The Thousand Names

Chapter Twenty-two

WINTER

“Take the knife,” Jane said, as though instructing a friend in how to carve a roast. “Put the point of it about here”-she raised her head and put a finger on her throat, just under her chin-“and press in, upward, as hard as you can.”

The knife was in Winter’s hand. Jane was naked, silken red hair cascading down over her shoulders, green eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I can’t,” Winter said miserably. “I can’t do it.”

“You did it then,” Jane said. “You can do it now. Come on.”

Haltingly, Winter raised her hand. The knife was a long, narrow spike of silvered steel, shining in the pale light. The hilt was cold as ice in her hand.

“Do this one thing for me,” Jane said. “Just this once.”

The point of the blade seemed to move of its own accord. It pressed against the hollow of Jane’s throat, dimpling the skin, then raising a single drop of blood where it pricked through.

“I didn’t want to,” Winter said, her throat thick. “I never-”

“Shhh.”

Jane’s hands came up, warm around the icy chill of Winter’s fingers. Gently, almost tenderly, she pressed the knife home, until their entwined hands were flush with the skin of her throat. Then she let go, and when Winter opened her fingers the knife was gone.

Blood pulsed from the wound, trickling down Jane’s body in a steady stream. It pooled along her collarbone and washed down between her breasts. A crimson rivulet twisted down the smooth skin of her belly and lost itself in the thatch of hair between her legs.

“I’m sorry,” Winter, swallowing a rising sob. “I’m sorry.”

“Shhh,” Jane said. “It’s all right.”

Wherever the blood had trailed, Jane’s skin changed. It went pale and gray, shot through with sparkling dark veins, and shone like polished marble. The transformation spread, accelerating as patches joined together, until it was racing over Jane’s body like a tide. Her hair turned to silver in a sparkling wave, and the green in her eyes widened until they were a brilliant emerald from edge to edge.

“Obv-scar-iot,” Jane said, her voice resonating with a strange harmonic. “You see?”

Winter gave a weak smile. “You’re beautiful.”

Jane stepped forward and kissed her. Winter bent eagerly, pressing her body against the shining creature. Jane tasted of dust and centuries, like licking a statue, but her skin was warm and pliant, and her hair fell soft across Winter’s bare shoulders. Jane’s hand stroked Winter’s flank, wandered down across the curve of her thigh, then up again to caress her sex. Winter shivered, pressing herself more tightly into the embrace, even as the cold began.

Her fingers froze first, screaming in protest and then going numb. From there it moved inward, down her arms and up from her toes. Jane nibbled playfully at Winter’s neck, and behind her head Winter held up one hand and found her own flesh turning to brilliantly polished stone. Where Jane’s was warm and vital, hers was as cold and dead as any statue.

It’s all right. She watched the marble spread across her skin, past her elbows, onto her shoulders. Her hair frizzled as it turned to silver. Jane’s warm, wet mouth kissed a trail down Winter’s neck, past her collarbone, toward her breasts, and in its wake her flesh hardened to lifeless stone. Her vision dimmed as her eyes became sparkling, sightless gemstones.

It’s all right. She wanted to say it aloud, but her lips were frozen. The cold pressed inward, until it finally reached her heart.

• • •

Winter opened her eyes.

The cold was still in her, colder than the worst winters at the Prison, when the fires went out and the girls shivered and slept three or four to a bed for warmth. It felt as though she were thawing from the outside in as reality gradually reasserted itself, leaving her with pins and needles racing across her skin. She could still feel the ghost of Jane’s lips against her breast, and the shivery tingle of deft fingers between her legs.

Saints and fucking martyrs. Her heart was beating like a drummer calling the charge. I think I preferred my old set of nightmares.

Bobby lay beside her, huddled into the crook of her arm. They’d started out on separate bedrolls, Winter recalled, but the girl must have rolled over in her sleep. Overhead, the fabric of the tent was as dark as pitch. It was still well before dawn.

The recent past was a blur, coming as it did at the end of thirty or forty hours without sleep. From the hillside where they’d fought the three Khandarai, she’d enjoyed a panoramic view of the Vordanai encampment, and she’d watched the first blossom of musketry spread into a general engagement until smoke had shrouded the scene.

It wasn’t until late in the day that Winter had dared to venture down, after Bobby had regained a groggy semiconsciousness and the sound of firing had died away. She was relieved to find that there was a camp to return to, although the destruction had obviously been extensive. In the confusion no one seemed to be concerned about her absence.

The returning First Battalion had finally gotten around to erecting those tents that had escaped the conflagration, which included hers. She’d taken Bobby and Feor inside with instructions to Graff that she not be disturbed until at least the Day of Judgment. After that, she recalled nothing but the fading echo of her dream.

She sat up cautiously, worming one arm out from under Bobby. The corporal shifted uneasily, mouth moving as though carrying on a silent argument, but did not wake. Groping past her, Winter located her trunk by feel and after some rummaging managed to find a box of matches and a candle.

Bobby was still in her uniform from the previous day, stained and dampened by sweat and grime. In the opposite corner of the tent, Feor was curled into a miserable ball, huddled around her still-splinted arm.

And what am I going to do with her? Winter sat back against the trunk, chewing her lip. She couldn’t help but feel responsible for the girl, as she felt responsible for Bobby, for all that both of them had come of their own free will. In Bobby’s case, she had at least the excuse of military duty. Feor she’d adopted willy-nilly, like a little girl taking in a stray cat with no thought of who was going to care for it. But what else am I supposed to do? Let her get herself killed?

Beside the trunk was the pack the Khandarai raider had been carrying. Winter had brought it along in the hope there would be food and water inside, but the whole of the bulky thing was taken up with an odd sort of lantern. She’d resolved to turn it over to the captain, in case he saw something important in it that she did not. Although I imagine he has other concerns right now.

Bobby shifted again, muttering something inaudible. Her shirt had come loose, and Winter could see a line of pale skin that glittered like polished stone in the candlelight. Winter crawled over to the bedroll to tuck the shirt back in, then hesitated. Carefully, she pulled it up a few inches, exposing the wound that had threatened the girl’s life to begin with.

The marble patch was still there, still warm and soft to her hesitant touch but slick and stony to the eye. And, Winter thought, it was bigger. At least it looked bigger to her, in the uncertain light, though she had to admit that her memory of that first night was shaky.

We have to get some answers out of Feor. Was this change going to spread over Bobby’s body? What would happen when it reached her face? Winter glared at the sleeping form of the Khandarai girl. She must know.

There was a knock at the tent pole, and then a harsh, urgent whisper. “Lieutenant? It’s Graff.”

Hurriedly, Winter fixed Bobby’s uniform. Graff knew the truth of Bobby’s gender, but not of Winter’s, and she imagined that if he found her exploring under the girl’s shirt he’d reach an unfortunate conclusion. “Come in.”

He slipped through the flap, glanced down at Bobby, and looked instantly embarrassed. Winter rolled her eyes.

“Graff, if you act like that, everyone is going to know.”

“Yes, sir,” he said unhappily. “It’s just. . looking at her like that. .” He cleared his throat. “It’s hard to imagine I was ever fooled.”

Winter had thought the same thing. Asleep, there was a softness to Bobby’s features that belied her disguise. Still, I didn’t notice, either. She cleared her throat.

“What’s the problem?”

“Right. Sorry, sir, I didn’t want to wake you, but when I saw the light-”

“I was up. What’s going on?”

“It’s Folsom, sir,” Graff said. “He and his pickets are gone.”

“Gone? What pickets?”

“While you were asleep, sir, Lieutenant Warus asked for a detail to keep watch on the captain’s tent. Folsom took a few of the men who needed rest, since everyone else was out working on salvage. He was supposed to be getting off duty around now, so I went to check on him, and he’s not there.”

“The captain must have taken him somewhere.”

“The thing is, sir,” Graff said, “there was a guard detail on the tent, just not Folsom’s.”

“Then the captain dismissed him early. Have you looked around the camp?”

“Yessir. No sign of him, sir.”

“Odd.” Winter yawned. “I could ask the detail commander, I suppose. Did you know any of the new guards?”

“Not by sight, sir. They said they were Second Company.”

Winter froze. “Second Company?” That was Davis’ men. The captain would never use them to guard his tent.

“Yessir,” Graff said. “As far as I know, the captain and the senior sergeant don’t get along. It seemed odd to me, too, sir.”

“Maybe it’s punishment detail.” Winter got to her feet and started pulling her uniform coat on.

“Are you going to talk to Sergeant Davis, sir?”

“No point in that.” He’d only heap abuse on her. “I’ll go ask the captain if he’s sent Folsom somewhere.”

“I’ll come with you,” Graff said.

“No need. Stay here with Bobby. She’s had a hard day.” Winter paused, then looked over to the other corner. “Make sure Feor doesn’t go anywhere. I’ll be back soon.”

• • •

Captain d’Ivoire’s tent stood in a wide circle clear of other men and equipment, as though everyone was giving it a wide berth. Winter slowed as she approached, uncertain. Is the colonel in with him? She could see only one sentry, a shadowed figure waiting beside the tent flap.

As she got closer, Winter recognized Buck, one of her least favorite among Davis’ creatures. She felt her hackles rise. His whole posture was wrong for guard duty. He didn’t look like a sentry in the middle of a friendly camp-that is, stiff in the presence of officers and otherwise slouched and bored-but rather kept looking around as though he actually expected something to happen. He looked nervous. There was a certain weasel-like quality to Buck in any case, but it was more pronounced than usual.

She paused for a moment in the shadow of a pile of salvaged ration crates, waited until Buck was looking the other way, then sauntered up to the tent as confidently as she could manage. He didn’t turn back until she was only a few yards away, and his wild start was all the confirmation she needed that something was badly wrong. When he recognized her, he relaxed, and his pinched features melted into their habitual sneer.

“Hello, Saint.”

“Ranker,” Winter returned pointedly. “I need to see Captain d’Ivoire.”

“Captain d’Ivoire is busy.”

“This is urgent.”

Buck’s brow furrowed. “What he’s busy with is urgent, too. Come back in the morning.”

“If I could come back in the morning, it wouldn’t be urgent, would it?”

That level of reasoning was beyond the ugly man’s capacities. He fell back on a reliable standby. “I’m telling you to fuck off. Nobody goes in. Captain’s orders.”

“Buck!” a voice hissed from inside the tent.

“Shut up!” Buck said over his shoulder.

He turned back to admonish Winter again, but she was already walking away. She went as far as the crates, then ducked behind them, hoping that the darkness would have swallowed her. When she glanced out, she found that she needn’t have worried. Buck was deep in a whispered conversation with someone inside the tent. By his wild gestures, she could tell he wasn’t happy.

Now what? Folsom and the others couldn’t have just disappeared. If the captain was unavailable, she could go to the colonel, but-

A flare of light from the flap of the tent cut her thoughts short. Two more men emerged, silhouetted against the glow from a lamp. She recognized Lieutenant Warus, the captain’s adjutant, but half his face was covered by a massive, purpling bruise. He walked stiffly, hands behind his back, and when he stumbled briefly at the threshold Winter realized he was bound.

The third man was Will, another from Davis’ company. He looked as nervous as Buck. After a moment’s quiet conversation, the three started moving, heading for the outer edge of the encampment. Behind them, the tent was dark and empty.

By the fucking Beast. Any kind of ordinary explanation had just gone out the window. Winter flattened herself against the crates for a moment, in an agony of indecision, then abandoned the shadows and followed the trio.

Davis’ two men walked ahead of and behind the lieutenant, as though escorting a prisoner. Winter kept far enough back that she could plausibly deny she’d been following them, but for all their nerves the pair made poor lookouts, and they never even glanced in her direction.

At the edge of camp, Will stopped for a moment and lit a lamp, which he handed to Buck to lead the way. Winter hesitated as they left the last of the sleeping soldiers behind and headed out into the open Desol. It was foolhardy to go after them on her own, and she wished vainly that she’d taken Graff up on his offer to come with her. If she stopped now, though, she would lose them. She muttered a curse and followed.

They walked for a long way, and without any challenge from the sentries. When they eventually came to a halt, well outside where the sentry line should have been, she waited a long moment before stalking closer.

“. . don’t like it,” Will was saying.

“I don’t like the whole damned thing,” Buck said, and spat. “I don’t like being out in this goddamned desert, and I sure as hell don’t like the idea of drinking horse blood. And what I like least is having some fucking Desoltai son of a bitch cut my pecker off. The sooner we get away from here, the better. Getting to pop Smiley here is a side benefit.”

“Someone might hear,” Will said.

“Nobody out there,” Buck growled. “This is our section tonight, remember? And anyway, who gives a shit whether you like it or not. You do it, or else you explain yourself to the sarge.”

“I know. I’m just saying I don’t like it, is all.”

“Oh, by all the fucking saints. Give me the damned thing, then.” Winter heard the flat crack of flesh on flesh. “On your knees, sir.”

By now she was only a few yards away. Buck had set the lantern on a flat rock, and the trio were backlit, throwing long, twisting shadows across the sands. Will stood a pace or two back, closer to Winter, while Buck forced the bound figure to its knees. He had a pistol in his left hand, while his right went for his belt knife.

God above. They’re going to kill him. Winter bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood, and groped in the darkness until she found a stone a little larger than her fist. When Will turned his back on her, she charged.

He was barely taller than she was, so she aimed high, bringing the stone against the side of his head in a powerful two-handed swing that met his skull with a sick-making crunch. He dropped like a discarded doll, without a sound, and Winter stepped across him toward Buck. He’d taken an automatic step backward in surprise, so her desperate blow whistled a foot from his face. Before she could recover her balance, he hastily shifted the pistol to his right hand and raised it to eye level, backing farther away.

“What in all the hells-Saint? Is that you, you little bastard?”

Winter considered throwing the stone at him, but she didn’t think she could do it before he pulled the trigger. She nodded slowly.

“What did you go and do that for?” Buck frowned down at Will. “Will, you all right? Say something if you’re all right.” After a moment of silence, he cursed softly and glared at Winter. “You’ve killed him, you son of a bitch.”

“Buck-”

“I should leave you for the sarge,” he said. “He’d know what to do with a traitorous little shit like you. But we ain’t got the time, not tonight. Give the good Lord my regards.”

He pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped down, flint striking sparks, but they fizzled and died in the pan without triggering the shot. Buck lowered the weapon, staring at it, then looked up again in time to catch Winter coming in fast. His hand shot up above her head to block the path of the descending stone, but she let her momentum carry her forward and brought her knee up hard between his legs, then gave him a sharp elbow in the back of the head as he doubled over. He groaned and collapsed into the dirt, the pistol falling away.

“Fuck the goddamned Savior with a red-hot poker,” Winter swore, fighting for breath. When she closed her eyes for a moment, she could still see the tiny glow of the pistol’s spark. Her breath came fast and ragged.

Buck groaned again. She turned and kicked him hard in the side, then again, until he got the message and rolled over, eyes still squeezed tightly shut. Winter retrieved the long knife from his belt, then found the pistol where he’d dropped it. She examined the weapon cautiously. There was a cartridge in the barrel, but no powder in the pan; he’d forgotten to prime it.

“You always were a lazy bastard, Buck,” she whispered. Setting the pistol aside again, she bent to free Lieutenant Warus.

They’d blindfolded and gagged him, as well as binding his hands, which explained his silence during the fight. When she removed the dirty cloth from his eyes, he looked around curiously, then up at Winter.

“Lieutenant. . Ihernglass, isn’t it?”

“Yessir,” Winter said, and nearly saluted before she remembered she didn’t have to. “Seventh Company.”

“Far be it from me to question good fortune,” he said, “but what are you doing here?”

“I followed these bast-these two from Captain d’Ivoire’s tent.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Looking for the captain. Or for you, I suppose. One of my corporals was detailed to watch the tent, but he seems to have gone missing.”

“I see.” He looked up at her. “Then you have no knowledge of what’s going on?”

She searched his expression. “What’s going on, sir?”

“It’s mutiny,” Lieutenant Warus said. He touched the puffy side of his face and winced. “They’ve got the captain and the colonel, and probably your men as well.”

“Mutiny?” She could believe a lot about Davis, but that? Not on his own hook. He’s not smart enough. “By whom?”

“Captain Roston, at least. Some of the Fourth appears to be behind him, and apparently some of our men.” He looked down at the incapacitated pair. “Do you know these two?”

She nodded. “Will and Buck. From Senior Sergeant Davis’ Second Company.”

“Davis.” Fitz gave a little sigh of disappointment, as though he’d been told he’d be late for the opera. “I suppose I should have known.”

“What should we do with them?”

“‘We’?” He looked at her questioningly. “If I recall correctly, you served under Davis.”

“Long enough to know that whatever side he’s on is the wrong one,” Winter muttered.

“I see.” Fitz climbed to his feet, rubbing his hands to restore some feeling to them. He knelt to examine Will briefly. “This one is dead. I’d like to take the other with us, but I’m not sure the two of us are up to carrying him. Are there any of your men you trust?”

Dead? Winter looked down at Will. He’d never been one of the worst of Davis’ lot. Not that he’d been kind to her, but he’d just gone through the motions of cruelty to fit in with the others. She hadn’t meant to kill him.

“Lieutenant?”

She shook herself and took a deep breath. “Yes. I have a few.”

• • •

Bobby was awake by the time she, Graff, and Fitz returned, carrying the semiconscious Buck between them. Graff told a couple of surprised rankers to sit on the man for a while, and then Winter led the lieutenant and her two corporals back to her own tent. She saw Fitz’s eyes flick to Feor, still curled up in her corner, either asleep or pretending to be, but he made no comment.

“This is bad,” Graff muttered. “A bad business.”

“I’m afraid that’s something of an understatement,” Fitz said. “We don’t know how much support Captain Roston has, but for the moment he seems to have the situation well in hand.”

“What happened to Folsom and the others?” Bobby said.

“In the best case, they’re captives,” Fitz said. “Shortly after the captain left to meet with Captain Roston, Second Company men arrived at the tent with loaded weapons. I believe they took your men into custody and led them away, then left a detail behind to collect Captain d’Ivoire when he returned. From what I overheard, they plan to hold him and the colonel captive while Captain Roston assumes command.”

“They were going to kill you,” Winter pointed out.

Fitz touched the massive bruise on his cheek again. “I’m not certain, but I believe that Senior Sergeant Davis bears me some personal ill will. He certainly seemed. . vehement.”

“But. .” Graff spread his hands, frowning under his beard. “Why? What’s the point?”

Fitz lowered his voice. “The colonel distributed new orders to the captains this afternoon. We continue the march east, into the Desol. My understanding is that Captain Roston objected, on the grounds that our supplies were insufficient.”

Winter remembered the columns of black smoke rising from burning carts, and the daylong labor of the salvage teams. She hadn’t thought about their situation in those terms. “Are they? Sufficient, I mean.”

“According to my estimates, we have roughly two days of water remaining, given fairly tight rationing. Food will last somewhat longer, assuming we harvest the corpses of the pack animals killed in the attack.”

“Two days?” Graff blinked. “With two days left we won’t make it back to Nahiseh even if we start now!”

“And the colonel wants to keep going?” Winter shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I admit that I do not understand his reasoning,” Fitz said. “However, it may be that the colonel possesses private information that makes the situation more clear to him.”

“Goddamn,” Graff said, and whistled through his teeth.

Winter nodded in silent agreement. She’d seen the wreckage and the slaughtered pack animals, but the smoke and confusion had made it hard to assess the extent of the damage. She’d been under the impression that the Desoltai attack had been largely unsuccessful, since most of the Colonials seemed to have fought their way out of the trap.

“It’s still no excuse for mutiny,” she said, trying to sound more decisive than she felt. “If we lose our discipline now, the Desoltai will slaughter us.”

“Of course not,” Graff said hastily. “I didn’t mean that it was. I just. . didn’t realize how bad things were.”

“The colonel must have a plan,” Bobby said.

“How many people know about the mutiny?” Winter asked Fitz.

“I’m not certain,” the lieutenant said. “It doesn’t seem to have become general knowledge in the camp. Davis’ men, obviously, and I suspect those of the Fourth Battalion Captain Roston considers reliable.”

“What about Captain Solwen and Captain Kaanos? If we go to them, could they put a stop to this?”

Fitz frowned. “It’s possible. But Captain Roston must know that he can’t proceed without at least their tacit approval.”

“Which means there’s no knowing whether he’s gotten to them already,” Graff said. “If we go running to them, they may just add us to the bag.”

“We have to do something,” Bobby said.

Winter grimaced. All the instincts she’d developed in two years under Sergeant Davis were telling her to lie low, let it slip by, join up afterward with whatever side seemed to come out on top. To not make trouble, because it would only attract attention.

But that wasn’t an option, really. She had a responsibility now to the men of her company, and some of them had been taken prisoner or worse. More to the point, if we jump the wrong way here, we’re all going to die. Who seems more likely to find a way out-the colonel and Captain d’Ivoire, or Roston and Davis? Put that way, it didn’t seem like much of a choice at all.

“They haven’t told the camp yet,” she said. “They don’t want it to look like a mutiny. The Old Colonials might stand for that, but the recruits”-she glanced at Bobby-“I don’t think they’d go along. So they’re doing it on the quiet instead. Grab Captain d’Ivoire, the colonel, and anyone else who might cause trouble, then make some excuse in the morning and Captain Roston takes command.”

“I came to much the same conclusion,” Fitz said. “Which, in turn, suggests a course of action, if you’re willing.”

Graff nodded. “They’ve got Folsom, haven’t they?”

Bobby nodded as well. Her eyes were bright, almost feverish. Winter wondered if she’d entirely recovered from what had happened on the hill. Hell, she ought to be dead.

“You think we should break them out,” Winter said. “The colonel and Captain d’Ivoire, and hopefully Folsom and the others as well.”

The lieutenant agreed. “Captain Roston’s actions imply that he is not confident of his ability to persuade the men if the colonel is available to argue against him.”

“Right.” Winter frowned. “Assuming everyone is still alive.”

“Yes. I suspect that depends on the extent to which Sergeant Davis is in charge,” Fitz said.

“Goddamned Davis,” Winter muttered. “Why did it have to be Davis?” On some level, though, it had to be Davis. If there was something nefarious and unpleasant going on, it was virtually guaranteed that he would be mixed up in it.

“Do we know where they’re keeping the prisoners?” Graff said.

Fitz shook his head, but Winter smiled slowly.

“I bet I know who does,” she said. “Just give me a few minutes alone with him.”

• • •

The Fourth didn’t know, Winter decided. Not for certain, anyway. The encampment seemed on edge, and the number of men awake in spite of the hour and the exhaustion of the day showed that everyone knew something was about to happen. But she and Graff were able to walk about in their First Battalion uniforms without being challenged. They found a good vantage point, on the other side of a fire from Adrecht’s double-sized tent, and settled down to watch.

Her conversation with Buck had been disappointingly brief. He’d been left to stew while Winter and the others talked, and his bravado had been reduced to a hollow eggshell that cracked under the slightest pressure. Winter told herself that she hadn’t actually been looking forward to cutting pieces off him, but it certainly would have been satisfying to make him think she was going to. His eyes had been full of the terror of a bully who finds his position suddenly reversed.

Unfortunately, his knowledge had been limited. The prisoners were not in the Fourth Battalion camp, which made sense-keeping them secret among so many men would be impossible-but where they were, Buck couldn’t say. Most of the Second Company was still in its encampment, though, with Davis and a few other men staying close to Captain Roston. That led Fitz to propose a new plan. Winter hadn’t liked it, and still didn’t, but she’d been unable to come up with anything better.

Graff had chosen two dozen men from the Seventh that he thought they could rely on. Armed with muskets, knives, and bayonets, they were approaching Captain Roston’s tent from the other side, with Fitz at their head. A ripple of interest in the Fourth Battalion camp, like a ship’s wake, marked their path. By the time they reached the tents, Captain Roston had already emerged. From her vantage point, Winter could see him only in outline, lit from behind by lanterns.

Fitz, by contrast, was easily visible. In spite of the bruise on his face that had nearly closed his right eye, he wore his customary smile, and his salute was parade-ground crisp.

“Captain Roston!”

“Lieutenant,” Roston said. If he was surprised to see Fitz alive, it wasn’t evident from his voice. Winter wondered if killing the lieutenant had been his idea or something Davis had decided on his own initiative. “You seem to have injured yourself.”

“Just a bad fall, sir. Nothing to worry about,” Fitz said blithely. “I’ve just come from the colonel. He and Captain d’Ivoire request your presence for a council of war.”

Captain Roston paused fractionally too long. Winter smiled in the darkness. A hit.

“At this hour?” he said eventually.

“New information has come in, sir,” Fitz said. “Or so I understand. The colonel indicated it was urgent.”

It didn’t take Captain Roston long to regain his composure. “As the colonel wishes. May I have a moment?”

“Of course, sir.”

Roston disappeared back into his tent. Winter could only imagine the whispered conversation going on within. So far as Roston and Davis knew, they had the colonel and Captain d’Ivoire tied up somewhere, and they certainly weren’t attending any councils of war. On the other hand, Fitz was also supposed to be a prisoner, and possibly dead. Her smile widened as she pictured Davis’ fat face going red with anger.

They couldn’t just grab Fitz again, not here, with twenty of his own men and half the Fourth watching. It would either have to be open mutiny, here and now, or else Captain Roston would have to keep the charade going a little longer.

Winter let her breath hiss between her teeth when Roston reappeared. She’d been reasonably certain he would play along, but with Davis involved there was always a chance. .

“Lead the way, Lieutenant,” Captain Roston said, with all the appearance of affability.

Fitz saluted again. “Follow me, sir.”

Winter tensed as they made their way from the tents back through the encampment toward where the colonel’s empty tent stood. It wouldn’t be long-Davis had never been a patient man.

“There,” Graff whispered.

A bulky shadow had slipped from the unlit rear of Captain Roston’s tent and taken off at a run. Winter and Graff gave him a dozen heartbeats to get well ahead, then followed.

• • •

A couple of tents, larger than the usual army issue, stood among the detritus of the wrecked, smoking wagons. During the day they’d been used as a clearinghouse for the scavenging teams and a refuge from the sun for the corporals who had to tally and record it all to produce the new supply estimates the colonel had demanded. Now that dark had curtailed these activities, the tents were abandoned, and ideal for quietly keeping prisoners. They were far enough from the rest of the camp that any noise would go unnoticed, and no one was likely to wander casually through the gruesome wreckage of the Desoltai attack.

Davis had headed straight for them, breaking into a jog once he’d left the Fourth’s encampment. Winter and Graff had to hurry to keep up. When he reached his goal and ducked inside, they took shelter behind a wrecked cart and waited. After a few minutes, Winter gave a satisfied nod and turned to Graff.

“This has to be it,” she said.

The corporal nodded. “It’s a clever spot. I have to hand it to Captain Roston.”

“Get going, then.” Her eyes were still glued to the tents. There were no lights inside.

Graff hesitated. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine. I’m just going to sit here and watch, in case they get any ideas about moving the prisoners.”

“Right.” Graff straightened up and brushed dirt from his knees. “Just stay put. I’ll be back as soon as I can round up the men.”

“Hurry,” Winter said. “Fitz will stall Roston as long as he can, but he has to know something’s wrong. We need to have things in hand here before he does anything drastic.”

Graff nodded and started back the way they’d come, breaking into a run when he was a safe distance away. Winter turned her attention back to the tents, watching for any sign that Davis was bringing the prisoners out.

At least there were prisoners, she reflected. Buck had said there weren’t to be any killings, aside from Fitz, but Winter hadn’t been certain until she’d seen Davis scuttling away from Captain Roston’s tents. The fact that he’d immediately gone to confirm that the colonel and Captain d’Ivoire were still in custody implied that both were still alive, which probably boded well for Folsom and the other men from the Seventh. Still, she felt a thrill of tension. What if Davis decides now is the time to play for keeps? She imagined an unsheathed knife and blood spilling from slit throats, and tensed herself to move at the sound of a scream. She’d promised Graff and Bobby not to do anything rash, but if Davis was going to murder the prisoners. .

No sound came. The tents remained dark, without even the faint glow of candlelight leaking through at the flaps.

How long would it take for Graff to make it back with a squad of trustworthy Seventh Company men? How long could Fitz keep Adrecht occupied? Winter shifted uneasily and shuffled a little closer. What the hell is Davis doing in there in the dark?

A faint sound behind her gave her an instant of warning. She spun, reaching for the knife at her belt, but not fast enough. One big hand grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her forward, off balance. She felt something strike hard in the small of her back, and the stumble turned into a fall. A splinter of wood from the broken cart scraped painfully against her cheek and drew blood before it snapped. Winter struggled to push herself to her feet, but her attacker already had his boot planted between her shoulder blades, and even a fraction of his weight pressed so hard it made her fight for breath.

“Well, well, well,” Davis said. “The Saint, as I live and breathe. Oh, that’s Lieutenant Saint now, isn’t it? Forgive me if I don’t salute.” He pressed down a little harder, and Winter whimpered. “You don’t think very highly of ol’ Sarge, do you? You think ol’ Sarge isn’t smart enough to know when he’s being followed? Think he isn’t smart enough to nip out the back way?”

Davis snorted. The pressure increased again and then, mercifully, relaxed. She felt him take hold of her wrists again.

“Get up,” he said. “Sir.”

Winter was all too aware Davis had muscles like steel bars under his layers of fat. She felt herself shriveling up under the mockery of his voice. For a moment she wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball, hide from him, hope he’d go away.

I can’t. She struggled to her feet, then started walking as he shoved her forward. He’ll kill me now. He has to. Her legs trembled, and not only from pain. She’d faced the Khandarai, walked to the sound of the regimental drum into a storm of fire and lead shot, but this was worse somehow. This is personal. She flexed her wrists, searching for an opening, but he was unbending.

Inside the tent, he transferred both her arms to one enormous hand while he struck a match with the other and lit an oil lamp. Piles of scrap wood and discarded, ruined supplies lined the edges of the tent, with only a narrow clear path in the center. Beside the one tent pole, leaning against one of the heaps, was Colonel Vhalnich himself. He was bound hand and foot, and gagged with what looked like a spare shirt. Davis glanced at him and snorted.

“You and him ought to get along famously, Saint. He’s a talker, just like you. You know, the first time I left him here with Peg to look after him, and by the time I got back he’d nearly talked Peg into letting him out? Mind, Peg always was a bit of a horse’s ass. But I like him better quiet.”

Winter met the colonel’s eyes. They were gray, deep, inscrutable. It shook her. She’d expected rage, or maybe fear, but the only thing she saw there was cold calculation.

“Right.” Davis’ free hand groped around Winter’s midsection. She froze while he patted her down, coming up with the pistol she’d taken from Buck and her belt knife. He tossed both into a corner, then let go of her wrists and pushed her away. “Now, you’ve got some questions to answer.”

Winter turned on him, doing her best to imitate the colonel’s nonchalance. “Where’s Folsom? And Captain d’Ivoire and the others?”

“I said you were going to answer questions, not ask ’em,” Davis said. “Are your friends on their way here?”

“No,” Winter said. “It’s just me.”

He swung for her gut, hard. Winter had expected that, and she lurched to the side enough to take only a glancing blow. It still made her double over in pain.

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Davis said. “You were in my company for years, Saint. You know I can smell a lie. Did you kill Buck and Will?”

She managed a breath and straightened up. “Will’s dead. Buck we’re just sitting on.”

“Shit.” Davis pursed his lips. “Why in God’s name would you do that? I mean, kill Buck and leave Will alone, that I could understand. Buck’s an asshole. What did Will ever do to you?”

“It was an accident.”

Davis laughed. “Right. It was a good trick, sending Warus back around. The captain scares easy. ‘Go and check on everyone,’ he says. I told him we had nothin’ to worry about, but he wouldn’t hear it. Officers.” He looked like he wanted to spit. “Hey, you’re an officer now, aren’t you? Is it true they replace your brains with beef jerky?”

“Give it up, Davis. You and Roston are finished. Lieutenant Warus told us everything. It’ll be all over the camp by now.”

“Yeah? Did he tell you that this asshole”-he indicated the colonel-“was planning to march us into the desert with no water and no plan? When the boys hear that, which way do you think they’ll jump?”

Winter chewed her lip. The hell of it is, he might be right.

“The captain figured that if we gave the colonel a chance to talk at ’em, it might confuse things some,” Davis said. “So we thought it’d be best to let things take their own course. Natural, like.”

“When Graff and the others get here-”

“They won’t be coming,” Davis said. His fat lips twisted in a smirk. “Reason being, I sent Peg and some of the boys to make sure nobody stirs up any trouble.”

Winter shook her head in mock amazement. “Mutiny certainly seems to be your forte.”

“Sergeant,” Davis growled.

“What?”

He gave her a feral snarl, baring his teeth. “Call me sergeant. Just because they pinned some stripes on your shoulder doesn’t make you better than me, you little shit. Get down on your knees and beg, and maybe I won’t shove your face through the back of your skull. It’s Sergeant Davis.”

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Winter said, trying to sound unconcerned. “The way you’ve been talking, you can’t let me out of here alive.”

“No.” His lips spread wider, into a rictus of a smile. “No, I’m afraid you’ve got me there. But you can feel free to beg, if you like.”

Fuck. Winter looked up at the bulk of him and wanted to shrink into a ball. Fuck fuck fuck. He wore a knife, too, but he hardly needed one. The huge scarred fists were weapon enough. The piled debris blocked any way out except through the narrow gap by the tent flap, and Davis stood squarely in the way. If I can get him out of position, maybe. . Outside, she would have a chance. The sergeant was strong as a bull, but he was slow. I can get away.

She blew out a breath between her teeth and dropped into a half crouch. Slowly, ridiculously, she raised her fists.

Davis barked a laugh. “Is that how it is, Saint? You and me? Man to man?”

“One of us is a man, anyway.” Winter bit back a peal of hysterical laughter.

“You shouldn’t try to make me angry. It’ll only go harder on you.”

“Harder than dead?”

“Well,” he said, scratching the side of his nose. “There’s dead, and then there’s-”

He lashed out in midsentence, a savage jab that snapped Winter’s head back before she could even think about ducking. White light flashed behind her eyes, and the taste of blood exploded in her mouth. She didn’t even feel herself falling, only more pain from splinters and nails prodding her from behind as she staggered back into one of the piles of debris.

“Dead,” Davis finished, rubbing his knuckles against his uniform coat. “Who are you fucking kidding, Saint?”

He approached, but cautiously. Winter, sucking air through a split lip, tried blearily to gauge the distance. When she thought he was close enough, she brought her knee up in a jerky try for his stomach, but he slammed his palm down on it so hard that she felt something crunch. Tears leaked from her eyes, and she stifled a scream.

“You still don’t think much of ol’ Sarge, do you?” Davis’ smile was brutal. “I may be old and fat, but you don’t get to be old and fat without learning your way around a fight or two.”

He reached down, batting aside her feebly resisting arm, and took hold of her collar, twisting the fabric of her shirt in sausage-thick fingers. Winter dangled bonelessly from his grip as he raised her to eye level.

“Well, Lieutenant?” he said. “Anything else to say?”

She spit a stream of blood, right in his eye. He reared back, roaring in protest, but retained his grip. Her feet scrabbled, half an inch above the ground, gaining no traction. Over his shoulder she saw one of the tent poles, barely within her reach, and she grabbed it and pulled. The unexpected pressure wrenched Davis around, and Winter’s feet touched the ground. She pushed off hard, trying desperately to escape from his grasp, her collar twisted tight around her neck.

Something gave way with a rip, and suddenly she was free. She dropped on all fours and scrabbled forward, heading for the tent flap, but before she could get there she felt a hand grip her by the ankle, dragging her knees out from under her and leaving her flat in the dirt. A second later a kick exploded into her ribs, rolling her over and onto her back.

Every breath was an agony. Something in her chest felt broken, shifting uneasily with each heartbeat, and there was a line of fire around her throat. She coughed weakly and tried to raise her head.

“I don’t believe it,” Davis said. “I don’t fucking believe it. You have got to be joking.”

Winter managed to push herself up on her elbows. Davis was staring at her, incredulous. In one hand, he held a bloody scrap of fabric that had once been part of her undershirt. The buttons of her coat had given way, and it had fallen open, leaving her exposed from neck to navel.

“Saints and fucking martyrs,” Davis swore. “What the fuck, Saint? Are you some kind of freak?”

She tried to reply, but her mouth was full of blood. It trickled down her chin and dripped onto her bared breasts. She spit again, weakly, spraying blood all over the sleeve of her coat.

“You mean all those times we were out on patrol, just us boys in those cold tents, there was a nice warm cunt within five feet and I didn’t know it? Fuck, Saint, you could have told me. I might have been a little nicer to you.”

He looked at her, surprise slowly changing to disgust. Winter forced herself to stare back, unblinking.

“No wonder you were always looking down your nose at us. Buttoned-up little bitch. Laughing at dumb ol’ Sarge behind his back.” His lip twisted. “I ought to fuck you good an’ proper, to make up for all those missed chances.”

Behind Davis, something moved. Winter looked past the sergeant, and in the lamp’s flickering shadows she caught sight of the colonel. His hands were still bound, but he’d somehow freed his legs, and one of his feet rested on the knife Davis had taken from her.

Their gazes met. There was no surprise in his gray eyes, no disgust or fear, just quiet concentration and, she realized belatedly, a question.

Winter nodded, saw his acknowledgment.

Davis’ hands were on his belt, apparently in an agony of indecision. He shook his head.

“Sorry, Saint. I don’t think we’ve got time-”

The colonel moved. He sent the knife skittering over the dirt toward Winter, between Davis’ legs. At the same time he twisted, lashing out with a kick that caught the big sergeant precisely in the back of the knee.

Davis bellowed again, one leg folding up involuntarily, and his arms windmilled as he toppled forward. He caught himself before he hit the ground, held up on hands and knees, half over Winter.

She forced herself to move, in spite of the protests from her abused body. Her hand found the knife and ripped off the sheath. It was a short blade, not really a fighting knife at all, but Davis was right there, gaping at her, the apple of his throat bobbing stupidly-

“Take the knife,” Jane said, as though instructing a friend in how to carve a roast. “Put the point of it about here”-she raised her head and put a finger on her throat, just under her chin-“and press in, upward, as hard as you can.”

Winter obeyed.

• • •

She didn’t recall cutting the colonel free, but she must have. The next thing she remembered was sitting huddled on the floor, arms hugging her knees to her chest, and the colonel was bending solicitously at her side.

“Lieutenant?” When that elicited no response, he bent a little closer. “Winter?”

She blinked, looking up. Colonel Vhalnich gave a quick smile and offered her a canteen.

“Water?”

Winter took it shakily and fumbled with the cap. Once she got it open she took a long pull, wincing at the pain in her jaw, and spat a pink stream into the dirt. Her mouth still tasted of blood, but she downed the rest in a single greedy swallow.

“You look quite a mess,” the colonel said. “Are you badly hurt?”

Her brain was slowly starting to function again. “I-” More blood dripped off her upper lip. She wiped her hand across her face and it came away crimson. “Think he broke my nose.”

“I’m sorry it took me so long to intervene. As you saw, he had me at something of a disadvantage.”

“The others,” Winter said, suddenly cold. “What about Folsom and the others?”

“Folsom?” The colonel cocked his head. “Ah, the corporal commanding Captain d’Ivoire’s guard. They’re in the other tent with the captain, I believe, along with Miss Alhundt. We’ve really been treated quite well, all things considered. Although the captain was worried about Lieutenant Warus.”

“He’s all right,” Winter said. “They were going to kill him, but I got to him first.”

“Remarkable,” the colonel said. “You are an officer of considerable resource, I think.”

Winter struggled to her feet. The edges of her torn shirt flapped against her skin, where they weren’t gummed tight with blood. “We had better let them out.”

“They’ll keep a few moments longer.” There was a hint of amusement in the colonel’s gray eyes. “First of all, I suggest that you button your jacket.”

Oh. Winter looked down at herself, too numb to feel embarrassment. She closed the buttons slowly, her fingers feeling clumsy and fat. Only when she was finished did she look back up at the colonel. He raised an eyebrow.

“I knew, of course.”

“Of course,” Winter said, deadpan. “Of course you knew. Everybody knows.” A hysterical giggle escaped, in spite of the pain it brought from her ribs. “You’re all just pretending not to notice, for my sake, aren’t you? It’s a big practical joke. I might as well walk through the camp naked, since everyone fucking already knows-”

“I doubt that would be a good idea,” the colonel said. “I’ve been making something of a study of you, Lieutenant, and I don’t think I flatter myself too much if I say that I am more observant than the average soldier. As far as I can tell, your secret remains unrevealed.”

“Except to the commander of the whole regiment,” Winter said bitterly. “Wonderful.”

“I’m not planning to mention it to anyone else,” the colonel said, “if you were worried on that score.”

Winter paused, watching his impassive expression. Her thoughts felt slow and diffuse, and her head throbbed with every heartbeat, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to focus. What the hell is he talking about? Bobby was one thing, but this was the colonel.

“I. .” She shook her head. “Why?”

“Firstly, it would seem to be an ungracious response to your saving my life.” He gestured at the facedown body of Davis. “While Captain Roston was concerned with preserving a veneer of legality, I’m certain the senior sergeant would have prevailed on him eventually that his captives were too dangerous to be allowed to live.”

“I didn’t come here to save you,” Winter said. “I came for my men.”

“I guessed as much,” he said. “It doesn’t change the outcome. And, secondly, I’ve remained silent this long because I feel you show considerable promise as an officer. The army needs more like you, not fewer, the fact of your gender notwithstanding. Your stand on the docks at the river was. . inspired.” Another fleeting smile. “I suspect that few among the army officers are as pragmatic as I am, however. Thus, it is best that your secret remain a secret.” He chuckled. “In particular, I suggest you keep it from Captain d’Ivoire. He has old-fashioned ideas when it comes to gallantry and would feel compelled to hustle you away for your own protection.”

“So you’re just. . not going to say anything?” She was having a hard time wrapping her mind around the concept.

“I’m going to thank you for stopping an attempted mutiny,” he said. “And probably promote you in the bargain, once we’ve gotten clear of our current difficulties.”

“We haven’t stopped anything yet,” Winter said. “Captain Roston-”

“Let me worry about Captain Roston,” the colonel said. “We’ll collect Captain d’Ivoire and your men, and then I think you’re due for a rest.”

She was too tired to protest, or even ask questions. It felt good to have someone else giving orders for a change. And she had to admit it suited him. She would never have known from the colonel’s demeanor that he’d been bound and gagged just minutes before. His thin face was animated, and something in the depths of his eyes made him seem on the edge of a smile that never quite appeared. He looks happy. She couldn’t imagine why.

He walked to the tent flap, held it open. “After you, Lieutenant.”

Winter drew herself up, in spite of the pain, and saluted. “Yes, sir!”