they emerged and pulled her away from the wagon, and Folsom let the weight fall back to earth with a crash.

“Are you all right?” Winter asked in Khandarai. She got no response, and when she leaned closer she could see that the girl’s eyes showed only the whites. Her gray skin seemed unnaturally pale.

“Dead?” Bobby asked.

Winter shook her head. The girl’s chest moved, breath coming shallow and fast.

“Passed out, I think. Her arm’s broken.” At first glance, there didn’t seem to be any other wounds. “We’ll have to carry her.”

“Carry her where?” Bobby said.

“Back to camp,” Winter said. “And-”

“To a regimental surgeon?” Bobby said.

That brought Winter up short. If the officers were turning a blind eye to rape and murder, she doubted the surgeons would have much time for an injured grayskin.

“Back to my tent, then,” Winter said. She wondered if someone had set up their tents, or if they’d all been written off for dead.

“Someone will see,” Bobby said. “What are you going to tell them?”

There was a long pause while Winter chewed her lip.

“Wrap her in a blanket,” Folsom said, dusting off his hands. “Another wounded man carried into camp. Nobody’ll notice.”

Winter looked down at the unconscious girl. She had a heart-shaped face, gray skin dusted with soot, and long, dark hair that was a mass of dirt and tangles. She wore only a simple gray robe, cinched at the waist with a wispy cord belt. Winter guessed she was younger than Bobby.

“We’ll try it,” she said. “And then I’ll think of something.”

• • •

Getting the girl into camp was easier than Winter had dared hope. The Colonials had raised their tents upwind of the burning Redeemer camp, within easy distance of the little brook as it emerged from the valley and ran into the sea. The city of blue canvas was the same shape and size as ever, as though nothing had happened, and the sentries only looked them over briefly and then waved them through.

The Seventh Company’s tents had indeed been erected along with the rest. Winter saw no one as she and the two corporals threaded their way to her own dwelling. It was after full dark, and if the rest of the men were as exhausted as she was, they were no doubt sound asleep. The need to collapse was almost overwhelming, but she held it off for the moment.

Folsom let the girl down on Winter’s pallet. Her eyes were tightly closed now, and Winter couldn’t tell if she was awake or not. A soft moan escaped her lips as her broken arm touched the ground.

“That needs tending,” Folsom said.

Winter, finally sitting, was wondering if her legs would actually drop off. She gave a weak nod.

“Fetch. .” She paused. Someone in the company had set broken arms before, surely, but inquiring openly would give the game away. “Bobby, fetch Graff. You’ll probably have to wake him.” The gruff corporal was a veteran. Doubtless he’d dealt with this sort of thing before.

“Right,” Bobby said. The boy’s eyes were bright with exhaustion, but he went nonetheless.

Folsom grunted and left the tent as well, returning a few moments later with a cracker of hardtack and a block of Khandarai cheese in one hand and a canteen in the other. These he offered to Winter, who took them gratefully. She’d had nothing to eat since morning but a few crumbs gobbled in haste in the ravine, and even dry the hardtack was welcome. The cheese was a touch overripe, but she sliced and devoured it anyway, and washed it down with the lukewarm water.

Graff pushed his way in, rubbing sleepy eyes, with Bobby behind him.

“Glad to see you made it, Sergeant,” he said, “but I don’t see-” He stopped when he saw the girl on the pallet. “Who’s this, then?”

“We picked her up in the camp,” Winter said quietly. “Her arm’s broken. Can you do anything for her?”

Graff looked from Winter’s face to Bobby’s, uncertain. Then he shrugged.

“I’m no cutter, but I could wrap a splint. Did it break the skin?”

“Not that I saw,” Winter said.

“Should be all right, then,” he said. “It’s not likely to fester, anyway. I’ll need some clean cloth, and a length of board.”

Bobby left again to fetch the supplies, and Graff went to the pallet to examine the girl. He nodded approvingly.

“Looks like a nice clean break,” he said. Then, glancing at the tent flap, he lowered his voice. “Sergeant, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“No,” Winter said truthfully. “But you saw the camp, didn’t you?”

Graff shifted uncomfortably. “It’s war.”

“We heard her calling, and. .” Winter shrugged. “I couldn’t just leave her there.”

The corporal was silent for a long moment. “Fair enough,” he said, after a while. “The colonel said that we’re staying camped here for at least another day, for the sake of the wounded. Hopefully she’ll be well enough that we can turn her loose by the time we march.”

“Thank you, Graff.”

He colored slightly under his beard. “Not my place to question the sergeant’s decisions.”

Winter laughed, and Graff smiled.

“’Sides,” he said gruffly, “it’s us that should be thanking you. Every man of us. Even if most of those out there don’t know it, I do. If you’d let them keep running, we’d all have ended up on spits.”

Winter was taken aback. “I-it was just the right thing to do. You could have seen that as well as I did.”

“Should have,” Graff said. “But it was you that did it.”

She nodded awkwardly. The conversation was interrupted when Bobby returned, bearing a selection of boards and a spare sheet ripped into strips. Graff took these implements and set to work, rolling the girl onto her back and gently stretching her arm out along the pallet. Her eyelids flickered, and she moaned again.

“Folsom, hold her down,” Graff said. “Can’t have her shifting about on us. Sergeant, she’s going to scream. .”

Winter cast about, found one of her discarded socks, and wadded it up. Murmuring apologies, she pushed it into the girl’s slack mouth. Graff nodded and began his work. The flesh of the broken arm moved sickeningly under his fingers, and Winter had to look away. The girl’s jaw tightened on the sock, as though she wanted to bite through it, but she gave no sound. After a few moments, the procedure was done, and Graff was winding her arm round with linen.

“That should hold it,” he said. “If she starts to show fever, we’ll have to unwrap it and take a look. If it’s festered after all, then the arm will have to come off.” He caught Winter’s eye. “And don’t look to me for that.”

Winter nodded. “Thanks again.”

“It’s nothing.” He tied the linen off and got to his feet. “Now, if the sergeant will excuse me, I’ll be going back to bed.”

“Go,” Winter said. “All of you. Get some sleep.”

“What about her?” Bobby said. “Someone should watch her. What if she wakes up?”

“Hopefully she’ll have enough sense to stay quiet,” Winter said.

“Or she’ll slit your throat,” Graff said. “She’s a grayskin, after all’s said and done.”

Winter gave a tired shrug. “If you find me with my throat slit in the morning, you’ll know what’s happened.”

The three corporals grumbled a bit more, but in the end they left. Winter gathered the sheet and pillow from her bedroll to soften the hard earth, and stretched out. It was lumpy and uncomfortable, but she was asleep the instant her eyes closed.

• • •

Jane sat beside Winter on a long bench, watching Mrs. Wilmore lecture on the nature of charity.

Winter was afraid to turn her head. There were proctors prowling about, with sharp eyes and vicious switches. But she could catch glimpses of Jane out of the corner of her eye, red hair falling around her face like a curtain of dark crimson silk. She could smell her, even under the deep, earthy scent they all carried from working in the Prison gardens.

She could feel Jane’s hand on her knee, thumb rubbing tiny circles through coarse fabric. Inch by inch, the hand ventured higher, fingers exploring her thigh like mariners venturing into uncharted waters. Her skin pebbled into goose bumps, and her throat was tight. She wanted to tell Jane to stop, certain that at any moment she would hear the whistle of a proctor’s stick. And she also wanted to grab Jane by the shoulders, press her close-

“You still have it?” Jane said. Her fingers slid farther upward, Winter’s skirt bunching around them.

Winter risked turning her head, but Jane wasn’t looking at her. Her eyes were hidden by the fall of her hair.

“Do I have what?” Winter whispered.

“The knife,” Jane said, too loud. “You have to bring the knife-”

• • •

Light, filtered gray-blue through canvas. It took Winter a moment to remember where she was-not back in the Prison, nor back in the ravine, with Khandarai horsemen all around, but safe in her tent in the midst of the Colonial camp.

And not alone. She sat up from her improvised bed and immediately regretted it. Her body felt like a solid mass of aches and bruises, and the sweat and grime of the previous day had dried into a crust on her skin. She leaned forward, clutching her head, and groped for a canteen. The water was tepid, but it cut through the dust in her mouth.

The Khandarai girl lay on the bedroll beside her. She was exactly where they’d left her the night before, and so still it was a moment before Winter realized that she was awake. Her eyes tracked Winter, but other than that she didn’t move a muscle. It reminded Winter of a rabbit, paralyzed by the glare of a stalking fox. Winter cleared her throat and spoke in Khandarai.

“It’s all right,” she said. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

The girl seemed to unfreeze a little, but made no reply.

“How do you feel?” Winter indicated her own left arm. “Does it hurt badly?”

“Where am I?” the girl said.

Her speech had an almost musical lilt, and Winter was suddenly painfully aware of the grating inadequacy of her Khandarai pronunciation. She’d picked the language up in bits and pieces from books, once she’d taught herself to read the flowing Khandarai script, and she’d practiced in bars and on the street. Unconsciously, she’d adopted the accent, which meant that she sounded distinctly lower-class to Khandarai ears.

“In our camp,” Winter said. “This is my tent.”

“Camp,” the girl said. “The raschem camp.”

Raschem was “bodies” or “corpses,” Khandarai slang for Vordanai and other pale-skinned foreigners. Winter nodded.

The girl suddenly fixed her with a long stare. Her eyes were the peculiar purple-gray common among the Khandarai, which foreigners often found unsettling.

“Why?” she said. “Why did you bring me here?”

“We found you in. . the burned camp.” Winter groped for the words. “We did not want to leave you to die. Do you remember?”

“Remember?” The girl raised her broken, splinted arm. “I am not likely to forget. But I do not understand. Your soldiers were killing everyone. Taking the women first, and then-” Her gray skin paled. “Have you brought me to-”

“No,” Winter said hastily. “Nothing like that. I swear.”

“Then why?” The purple eyes were mistrustful.

Winter felt like she couldn’t muster a sufficient explanation in her native language, let alone pick her way through it in Khandarai. She changed the subject.

“My name is Winter,” she said. “Winter-dan-Ihernglass, you would say.” She mustered the politest language she had. “May I know yours?”

“Feor,” the girl said. Catching Winter’s expression-Khandarai invariably went by both given and family names-she added, “Just Feor. I am a mistress of the gods. We give up our other names.” She looked warily around the tent. “May I have some water?”

Winter handed the canteen across wordlessly, and Feor took it in her good hand and drank deeply, letting the last drops fall on her tongue. She licked her lips, catlike, and set it carefully aside.

“I’ll get some more,” Winter said. “And some food. You must be hungry.”

When she started to rise, the girl held up a hand. “Wait.”

Obediently, Winter stopped and sat down again. Feor fixed her with that peculiar gaze.

“I am your prisoner?”

Winter shook her head. “Not a prisoner. Not really. We just wanted to help you.”

“Then I can leave as I please?”

“No!” Winter sighed. “If you go out into the camp, someone really will take you prisoner. Or just kill you, or-”

Realization dawned on the girl’s face. “They don’t know. The others, they don’t know that you’ve brought me here.”

“Only a few. People I trust.” And how had that come to be? Winter reflected. She’d known the three corporals for only a few days. Battle worked strange magic sometimes. “We’ll figure something out, I promise. But for now you have to stay here.”

Feor nodded gravely. “As you say.” She put her head on one side. “When you. . found me, was there a man nearby? A large man, with no hair.”

Her face gave no indication of her feelings on the matter. Winter debated briefly.

“Yes,” she said eventually. “He’s dead.”

“Dead,” Feor repeated. “Dead. That is good.”

Winter stared at her. A mistress of the gods, she’d said. A priestess. But a priestess of the old ways-the Redeemer priests were all men, and their faith preached that the leadership of the priestesses of the old temples had been the first step on the path to corruption. Winter had heard them shouting that message on street corners in Ashe-Katarion often enough, before the Redemption had grown into a revolution.

So what was this girl doing in the middle of a Redeemer army? Winter shook her head.

“I’ll get us something to eat,” she said. Feor gave another grave nod. There was something terribly solemn about her. Not that she has much reason to smile.

Outside the tent, the camp looked little different from any of the others they’d pitched on the road from Fort Valor. The same rows of blue tents, the same stands of stacked muskets. Only wisps of dark smoke rising to the west gave any hint of what had happened the day before. That, and the fact that some of these tents are empty.

The sun was already high overhead, and the men were up and about. Some tended their weapons, sharpening bayonets or cleaning the powder and grime from musket barrels, while others diced, played cards, or just sat in circles trading stories of the day before. When they caught sight of Winter, they straightened up and saluted. She waved them back to what they had been doing and went in search of Bobby.

She didn’t have to look far. The young corporal arrived at a run, hurrying down the line of tents, and practically ran into her. Winter took a hurried step back as Bobby stopped, drew up, and gave a crisp salute. The boy’s uniform was clean, and his skin looked freshly scrubbed, though traces of black powder smoke still darkened his sandy hair.

“Good morning, sir!”

“Morning,” Winter said. She leaned close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you think you could find some food and water that I could bring back to my tent?”

“Of course!” Bobby smiled. “Wait here, sir.”

He dashed off, leaving Winter alone in the midst of her company. She became aware, bit by bit, that the men were watching her. She turned in a slow circle, as though inspecting them, but inside she was baffled. They seemed to want something from her, but Winter was damned if she knew what.

“Er,” she said, and a dozen conversations suddenly died. More distant sounds cut through the sudden silence. Shouts, the whinny of horses, wagons creaking. An army camp was never truly quiet, but it seemed as though a great sucking void had sprung up, centered on her. Winter felt the muscles of her throat trying to close in panic. She coughed.

“Hell of a job, yesterday,” she said. “All of you. Well done.”

A shout rose from a dozen throats at once, any words lost in the roar. All the rest quickly joined in, and for a minute the cheering drowned out all other sound. Winter raised her hands, and it gradually died. Her cheeks were pink.

“Thanks,” she said. The cheers immediately resumed. She was rescued by the appearance of Bobby, carrying a pair of canteens and a sack. The corporal was grinning broadly. Winter took him by the shoulder and marched him at an undignified pace back toward her tent.

When the cheers had once again died away, Winter leaned close.

“Did you put them up to that?”

The boy shook his head. “No need, sir. They’re not stupid. They know what happened yesterday.”

“And they’re cheering?” Winter didn’t feel much like cheering herself. A little under a third of the men under her command had not come back from their first assignment.

“They’re alive, aren’t they?” Bobby flashed his grin at her. “If we’d followed d’Vries when he ran, we’d all be dead by now. You were the one who got them to make a stand.” He coughed delicately. “I think it helps that d’Vries got what was coming to him. Not that you heard me say so, sir.”

Contempt dripped from Bobby’s voice at this last. It was true, Winter reflected. Soldiers had odd feelings toward their officers. A man could be a bully, like Davis, or a drunkard, like Captain Roston of the Fourth, or a tantrum-throwing martinet, and retain the affection of at least some of those who served under him. But the one thing that no soldier could abide was cowardice. Even Winter, who was an odd sort of soldier at best, found she felt only a cold disregard for the lieutenant who had fled at the first sight of the enemy.

“I didn’t. .” Her voice trailed off. “It was only what needed to be done. Anyone could have seen that.”

“But you did.” Bobby shrugged, then lowered his voice. “How’s our patient?”

“Awake and talking,” Winter said. “I’ve been trying to explain the situation to her.”

“What exactly is the situation, sir?”

Winter grimaced. “Damned if I know.”

• • •

Feor tore into the bread and cheese hungrily, only slightly impaired by having only one arm to work with. Bobby watched her intently, until Winter gave him a sidelong glance.

“You’ve never seen a Khandarai up close, have you?”

“No, sir. Except for yesterday, of course.” He hesitated. “Can she understand us?”

“I don’t think so.” Winter switched to Khandarai. “Feor?”

The girl looked up, mouth full of bread.

“Do you speak Vordanai at all? Our language?”

She shook her head, and went back to eating. Winter passed that along to Bobby.

“You’re pretty good with their language,” the corporal said.

“I’ve been here for two years,” Winter said.

It wasn’t really an explanation-many of the Old Colonials had picked up no more of Khandarai than they needed to order in a tavern or a brothel, but Winter had tried hard to learn the language as she explored the city. Under the current circumstances, though, she thought that her-hobby, call it-might seem vaguely disloyal.

Feor finished the last of the bread, drank from the canteen, and gave a little sigh. Then, as though seeing Bobby for the first time, she sat up a little straighter and resumed her austere expression.

“Thank you,” she said.

Winter translated, then said to Feor, “He doesn’t speak your language.”

She nodded, eyes a little distant, as though pondering something.

“Listen-,” Winter began, but the girl raised a hand.

“Let me have a moment, if you would,” she said, and took a deep breath. “I am not a fool, Winter-dan-Ihernglass. Or at least I like to think not. I understand what you have done for me. I do not”-her mouth quirked-“I do not quite understand why, but my ignorance of your reasons does not diminish the fact that you saved my life, and apparently not to simply make me your slave or your whore.” She bowed, first to Winter and then to Bobby, so deep that her forehead nearly touched the ground. “I thank you, both of you.”

Winter nodded awkwardly. “She’s grateful,” she said in response to Bobby’s questioning look.

“And as you have given me this gift,” the girl went on, “I will not throw it away. Tell me what you need me to do, and I will do it. I trust that, if you meant me harm, you have already had ample opportunity to accomplish it.”

Winter gave another nod. She felt a small knot of worry dissolve. If the girl had been stupid, or obstinate, the chances would have been high that she’d not only get herself discovered but that Winter and the others might be punished in the bargain.

“I’m still figuring this out myself,” Winter said. “I hope that we can find somewhere safe and let you go, but it may take some time.”

Feor inclined her head. “If that is the gods’ will.”

“If you don’t mind, may I ask you a question?”

The girl nodded.

“What were you doing with that army?” Winter shifted awkwardly. “You do not seem like one of”-she fumbled for the Khandarai words-“the men of the Redemption.”

Feor laughed. It was the first expression of humor that Winter had seen out of her, and it transformed the severe angles of her face. Her eyes sparkled.

“No,” the girl said. “I am not. I was there as a prisoner of Yatchik-dan-Rahksa.”

“The. .” Winter’s lips moved silently. “The angel of vengeance?”

“The-” She said another couple of words that Winter didn’t know. Seeing the incomprehension, Feor went on. “The high priests of the Redeemers take the names of angels. This one was the leader of the army of the Faithful.”

“Why would he bring you along?”

“Because he is ignorant. He thinks-thought-that I would have the power to counter the magic of your leader.”

Now it was Winter’s turn to laugh. “Our colonel isn’t a wizard, at least not that I know of.” “Wizard” didn’t quite translate properly, but Feor seemed to catch the gist. She shook her head.

“There is a man of power among your army. Malik-dan-Belial warned us, and this close even I can feel it. Yatchik’s ignorance was in thinking I would be able to defend him against such a man. What power I have is not of that sort.”

“Power? As a mistress of the gods, you mean?” Winter shifted uneasily. The subject of religion made her uncomfortable.

“No.” Feor’s face went distant again. When she spoke, it was slow and careful, as though speaking was difficult. “I am a naathem.”

Winter paused. She’d encountered the word before, but a proper translation had always eluded her. The Khandarai seemed to use it to mean “wizard” or “sorcerer,” although not quite in the Vordanai sense and without the connotation of evil those words carried to Vordanai ears. Literally it meant “one who has read.” But even among Khandarai, naathem were the domain of myths or fairy tales. No one she’d ever spoken with had claimed to have met one, any more than a modern Vordanai would have personally seen a demon or a sorcerer.

Bobby, in the silence that followed, looked curiously at Winter. “What did she say?”

“She’s a priestess,” Winter said. “But not one of the Redeemers. They brought her along because they thought that she would defend them against our magic.”

The boy laughed. “Our magic?”

“The Redeemers take that sort of thing seriously.”

“So she was a prisoner?” He looked curiously at Feor, who looked back with polite incomprehension.

“I think so.” She switched back to Khandarai. “Feor, if you could get away from here, where would you go?”

“Back to Mother,” she said, without hesitation. “In Ashe-Katarion. She will be looking for me.”

Winter sat back. “She wants to go home,” she said to Bobby.

“Don’t we all,” the boy said.

Not all, Winter thought. Aloud, she said, “Hers is a good deal closer than ours. We may be able to manage something.”

A knock at the tent pole interrupted them. “It’s Graff.”

“Come in,” Winter said.

Feor gave the older corporal a nod, and he dipped his head uncertainly in return. To Winter he said, “Is she making any sense?”

“To me, anyway.” Winter turned to Feor. “This is Corporal Graff. He’s the one who set your arm.”

The girl raised the bandaged limb. “Tell him he has done an excellent job.”

When Winter repeated that, Graff laughed, and colored a little under his beard. “It wasn’t anything difficult, just a little break.” He smiled at Feor, then turned to Winter. “Got a message. The colonel wants to see you.”

Winter’s good mood, always a little fragile, evaporated at once. “What? Why?”

“Didn’t say.”

“You don’t think-” Her eyes flicked to the Khandarai girl.

“No, I doubt it. Anyway, he said ‘at your earliest convenience,’ which means ‘right goddamned now,’ so you’d better go.”

“Right.” Winter scrambled to her feet, then looked down at herself. She felt as though she ought to change clothes, but there was no way to manage it with the three of them in the tent. She desperately wanted a bath as well, but that was out of the question. Hygiene was one of the hardest parts of maintaining her secret, at least since the regiment had left Ashe-Katarion. Fortunately, the prevailing standard was not high.

“Keep an eye on her until I get back,” she said to Bobby. Then, to Feor, “I need to go. Stay here, and if you need anything, try to show Bobby.”

The girl nodded, purple eyes imperturbable. Winter glanced at her one more time, then slipped outside.

• • •

“Senior Sergeant Winter Ihernglass, reporting as directed, sir!”

She held the salute until the captain waved it away. The colonel’s tent was hardly bigger than her own, though much better organized. A few trunks packed against the canvas walls presumably contained his necessities. In the center was a low folding table and a portable writing desk with pens, ink, and drying sand in securely fashioned containers. The officers sat on cushions, Khandarai style, Captain d’Ivoire on her right and Lieutenant Warus on the left.

At the head of the table sat the colonel. He was not what she had been expecting. Younger, for a start, and thin-featured and delicate instead of stocky and gruff, as so many of these senior officers seemed to be. His long fingers were constantly in motion, twining, untwining, steepling or tapping something. Deep gray eyes regarded her thoughtfully, as though weighing what they saw in the balance. She had the unpleasant feeling that she would be found wanting.

“I apologize for my condition, sir,” she said. “After we returned to camp, I needed to rest, and I received your order shortly after waking.”

The colonel smiled, and something in his eyes glittered. “Do not fret about it, Sergeant. Under the circumstances. .”

Captain d’Ivoire cleared his throat. “We’ve heard from some of the men of your company, but I just want to make sure we have things accurately. You were ordered to scout the ridge parallel to our line of march?”

She nodded, her chest tight.

“The late Lieutenant d’Vries led the company down that ridge, across the valley, and up the next rise,” he said.

“He was eager to make contact with the enemy, sir.”

“Did you advise him to this course of action?”

She straightened slightly. “No, sir. I advised against it.”

“On what grounds?”

“That we would be too far from the column to fall back should we encounter the enemy in strength, sir.”

He nodded. “Then, at the top of the ridge, you saw the enemy cavalry approaching. The company”-the captain glanced at a paper on the table- “‘ran for it like a bunch of rabbits,’ as one of your men put it.”

“They were startled, sir. The enemy were. . numerous.”

The colonel’s lip quirked slightly at the understatement, but he said nothing. Captain d’Ivoire went on.

“What was Lieutenant d’Vries’ response at this juncture?”

“He. .” Winter paused. Criticizing one senior officer in front of another was simply Not Done. For one thing, officers tended to club together, so the most likely result would be some kind of subtle retribution. But he had asked. She sought for a positive interpretation of the facts. “The lieutenant started to ride at once for the main column. I imagine he was eager to alert you to the presence of the enemy.”

Another slight smile from the colonel, and something like a smothered laugh from Fitz Warus. Captain d’Ivoire’s face remained composed.

“At which point you took command of the company and ordered them to form square at the bottom of the valley.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which they proceeded to do, in spite of the fact that company squares are not a formation in our drillbook.”

“We had. . a little practice, sir.”

“And then you held off the attack of, what, three thousand enemy horsemen?” The captain looked at Fitz.

“At least three thousand,” the lieutenant said.

“Most of them just rode by,” Winter said. “Only a few hundred actually stopped to attack us, sir.”

“I see.” D’Ivoire turned to the colonel. “There you have it, sir.”

“Indeed I do,” the colonel said. “The only pity is that the lieutenant’s unfortunate demise has robbed me of the chance to castigate him for his incompetence. All that remains is to acknowledge your accomplishment, Sergeant.”

Winter blinked. “Sir?”

“You rescued your company from an impossible situation, and brought them safely back to the column when your officer broke and ran. That is an accomplishment, I would say.”

“Sir,” Winter said stiffly, “thirty-eight men of the Seventh Company are dead.”

Colonel and captain looked at one another, then back to her. The colonel gave a slow nod.

“Nevertheless,” he said, “things could have been much worse, and that deserves recognition. You are hereby brevetted to lieutenant, for the duration of the campaign, with the Ministry of War to review and approve a full promotion following the conclusion of hostilities. You’ll remain in command of the Seventh Company, as you have demonstrated such aptitude for it.”

“Yes, sir.” That didn’t seem quite sufficient. Winter licked her lips and looked from one officer to the other. “Thank you, sir.”

The colonel waved a hand airily. “Well done, Lieutenant.”

“Congratulations.” Fitz Warus stood and took her hand amiably. He led her away from the table and out of the tent, talking, but Winter still felt too stunned to reply. Apparently he didn’t mind. He left her at the edge of the little group of tents that belonged to the senior officers, with another handshake.

How am I going to tell Bobby? The boy would overreact, and she wasn’t sure she could stand it. She shook her head, then remembered Feor.

I wonder if I should have told the colonel. An hour ago, she wouldn’t have even considered it, but that was before she’d met the man. He seemed-not friendly, of course, not even kind. But fair, possibly, and even-tempered. That was a pleasant change from Colonel Warus, whose rages had been rare but legendary. She had the feeling that he wouldn’t fault her for rescuing the girl, and he’d see to it that she wasn’t treated badly.

She shook her head. No matter how she parsed it, it felt like a betrayal. Winter smiled crookedly and turned her steps back toward the Seventh Company’s tents. We’ll have to deal with this ourselves.