The Thousand Names

Chapter Nine

MARCUS

“Adrecht!” Marcus rapped twice at the tent pole. There was no reply, and he frowned. “Adrecht, I’m coming in.”

He twitched the flap aside, letting a shaft of sunlight in and momentarily brightening the semidarkness under the translucent canvas. There was a soft sigh and a murmur from the far end.

“Marcus?” Adrecht said. “Is that you?”

“It’s me,” Marcus said, picking his way carefully among bits of discarded clothing. He blinked the darkness and made out a figure lying on a mat at the other side of the tent. “We need to talk. I-”

He paused. Some of the clothing on the floor couldn’t be Adrecht’s, unless the Fourth Battalion captain’s tastes were stranger than Marcus had given him credit for. He took a step closer and saw that there were two people on the bedroll. The smaller one sat up, letting the sheet fall away from her. She was a Khandarai girl, not more than eighteen or nineteen, with dark eyes and long dark hair. Her small breasts were uncovered, but it didn’t appear to concern her.

“Saints and martyrs,” Marcus swore. “She had better not be from the Redeemer camp.”

“What?” Adrecht sat up suddenly. “No! Honestly, Marcus, what do you take me for?” He brushed the girl’s cheek lightly. “Dali’s a camp follower. She’s been with us since Ashe-Katarion.”

Marcus relaxed a little. Quite a few Khandarai had followed along with the regiment when it had fled the Khandarai capital: those whose livelihood depended on the Vordanai soldiers or who didn’t fancy their chances under the new regime. More had come to them while they waited at Fort Valor and on the return march, drawn by the chance to sell their wares, their services, or their bodies to the foreigners.

“Well, tell her she needs to go,” he said.

Adrecht gave an exaggerated sigh and said something in Khandarai. He spoke the native language better than Marcus did-better than any of the officers, in fact, except possibly Fitz. The girl laughed and rolled to her feet, stretching ostentatiously in front of Marcus before hunting around on the floor for her clothes. The sight of her body, lithe and trim, forcefully reminded Marcus of how long it had been since he’d enjoyed that particular comfort. He ground his teeth while he waited for her to gather her things and go.

In the meantime, Adrecht had slipped into a pair of trousers and gotten out of bed. When the girl had gone, he turned to Marcus and crossed his arms on his bare chest.

“Well?” he said. “What is it this time? It can’t be missing drill; I heard the announcement last night.” Janus had given the regiment the day off for recovery, except for those needed on work details.

“It’s not that.”

“Well?” Adrecht smiled. “Why do you look so gloomy? We won, didn’t we?”

The victory seemed to have reinvigorated the Fourth Battalion captain. He almost looked his old self again, albeit still missing his fancy trappings.

“It’s not the battle, either,” Marcus snapped. “It’s what happened afterward. Have you been out to the camp?”

“Oh.” Adrecht looked away. “That was. . unfortunate.”

“‘Unfortunate’ is not the word I would choose,” Marcus said. “I gave an order that the men halt outside the camp and return to their formations. Your men ignored it.”

“It wasn’t only my men,” Adrecht protested.

“The Fourth led the way,” Marcus said.

There was a long pause. Adrecht shook his head irritably.

“Come on, Marcus. What do you want from them?” He waved his hand. “These aren’t saints. They’re not even proper soldiers. They’re the scum of the earth, and you know it-the sweepings of the army. You can’t expect them to behave like a bunch of country gentlemen.”

“All I expect is that they obey orders.”

“After a battle like that you can’t blame them for wanting a little. . release. You know?” Adrecht laughed weakly. His smile faded when Marcus’ fist crashed against the tent pole.

“Damn it,” Marcus said. “Listen to me. I’m not here to preach the Wisdoms at you, Adrecht. The colonel is not going to be happy about this. If I were you, I’d get a head start and start handing down some discipline as soon as possible.”

“But-,” Adrecht sputtered. “What am I supposed to do? Start thrashing rankers at random?”

“Do something, or else if we do get back to Ashe-Katarion they’ll burn the place down around our ears.” Marcus turned on his heel.

Behind him, Adrecht said, “There were some of yours right at the front, you know.”

I know, Marcus thought. He could guess which, too-Sergeant Davis and his pack of wolves, for starters. Fitz was already asking questions.

He let the tent flap fall behind him and struck out across the camp, setting a slow pace to give himself time to cool off.

Maybe it doesn’t make any difference. He hadn’t had a moment alone with Janus since the battle, so he wasn’t sure if the colonel was angry or not. Plenty of highborn colonels wouldn’t have given a copper bit about the rape and murder of enemy camp followers, especially grayskin infidel camp followers. Marcus thought Janus might be different, but-

It doesn’t matter. I’m angry enough for the both of us. He’d spent most of the previous evening leading the work details that had finally cleaned up the Khandarai camp. Every overturned tent seemed to hide some fresh horror, and each one added another coal to the pile smoldering in his gut.

And all for what? So that fool of a prince can get back on his crumbling throne? If it was up to Marcus, he’d have handed the man over to the Redeemers and wished them good fortune.

I shouldn’t have taken it out on Adrecht, though. As his temper cooled, he could admit that. The Fourth Battalion had been the worst offenders, but the speed of the Redeemer collapse had caught them all by surprise. It was no wonder the officers had lost control.

On the other hand, he’s not the one who has to explain it to the colonel.

• • •

Marcus’ vague feeling of apprehension came into sharp focus when he approached the drill field and saw the artillery arrayed for review, and the colonel in conversation with some of the men. When he hurried over, though, he found the Preacher all smiles.

“. . bless you, sir. We’re honored by your interest,” he was saying.

“I notice,” Janus said, “that these guns have some fascinating modifications.”

He gestured to the six cannon that had been with the Colonials when he’d arrived, which had been given pride of place in the center of the line. Chief among these “modifications” was the addition of passages from scripture, engraved all over the surface from muzzle to base. The Preacher insisted this improved the weapon’s accuracy. He had a steady hand, and he’d been able to cram quite a large chunk of the Wisdoms onto each gun.

The Preacher doffed his peaked artilleryman’s cap. “Weapons of the Lord, sir,” he said. “Weapons of the Lord, every one of them. Gives them an extra bit of sting against the heathens. This one, I started with Martyrs, and got all the way to-”

“This is a Kravworks ’98, isn’t it?” Janus interrupted.

The Preacher blinked, fingering the brass Church double circle that hung around his neck. “Yes, sir. All our original twelve-pounders are.”

“But you’ve done something to the touchhole.” He leaned closer. “I can’t quite see from the outside, but-”

The Preacher gave a broad smile. “You’ve got a good eye, sir! We had to drill out the originals-”

Noticing Marcus, Janus waved him closer and launched into an explanation. “The Kravworks ’98 was a botched job,” he said. “Problems with the touchhole, something about the boring. The tests showed that the misfire rate would be nearly twenty percent, so most of the guns got sent abroad, or else-”

“To bottom-of-the-barrel outfits like this one,” Marcus finished. That was a familiar story-the Colonials got the worst of everything. Muskets that wouldn’t fire, uniforms that fell to pieces, cannons that exploded. .

“Indeed.” Janus caught Marcus’ expression. “No offense intended, of course.”

“None taken,” Marcus said. “I understand that Captain Vahkerson’s made the best of it.”

“What have you got in there?” Janus said to the Preacher.

“Friction primers,” he said. “New Hamveltai design. Works a bit like a match. Had to tweak them a little myself, of course, but we’ve got the misfires down to one in a hundred shots, and that last shot is usually a failed ignition rather than something dangerous.”

“Interesting.” The colonel appeared to follow all that, which was more than Marcus himself could say. “But aren’t Hamveltai primers a bit hard to come by out here?”

“Ah, as to that, my Lieutenant Archer is a dab hand with chemicals. We managed to puzzle out the recipe with only a few scorched gloves to show for it. By the grace of God, all the raw stuff is easy to get locally, so we’ve got a ready supply.”

“Ingenious.” Janus put on a broad smile. “He’ll have to give me a demonstration of the process at some point.”

“Whenever you like, sir! We’d be honored.”

“And I was impressed by your performance,” Janus replied. “I hope the new pieces are to your satisfaction?”

“Absolutely, sir. Smooth as butter, the whole lot. The six-pounders are particularly fine.”

“I picked them out myself before we set sail,” Janus said. “If there’s anything you need-”

“Actually, sir,” the Preacher said, “I understand we captured a number of mounts and packhorses from the heretics. Some of our teams are already under-strength, and we could do with extras for rotation. If you could see your way. .”

“Of course.” The colonel smiled again. “Not worried about having heretic horses pulling your holy guns?”

“Bless you, sir. I’ll soon have ’em on the straight and narrow. I read ’em scripture every night, you see.”

Marcus didn’t know if that was a joke or not. The Preacher had an odd sense of humor.

Janus chuckled. “Very well, then. Carry on, Captain.”

“Sir!” The Preacher saluted. “Thank you, sir!”

Turning away from the guns, Janus motioned for Marcus to follow him. Marcus fell into step, almost unconsciously, slowing his pace to match Janus’ shorter strides.

“A good man, Captain Vahkerson,” he mused.

“A bit eccentric,” Marcus said, “but certainly a good officer.”

“He’s effective,” Janus said. “Give me effective and eccentric over stolid and conventional every time.” He eyed Marcus sidelong. “There are those who have called me eccentric as well, you know.”

“I can’t imagine why, sir.”

Janus laughed. When Marcus remained silent, the colonel glanced at his companion. One look, but from that one brief glimpse of those gray eyes Marcus suddenly felt as though his every thought had been revealed.

“Ah, Captain,” Janus said. “I think you are not entirely pleased with me.”

“Sir?”

“If there’s something you wish to say, I encourage you to say it.”

Marcus stiffened. “It’s not my place, sir.”

“Nonsense. In a crisis, certainly, I expect to be obeyed without question, and I must say you have performed admirably on that front. Afterward, however, you may feel free to berate me however you like. My pride is not easily injured.”

Marcus blinked. “Sir?”

“However.” Janus held up a hand and looked around at the bustling camp. “Perhaps we should be alone.”

Janus’ tent was nearby. Augustin let them in, his lined face disapproving as always. Once they were seated on opposite sides of the camp table, Janus sent the servant off to the commissary in search of fresh water. Marcus wondered if this was for his benefit.

“Sir,” he ventured, “did we have business to attend to?”

“Of course,” Janus said. “But first, I think, the air must be cleared. Whatever you wish to say, please say it.”

Marcus took a deep breath and held it for a moment. Criticizing a senior officer to his face went against every tenet of army etiquette, not to mention good sense. But Janus had insisted. He tried to frame the question as politely as possible.

Luck. The colonel had gambled, and it had paid off. But if he was overconfident before, now he’ll be positively dangerous.If I can make him see that. .

“When the Redeemer infantry first approached,” Marcus said, “why did you order us to hold our fire? We could have done them a great deal of damage in the time it took them to form and charge. We might even have broken up the attack altogether.” Marcus swallowed hard, but persevered. “It seemed. . unnecessarily risky. Sir.”

The colonel was silent for a moment, looking thoughtful. “Risky,” he said. “Probably. Certainly. But unnecessary?” He shook his head. “What you need to understand, Captain, is that the answer to every question is not in the tactics manual. You should consider the larger situation.”

He waved a hand. “For example, you must always consider the character of the enemy. Truthfully, I did not know this one as well as I might have liked-a Vordanai force, for example, or a Hamveltai one would have been a different matter. But I knew they were green troops who had never faced a field battle. Poorly organized, led with enthusiasm but without discipline.”

“I would have thought green troops more likely to be disordered by long-range fire.”

“Precisely. Disordered, but not broken. Suppose we had opened on them, and they had retired in confusion before reaching musket range. What would the result have been?”

“A victory,” Marcus said.

“And then? What would our next move have been?” Janus raised an eyebrow. “Cannon kill with great efficiency, but not fast enough to make up for our numerical disadvantage. We lack the cavalry strength for an effective pursuit. The Redeemers would have simply retired a short distance and confronted us again, at substantially the same odds. Sooner or later, they would hold together long enough to push a charge home, and then-disaster. Or, if they had a commander with any skill, a flanking movement would have forced us to retreat. In either case, once that vast army had its legs underneath it, things would go hard for us.”

Marcus nodded. “We might have fallen back to a defensible position-”

“Then we would have been lost for certain. Nothing hardens men faster than a siege, and they would have little trouble cutting us off from water and forage. The best we could hope for would be to cut our way back to the fleet.” The colonel shook his head. “No, the only chance for victory was a complete rout. A single, sudden blow, so hard that they would come apart entirely. For green troops, their first contact with enemy fire is crucial. It sets the character, you might say, of everything that comes afterward. Most of those men will never return to the enemy ranks, or if they do they will only run again. Certainly it will take weeks before they can assemble another force half so large. And, in the meantime, the road to Ashe-Katarion is open.”

Marcus sat for a moment in silence, absorbing this.

“Our troops were green as well,” he said after a while. “Most of them, anyway. And even the Old Colonials had never fought a battle like this.”

“Indeed,” Janus said. “I expect this first contact to have a most salutary effect on them.”

Luck, Marcus thought. He risked all our lives on-a hunch? His impression of the enemy? But he couldn’t fault Janus’ logic. He himself hadn’t seen any way to win through against the numbers they’d faced. He’d assumed that, in spite of Janus’ talk the night he’d arrived, he planned to make a reasonable effort, prove to his superiors that he was no coward, and then retreat when the situation became untenable.

He really does intend to win. The thought made Marcus shiver.

“Well?” Janus said. “Does that satisfy you, Captain?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” Marcus said. “I need to think on it.”

“Do so. And feel free to return with further questions.” The smile again, there and gone like distant lightning. “It’s part of a commanding officer’s duty to educate his subordinates.”

If that was true, no one had told the other colonels Marcus had served under. Not that Ben could have taught me much. He nodded anyway.

“Yes, sir. Now, you said you had business?”

“Indeed,” Janus said, without a change in his expression. “I would like you to arrest Captain Adrecht Roston, on the charge of dereliction of duty and others pending investigation.”

Marcus stared, feeling as though he’d been punched in the stomach. Janus raised his eyes to the tent flap.

“Ah, Augustin,” he said. “Something to eat as well, I think.”

“Sir,” Marcus began, “I’m not. .” He stopped, fighting the urge to panic, and cleared his throat. “Are you sure? I’m just not certain that-that this is wise.”

“Wise?” Janus raised an eyebrow. “Would you say that Captain Roston is a good battalion commander?”

Marcus almost said, “Of course,” automatically-no senior officer could expect an honest answer to a question like that! — but something in those gray eyes made him hesitate.

“Would you say that he has acquitted himself well over the past month?” Janus went on.

Again Marcus was silent. The colonel seemed to take that for a reply.

“Then would you say that he’s well liked by his men? That his removal might cause discipline problems?”

Not goddamned likely. There were certainly a few in the Fourth Battalion who would shed a tear at Adrecht’s passing, but that would be because they enjoyed the laxity of his discipline, not his company. In Ashe-Katarion he’d practically ignored the rankers, preferring to spend his time with the other officers and a glittering array of Khandarai high society.

“And finally,” Janus continued remorselessly, “would you say there are no better men available? Your Lieutenant Fitzhugh Warus, for example, seems to have done exemplary work.”

Marcus found his voice at last. “But, sir. Dereliction of duty?”

“He disobeyed a direct order from a superior when his men began looting the Redeemer camp. Or failed to enforce one, which amounts to the same thing. The result was damaging to our cause and our material position. What else would you call it?”

“The men were-are-green, sir. They got out of control-”

“All the more reason to show them that this sort of conduct will not be tolerated.” Janus’ voice was still pleasant, but Marcus thought he could hear the ring of steel underneath. “A demonstration must be made.”

Marcus remembered, uncomfortably, being on the other side of this argument in Adrecht’s tent. He nodded slowly.

“I understand that he is your friend,” Janus said, letting a little sympathy into his tone. “But you must admit I would be justified.”

You don’t know him, Marcus wanted to say. Janus hadn’t been at the War College with Adrecht, hadn’t nursed him through vicious hangovers or watched in mystified envy as he effortlessly charmed young women with his smile and the glitter of his uniform. He hadn’t been at Green Springs, where Adrecht and a company of the Fourth had charged across open ground under fire to rescue a half dozen wounded men.

And, of course, he saved my life. Marcus wondered whether that had been in Janus’ files.

“Sir,” Marcus said, “may I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“What if I speak to Captain Roston and make it clear that, were he to offer his resignation, you would accept it? That would be. . kinder.”

“I’m afraid not,” Janus said. “The effectiveness of the demonstration would be lost.” Janus considered. “You may break the news to him, if you like, and ask him to present himself for arrest if you think that would be easier on him. I have no wish to be unnecessarily cruel.”

“Thank you, sir,” Marcus said hollowly. He saluted. “If you’ll excuse me.”

• • •

“All in all,” Fitz said, “we got off astonishingly light.”

He had to speak up to be heard over the screams. There was a man strapped to the surgeon’s board, a mangled arm held in place by a burly orderly while the cutter worked with the bone saw. They’d given the patient a leather-padded stick to bite down on, but apparently he’d lost it. At least his voice drowned the noise of the saw itself, a high-pitched singsong whine that gave Marcus the shivers.

“Counting the scouts,” the lieutenant continued, “we have less than a hundred dead or seriously wounded. Another hundred or so that should recover. Given the numbers engaged-”

Marcus nodded as Fitz went on. No one had troubled to count how many Khandarai had died, of course, but it had been a great many. Details were still stripping the field of corpses, stiff and bloated now after a day in the desert sun, and carrying them to the pyres that burned day and night. Gleaners brought back what they could find, but there was little enough. Most of the Redeemer’s supplies had burned with their tents.

They walked through the little patch at the edge of the camp that had been designated as the hospital. Open-sided tents shielded the wounded from the sun, and the regimental surgeons bustled back and forth with brisk efficiency. Marcus suspected that much of the activity was for his benefit. As Fitz had said, they’d gotten off lightly. Many of the tents were empty, and of those that were occupied most of the men Marcus could see looked hale enough. Even a minor wound could fester, of course, and a man might lose a limb like the poor bastard back on the table if it got bad enough. But nevertheless-lightly.

He still felt a little sick. The worst engagement the Colonials had been in before the Redemption had been the ambush that killed Colonel Warus. They’d lost six men in that fight, and had two so badly injured they’d died later. One more had been invalided home. Nine altogether, and that had been considered a disaster, with the whole regiment in mourning. And now this.

That’s war, he told himself sternly. The First Colonials had never been a battlefield regiment until now. What fighting they’d done had been bushwhacks and bandit chasing. I should count myself lucky the men stood up to it. Indeed, the mood of the camp seemed to have taken a sharp upward turn. The mutters and sour looks had stopped, replaced by smiles and quick, crisp salutes.

“Sir?” Fitz said.

“Hmm?”

“Is something wrong? You seem preoccupied.”

“Why do you say that?”

Fitz cleared his throat. “For one thing, sir, we left the camp a few minutes ago. Perhaps we should turn back?”

Marcus looked around. Fitz was right, as always-they’d left the last line of tents and the latrine pits behind, and Marcus had been absently strolling out into open scrub. Twenty yards back, a few confused sentries watched curiously.

“Ah.” He looked back at Fitz. “A bit farther, actually.”

“Yes, sir,” Fitz said, in that way he had that actually meant, I see that you’ve gone mad.

Marcus headed toward a big rock, a boulder half buried in the parched earth with a clump of wiry trees growing from one side. He put his back against it, feeling the warmth, and let out a sigh. Fitz stood in front of him, prim and correct. They were a good sixty yards from camp now. No chance of being overheard.

“The colonel,” Marcus said, “is going to arrest Adrecht.”

Fitz didn’t even blink. “On what charge, sir?”

“Dereliction of duty. I talked him into letting me break the news.”

“That was very kind of you, sir.”

“But now I have to tell him.” Marcus grimaced. “I’m not sure I can.”

Fitz maintained a diplomatic silence.

“It wasn’t really his fault,” Marcus said, to no one in particular. “I mean-partly, of course, but-” He shook his head.

“Perhaps if you spoke to the colonel again, he would accept some lighter form of discipline?”

“No,” Marcus said. “He wants to make an example.” He hesitated, then added, “He talked about giving you the Fourth.”

Fitz’ expression didn’t change. “I see.”

Marcus looked at him curiously. “Do you want a battalion command?”

“It would certainly further my career, sir. However, I would worry about the First in my absence. With you spending so much time with the colonel. .”

That was true enough. Fitz practically had a battalion command already.

Marcus pushed away from the rock. “I need to talk to the others. Can you track down Val and Mor and have them meet me in my tent around sundown? Make sure you don’t let anyone know why.”

“Certainly, sir.” Fitz saluted.

The walk back to camp felt longer than the walk out had, and the rest of the day seemed to pass only grudgingly. There were account books to sign off on, stores and inventories to approve, sick lists and casualty reports-that was only the top of the stack. Marcus didn’t dare wonder what lurked in the bottom layers. By the time he looked up and saw that the horizon had gone crimson, his right hand was stiff and aching, and his fingers were blotchy with spilt ink.

Mor arrived first, red-faced from hours in the sun and in a foul mood. He shrugged out of his uniform coat before Marcus could say a word, tossed it into a corner of the tent, and tugged at his collar.

“They’re a bunch of children,” he said. “A bunch of spoiled children. Tell them they’ve done something wrong and they look at you like they’re about to cry. I don’t know where the colonel dug up this lot.”

“The recruits?” Marcus said.

“The rankers are fine. It’s the lieutenants that are the problem.” Mor paced the length of the tent twice, then aimed a kick at his own jacket. “Bunch of stuck-up goddamned paper soldiers. Not one of them had seen any action, and before the battle yesterday they were just about pissing their pants, but now they all think they’re Farus the Conqueror come again.” Mor shook his head. “Are your lot any better? Want to trade?”

Marcus shook his head, feeling guilty. He barely knew his own company commanders, aside from the Old Colonials. Janus had monopolized the time he ought to have been spending with them.

“Next time we drill I’m going out myself,” Mor said. “Make them eat a little dust instead of just wagging their chins. Maybe that will teach them something.” He let out a long sigh. “Got anything to drink?”

“Not just now. We’ve got problems.”

“Don’t I know it. That’s why I asked for a drink.” Mor flopped down beside the camp table. “So what’s going on?”

“We need- Ah, here he is.” Val pushed aside the tent flap and entered, blinking in the lamplight.

“Marcus, Mor,” he said politely. “Fitz seemed agitated, so I hurried over.”

“Agitated?” Mor said. “He doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

“Agitated for Fitz, I mean,” Val said.

“Sit down,” Marcus said. “We need to talk.”

“Now I’m starting to get worried,” Mor said with a smile.

“Given the company,” Val said, “I think I can guess the subject. It’s Adrecht, isn’t it?”

“It’s Adrecht,” Marcus confirmed. “The colonel’s not happy with what happened to the Redeemer camp.”

“Bah,” Mor said. “It’s not pretty, I’ll grant you, but they got what they deserved.”

“Deserved?” Marcus said. “They were running away. There were women-”

“Women who followed an army into battle,” Mor said. He waved a hand dismissively. “If they’d stayed in Ashe-Katarion they would have been safe. And nobody had to run away. We gave them a chance to surrender.”

“That’s still no excuse for slaughter,” Val said stiffly. “The rules of civilized warfare-”

“Last I checked the goddamned Redeemers were not exactly signatories to the goddamned Convention of ’56. They eat their prisoners, remember?”

“That’s just a rumor,” Val said.

“In any case,” Marcus cut in loudly, “Adrecht is taking the fall for it. The colonel told me he wants him arrested.”

“Arrested?” Val looked incredulous. “For what?”

“Dereliction of duty.” Marcus shrugged. “Whether he can make that stick in a court-martial, I have no idea, but Adrecht would spend the rest of the campaign in a cage on just the colonel’s say-so.”

“Who gets the Fourth?” Mor said.

“Fitz,” Marcus said, a sour taste in his mouth. “Or so the colonel implied.”

“About time,” Mor said.

Val ignored him and turned to Marcus. “What are we going to do?”

“I wanted to see you two first,” Marcus said. “We need to decide, together-”

“Decide what?” Mor said. “Sounds like the decision’s already made.”

“We need to decide if we’re going to stand for it,” Val said.

“Exactly,” Marcus said.

There was a long moment of silence. Mor looked from one to the other, started to chuckle, then trailed off. He sat up abruptly.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” he said.

“Adrecht is one of us,” Val said. “One of the Colonials. We can’t just abandon him.”

“He never was worth a damn,” Mor said. “And he hasn’t lifted a finger since the Redeemers sent us packing. Half the time he’s too drunk to walk!”

That hit a bit close to home for Marcus. The answer might be simple for Val, but he was a man of simple loyalties. Fitz would make a better battalion commander than Adrecht. Janus was right about that. And Adrecht was-well, Adrecht. Marcus had been with the other captains so long that he’d lost sight of them. They were simply part of the landscape, as immovable as the fixed stars. The Colonials without Adrecht would be like waking up without an arm or a leg. But Janus forced him to look with an outsider’s perspective, and he had to admit that he didn’t like what he saw.

“I can’t believe you’re talking like this,” Mor said. “I know he was at the College with you, Marcus, but-”

“I can’t believe you aren’t,” Val snapped. “If it was Marcus or I taking the blame, would that be any different?”

“Of course it would! Adrecht-”

“Got what he deserved?” Marcus suggested.

“Yes,” Mor said, though he had the grace to blush slightly.

Mor had never liked Adrecht. Adrecht’s feud with Val had reached such epic proportions that it had become a sort of friendship, but between him and Mor there had never been anything but cold politeness. Adrecht’s privileged background was the cause, Marcus suspected. The nobility were at the top of Mor’s list of hatreds, but as the scion of a wealthy family Adrecht wasn’t too far behind.

“He doesn’t deserve it,” Marcus said. “Not for this. Green troops, in their first real fight-it could have happened to any one of us. His men were just the first ones over the line.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Mor said. “You made it sound like the colonel was pretty set on this-do you think you can talk him out of it?”

“If Adrecht is arrested, I’ll submit my resignation,” Marcus said.

Val nodded slowly. Mor looked from one of them to the other, aghast.

“Do you realize what you’re saying?” he said. “This isn’t some peacetime infraction. If you refuse to serve during a campaign, the colonel can get you for desertion. Forget spending the march in a cage. He could shoot you on the spot.”

Val’s face clouded. Evidently he hadn’t considered that aspect of the situation. It was one thing to resign as a matter of honor, but quite another to be branded a deserter and shot like a common criminal.

“You were the one who said the Redeemers deserved what they got, Mor,” Marcus said. “Can you really let one of your fellow officers be disgraced for letting that happen?”

“If the alternative is being shot, you’re damn right I can,” Mor said.

“He wouldn’t shoot all three of us,” Marcus said. “If we stand together-”

“He won’t get the chance,” Mor said. “I’ll have no part of this. I’m sorry, Marcus.”

There was a long pause. Marcus looked at Val.

“I. .,” Val began, then hesitated. “I need to think.”

I’ve lost, Marcus thought. He knew Val too well. In the hot flush of anger and honor besmirched, he would have willingly marched into hell itself, but given a night to reflect, his fears would get the better of him.

He forced a smile and got to his feet. “Well. I think we can leave it there for tonight, then.”

“You’re not going through with this, are you?” Mor sounded anxious. “For God’s sake, Marcus-”

“Good night, Mor. Val.”

The two of them left, though not without a few backward glances. Only a moment after they’d gone, Fitz ghosted in carrying a mug of steaming tea. He presented it without comment.

“Thank you,” Marcus said. “That will be all for tonight.”

“Sir.” Fitz saluted and withdrew.

• • •

“Sir,” Marcus said. He’d dressed in his best, the formal blues he’d worn to welcome Janus to the regiment, and his salute was parade-ground crisp. Only the darkness around his eyes betrayed any hint of a sleepless night.

If the colonel was similarly troubled, he showed no sign of it. He sat in the blue-shaded half-light of his tent, the folding table assembled and a painted-leather map unrolled across it. Alongside this were a number of paper maps, mostly hasty pencil sketches. He studied these so intently that he didn’t even look up at Marcus’ greeting, merely waved a hand for the captain to take a seat. Only after a few seconds, when Marcus remained standing, did he raise his head.

“Captain?” he said. “I would value your input, if you don’t mind.”

“Sir,” Marcus said again. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a folded slip of paper, which he placed in the center of the map.

“Ah,” Janus said. “Is this from Captain Roston?”

Marcus closed his eyes for a moment. “No, sir. From me.”

It was the first time that Marcus could recall seeing Janus look surprised. The expression flickered across his face for a split second, only barely visible before iron control slammed back into place. Still, somehow, it was gratifying. At least he can be surprised. Marcus had half expected to find Janus waiting for him with a court-martial.

The colonel, his expression once more a mask, reached for the note and flicked it open. It wasn’t long, just a few lines. A moment later he tossed it aside and looked back up at Marcus.

“Would you care to explain, Captain?”

“Sir. I don’t believe it requires-”

“Captain.” Janus’ voice cracked like a whip.

Marcus swallowed. “The charges against Adr-against Captain Roston. Your original order was relayed to him through me, and I was the officer in overall command. Therefore the failure is mine, as are the consequences. If you required Captain Roston’s arrest, I could not in good conscience refrain from submitting my resignation.”

“I see.” Janus tapped his index finger on the desk. “I assume you’re aware that I can reject this?”

“Yes, sir. And I can refuse to recognize your rejection.”

“And since we are engaged in an active campaign, that qualifies as desertion,” Janus said. “I see.” The finger tapped again. “You agreed with me that Captain Roston was not the best man for the job.”

“Yes, sir.” Marcus hesitated, but there was no going back now. “That doesn’t make it right to remove him like this.”

Tap, tap, tap. Then, all at once, Janus’ face became animated again, as though someone had shone a spotlight on it. “Very well.” He pushed the letter back across the table. “You may keep this.”

Marcus blinked. “Sir?”

“Getting rid of Captain Roston is not worth losing you in the bargain. You win, Captain.” Another flicker, this time a smile. “As usual, it seems.”

“Captain Roston-”

“You will convey my displeasure to Captain Roston at the conduct of his men. But unofficially.” Janus fixed Marcus with a penetrating stare. “You understand that should the captain fail in his duty again, you will bear the responsibility for it?”

“Yes, sir.” Marcus took what seemed like his first breath in hours. “Thank you, sir.”

“No thanks are necessary,” Janus said. “Now sit. We have plans to go over.”

“What-? Now, sir?”

“Time is short,” Janus said. “We’ve wasted far too much on peripheral matters already.”

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus’ mind felt like a clockwork engine thrown suddenly into reverse, gears screeching and stripping. He tried to focus on the map, but it seemed like nothing but a random set of painted splotches.

He did his best not to show his confusion, but hiding his feelings from Janus was apparently beyond his ability. The colonel gave him a cool glance, then waved a hand vaguely.

“A few minutes, on the other hand, will not greatly delay us. I suggest you go and change into your usual uniform. You seem-uncomfortable.”

“Yes, sir.” Marcus hesitated. “Thank you, sir.”

Janus was already bent over the map again, leafing through a stack of scouting reports. Marcus beat a hasty retreat.

Stepping outside, he practically ran into Val. The other captain was approaching at a jog, his uniform sending up a gentle jingling sound like a fool with his cap and bells. He’d embellished it, over the years, with bronze and silver trinkets and embroidery in the Khandarai style. None of them had anticipated needing their dress blues for official Vordanai functions again.

“Marcus,” Val said, breathing hard. “I’m sorry. I came as quickly as I could.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Have you given it to him already?”

“Given it. .” Marcus stopped as realization dawned. “You’ve come to resign?”

“Of course!” Val said stoutly, then abruptly looked sheepish. “I admit that Mor nearly had me convinced last night. But this morning I thought-hell-” His blush deepened. “I couldn’t stand leaving you in the lurch, and that’s that. But it took me a while to get dressed and write the bloody thing out.” He fished in his pocket. “Please tell me it’ll still do some good.”

Marcus smiled. He felt, abruptly, like a weight had fallen from his shoulders, as though he could only now acknowledge the reality of what had happened.

“I don’t think the colonel has any need of it,” he said. “But it’s certainly a great comfort to me.”

“But. .”

Marcus clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. I still need to change.”

• • •

Half an hour later, back in his regular sun-bleached uniform and fortified by a cup of coffee strongly flavored by a splash of Khandarai liquor, Marcus ducked into the colonel’s tent again and snapped another textbook salute. The colonel was in the same attitude as when he’d left, though most of the scouting reports had been converted into pencil notations on the maps.

“Captain,” Janus said, “will you actually sit down this time?”

“Gladly, sir.” He hesitated. “I must apologize for disturbing your planning earlier-”

The colonel gave an affected sigh. “Think nothing of it. We have more important matters to discuss.”

Marcus nodded and sat. The colonel turned the leather map so that it faced him, and tapped a finger on it. It took Marcus a moment to parse-the script was Khandarai, and the mapmaker had used unfamiliar symbols-but once he found the label for Ashe-Katarion, the landscape snapped into place. Janus’ finger marked the regiment’s current position, roughly thirty-five miles from the city.

“We march tomorrow,” Janus said. “The question, of course, is where.”

“To the city, presumably,” Marcus ventured.

“Indeed. But getting there is going to be a problem. News of our victory has reached them by now, and General Khtoba appears to have bestirred himself at last.”

“You think he’ll meet us on the road?”

“Unfortunately, I doubt that he’ll be quite so bold. No doubt he’ll keep to the west bank of the Tsel, and therein lies the difficulty. You see?”

Marcus frowned. He’d never claimed much of a gift for strategy, but the issue here was clear enough. Ashe-Katarion clustered around an inlet called the Old Harbor, repository of the trade that formed the city’s lifeblood. In ancient times, the river mouth had been there as well, but the channel had silted over and the mighty Tsel had dug a new path to the sea, some twenty miles to the west of the city. The kings of Khandar had cut a canal south from their city to a bend in the river rather than relocate their temples and palaces to the new outlet.

The result was that the Tsel was squarely between the Colonials and the Khandarai capital. Upstream to the south, the great river wiggled like a snake as it crossed the wide, flat plain, but here at the coast it ran fairly straight. Slow-flowing it might be, but it was nearly a mile wide and presented a formidable obstacle.

There was a bridge a few miles up from the sea, where a pair of rocky islands provided a decent footing. The Vordanai cartographers, in their unimaginative way, had dubbed the triple span Westbridge, and the town that had grown up on both banks Westbridge Town. It was through here that the coast road ran, over the river and down the last few miles into the city.

Marcus had ridden through the town many times, most recently on the retreat from the Redeemers that had ended at Fort Valor. There were no purpose-built defenses, no fortress walls or emplaced artillery, but the place would be a nightmare to take nonetheless. The bridges were narrow, barely wide enough for a pair of wagons to pass one another, and the islands commanded the approaches and provided excellent fields of fire. Troops attempting to cross would have to do so without cover, in the face of every gun the defender could muster, and even if they succeeded in storming the first island they would only have to accomplish the same task twice more. Then, on the far bank, they’d need to hold the bridgehead against whatever counterattack the enemy would have waiting.

“Khtoba’s dug in around the bridge,” Marcus guessed.

“Like a tick on a dog,” Janus said. “With only three battalions, though. He’s no fool, and he knows we won’t go that way unless we have to.” He tapped the map again, upstream of the city. “The other three are here. There’s a ford just north of this river bend, good enough to cross if we don’t mind getting wet.”

A ford sounded hardly better than the bridge. Marcus tried to imagine slogging through a waist-deep river and assaulting the far bank, while the enemy flailed the water with musket and canister. It might be done, if the attackers were determined enough, but the losses would be ghastly.

Janus was watching him with those deep gray eyes, and Marcus decided this was a test. He looked down at the map and searched his memory.

“We might march down the east bank,” he said eventually. “There’s another bridge here, at Saal-Khaaten, and more fords upstream where the river’s narrower.”

“Khtoba would follow,” the colonel said. “And he has the inside track.”

“If we can threaten more than two crossings at once, he’ll have to spread himself thinner. He can’t cover them all.”

Janus gave a slow nod. “It might serve. And then what, once we’ve crossed?”

“A battle, presumably.”

“A head-on fight, and he’ll choose the ground,” Janus said. “And Khtoba has us three to two.”

“The last Redeemer army had us five to one,” Marcus said. “I didn’t think the odds concerned you.”

The colonel waved a hand. “Those were rabble. The numbers didn’t concern me because I knew they would never stand up to disciplined fire. They might as well have left three-quarters of those men at home, for all the good they did. But the Auxiliaries are a horse of a different color.”

That was true enough. The Auxiliaries comprised six battalions of Khandarai recruited by Prince Exopter and trained by his Vordanai allies. Marcus had taken his turn at the training a time or two, and they’d certainly looked disciplined enough, marching up and down in their brown uniforms. More important, they had Vordanai weapons, including a full complement of artillery. They were supposed to have been a bulwark against rebellion, but no one had counted on the fervor the new religion inspired. The Auxiliaries had gone over to the Redeemers almost to a man, along with their commander.

“On even terms, in open ground, I wouldn’t hesitate,” Janus said. “But Khtoba is not likely to give us a chance at that. Judging from his actions thus far, I doubt he’d even give battle. More likely he’d fall back behind the canal, or into the city itself, and fight us in the streets. That we must avoid at all costs.”

Marcus shook his head. “So what, then?”

“The general has given us an opportunity here.” He tapped the bridge again, and then the ford. “Two detachments, widely separated, and not much between them but pickets. Where we need to be”-he moved his finger to a point between the two-“is here.”

“We’d be surrounded, with no line of retreat,” Marcus objected. “Even if we could get there, which we can’t, since we can’t cross the river.”

The colonel grinned like a cat.

• • •

It was nearly sundown. Rest-which at the start of the day had seemed like some distant and unreachable oasis-was practically within his reach, and Marcus therefore had a strong inclination not to answer when there was a knock on his tent pole. In theory, it might be important, although short of an impending Khandarai attack Marcus couldn’t think of anything that qualified. He compromised by responding with a sort of muffled grunt, in the hopes that the knocker either wouldn’t hear him or would give up and go away.

Instead, the visitor spoke. “It’s Adrecht.”

Damn. “Oh, all right.”

Adrecht ducked through the flap. Even in the dim lantern light, there was no mistaking the huge bruise that purpled his cheek and nearly closed one eye. A shallow cut above his eyebrow was dark with scabbed blood.

“Saints and martyrs,” Marcus swore. “What happened to you?”

“Mor,” Adrecht said, with an exaggerated wince. “Do you mind if I sit?”

Marcus nodded, and Adrecht folded his lanky form up beside the camp table. Marcus waved at his trunk.

“Do you want a drink? I think I’ve got something. .”

“No,” Adrecht said. His expression was thoughtful. “No, I don’t think so.”

“So what happened? Mor just jumped you?”

“After a manner of speaking,” Adrecht said. “He came into my tent and told me that he’d had it with me, and that Marcus was a better friend than I deserved.” He smiled slightly. “With more swearing, of course. Then he picked me up and tossed me into a tent pole. Snapped it in half, as a matter of fact.”

“Hell.” Marcus’ face clouded. “I’ll talk to him. I don’t care what he thinks, that was out of line-”

“No,” Adrecht said. “Not really.”

Marcus swore inwardly. He’d hoped to avoid this for a while. “Ah. He told you the whole story, then.”

“Most of it. I got the rest out of Val. If you want to keep something a secret, you ought to think twice before sharing it with those two. Think three times, maybe.” Adrecht shook his head. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

“I wanted to keep it quiet.”

“Honestly, Marcus.”

Watching his friend’s expression, Marcus could tell that excuse wouldn’t do. He sighed. “I didn’t want you to do anything. . rash.”

“Rash? Like turning myself in before you got a chance to resign?”

“Like that, for example.”

“Accepting dismissal,” Adrecht deadpanned, “rather than risking your being shot for desertion. That would be ‘rash.’”

“I suppose so.” He frowned, searching for words. It was hard to explain to the others, but he’d never really felt endangered-he had no reason to be sure that Janus wouldn’t shoot him, or even bring him up on charges, but he felt the certainty nonetheless. “It wasn’t really about you. I tried to explain that to the colonel.”

“Did he believe it?”

“I’m not sure.” Marcus shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“I suppose not.” Adrecht paused, then said, “Well, if it makes any difference, you were right. I would have been rash.”

There was a long, awkward silence. Marcus searched for something to say, but drew a blank, and in the end it was Adrecht who spoke.

“You don’t owe me anything, you know. It’s been-”

“Eighteen years,” Marcus said. “I know.”

Another silence. Adrecht sighed.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“What do you mean?” Marcus said.

“How can I just go back to my battalion now? I know the colonel would rather be rid of me. Mor seems to hate me. And you-” He shook his head. “It seems like I ought to resign, but after what you’ve been through that would be a bit of a waste, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” Marcus hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Mor will come around eventually. But I think you need to prove the colonel wrong.”

“Small chance that I’ll get the opportunity. He’ll have me guarding the latrines for the rest of the campaign.”

“He won’t, as it happens.” Now it was Marcus’ turn to smile. “We’re going into action again tomorrow, and you’ve got a big part in it. Right beside me, in fact.”

“Oh.” Adrecht didn’t sound surprised. “And how did that happen?”

“You volunteered.”

“I suspected as much. I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Probably not,” Marcus admitted. “I didn’t.”