The Thousand Names

Chapter Three

WINTER

Winter returned from breakfast to find all of her worldly possessions smashed into the dirt.

Someone had taken down her tent, folding it neatly around the poles in accordance with regulations. Before they could do this, they’d had to dump everything out of it, and from the look of things there had been a fair bit of stomping back and forth to make sure her belongings were ground to bits against the parched earth of the courtyard.

Davis was nowhere in evidence, of course, but she could see Peg sitting in front of his own tent, a little way down the row, looking on with a sly smile. No doubt he was hoping to see her scrabbling in the wreckage to rescue what she could, and Winter decided abruptly that she wasn’t going to oblige him. Her worldly possessions didn’t amount to much, anyway. She’d had to leave almost everything behind in the retreat-her pillows, sheets, and other comforts, her private tent, the little hoard of Khandarai books she’d gathered while studying the language. The only things left were a few mementos and curios she’d picked up in Ashe-Katarion, and she wasn’t going to grub on her knees in front of Peg for those.

Instead she turned on her heel without a word and went in search of her new company. This was not an easy task, as the encampment had nearly tripled in size overnight. The new soldiers were marked out by the solid blue of their still-creased tents, but since they outnumbered the old Colonials three to one, that alone wasn’t a great deal of help. Winter ended up collaring a staff lieutenant and asking directions to the First Battalion, Seventh Company, which the harassed young man provided with bad grace.

Walking through the neat rows of tents, fresh from some Vordanai factory and laid out in perfect accord with the instructions in the Regulations, Winter couldn’t help feeling out of place. Despite the addition of a new jacket, her uniform was a long way from perfect, and she felt like the pips on her shoulder drew every eye. She returned the curious stares.

Children, she thought. This is an army of children.

The men she saw eating breakfast or chatting in little groups in front of their tents looked more like kids playing dress-up than like proper soldiers. Their uniforms were too neat, with every bit of seam and trim still in place. Most of the faces she saw were as little in need of a razor as her own.

The tents of the Seventh Company were marked by a stenciled sign tied to a post. Otherwise, there was nothing to distinguish them from the surrounding sea of humanity. Winter had never felt like she was part of an army until now-the Colonials had been more like a tribe, small enough that you had at least a nodding acquaintance with anyone you were likely to meet. Now she understood a little of what some of the older men talked about, having served with real armies on the continent. The sheer busyness of the camp felt oppressive.

She shook her head, wandering down the row of tents. A wave of whispers and stares preceded her. When it reached a small knot about midway down, a trio of soldiers broke away and hurried over, planting themselves stiffly at attention in her path. When she stopped, they gave a simultaneous salute, and she had to clench her fist to keep herself from automatically saluting back.

Instead, she nodded, noting the single copper pip on each shoulder. That made these three corporals, half of the six that were standard complement for an army company. For a long moment, they stood in silence, before it dawned on Winter that it was up to her to make the next move. She cleared her throat.

“Ah. . thank you, Corporal. Corporals.”

“Sir!” said the young man in the middle. He was short, no taller than Winter, and with lank brown hair and the pasty skin of someone who’d spent too much time indoors. Despite his rigid bearing, he looked as though he was about sixteen.

“I’m Winter Ihernglass.” There was a formula for this, somewhere, but she’d be damned if she could remember what it was, so she went on as best she could. “Senior Sergeant Winter Ihernglass. I’ve been assigned to this company. I think.” She looked around, suddenly nervous. “This is First Battalion Seventh Company, isn’t it?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” the corporal barked. “Welcome, sir!”

“And you are. .?”

The young man was practically vibrating with pride. “Senior Corporal Robert Forester, sir! And this is Corporal James Folsom, and Corporal Drake Graff. Welcome to the Seventh Company, sir!”

“You said that already,” Winter said. “But thank you.”

The corporal seemed to deflate a little. “Yes, sir.” Then he brightened. “Would you like to proceed to your tent, sir, or do you want to review the men immediately?”

“Reviewing is the lieutenant’s job, I think,” Winter said. “We have got a lieutenant, haven’t we?”

“Yes, sir! Lieutenant Anton d’Vries, sir! I understand he’s still with the other officers, sir!”

“Well, he can handle the reviewing.” She eyed the other two corporals, who seemed a little embarrassed by their comrade’s enthusiasm. “Just show me to the tent, if you would.”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

The corporal about-faced, so stiff it made Winter’s joints ache just to watch, and started down the row of tents. Winter and the other two followed.

“Corporal Forester?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You may relax a little, if it would make you more comfortable.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” The boy shot her a grin over his shoulder. “In that case, sir, please feel free to call me Bobby. Everyone else does.”

They arrived at a tent, identical to all the rest in its factory-fresh neatness, whose flap was pinned back to reveal the interior. There was only one bedroll, Winter was glad to see, along with a knee-high portable writing desk and a regulation knapsack. In the Ashe-Katarion days, Winter had gotten out of sharing a tent by buying an extra with her own money. Since the retreat, she’d been sleeping beside two soldiers of Davis’ company, which clearly made them as unhappy as it made her uncomfortable. She’d been dreading a similar arrangement in her new unit, but apparently a sergeant rated a tent to himself. Maybethere’s something to being promoted after all.

Winter went inside with the others. She and Bobby barely had to bow their heads, but Corporal Folsom, a tall, broad-shouldered man with blond hair and a drooping mustache, had to bend practically double, and once inside he squatted on his haunches to avoid brushing the ceiling. Winter sat down on the bedroll and let out a long breath. There was another awkward silence.

“Would the sergeant like me to send someone to fetch his baggage?” Bobby suggested.

“Ah, no,” Winter said. “I haven’t got any, actually. Had to leave everything else behind in the retreat. In fact, I’d be grateful if you could have someone run down to army stores. I’m going to need more shirts, trousers”-she looked down at herself-“practically everything, really.”

Bobby straightened to attention even further, if that was possible. “Sir, yes, sir! I’ll attend to it at once!”

“And a sewing kit,” Winter added. She’d grown practiced at making certain surreptitious alterations to her shirts to help conceal the shape underneath, although in that respect it helped that she didn’t have that much to conceal.

Bobby saluted, drillbook-perfect, and hurried out of the tent as though his life depended on it. Winter looked from one corporal to the other in the embarrassed silence that followed.

“Corporal. . Graff, was it?” she said.

“Yessir,” Graff said. “I have to apologize for Bobby, sir. He’s a good lad, but. . keen, you know? I imagine he’ll grow out of it.”

“I imagine so,” Winter said. “Are you three the only corporals in the company?”

“Yessir. Should be three more, but we didn’t have any others who’d admit to meeting the requirements.”

“Requirements?”

“Reading and writing, sir. And there’s a test on regulations. Bobby volunteered, I was a corp’ral already, and we talked Jim here into it.” He shrugged. “Now that we’re in the field, maybe the lieutenant will tap some more men for the job.”

Winter nodded. “What’s the lieutenant like?”

“Couldn’t say, sir,” Graff said. “Haven’t met the man.”

“But-”

“He only joined the comp’ny just before we set sail,” the corporal explained. “Officers were on a separate ship, of course. And he hasn’t stopped by yet.”

“I see,” Winter said. “And how many men have we got?”

Graff looked suddenly worried. “A hundred and twenty, sir,” he said slowly, as though explaining to an idiot. “That’s a company’s worth.”

Winter thought about telling him that none of the old companies in the Colonials had more than eighty, and some many fewer, but decided against it. Instead she turned to the third corporal, who hadn’t yet spoken.

“You’re Corporal Folsom, then?”

The big man nodded.

“Have you been with the army long?”

He shook his head. Winter, in the face of such implacable silence, looked to Graff for support. He shrugged.

“Jim doesn’t talk much,” he said.

“I can see that.”

Bobby returned, ducking through the open flap with a leather portfolio under one arm. He straightened up and saluted, again, then presented the portfolio to Winter with the air of someone offering a sacrament. Winter regarded him blankly.

“Reports, sir,” the corporal said. “Daily sick lists, equipment, and infractions. I’ve been keeping them since we left the depot.”

“Ah.” Winter tried to smile as she took the portfolio. “I’ll be sure to look through them carefully.”

“Yes, sir! And once you’ve signed your approval, I’ll forward them to the lieutenant, sir!”

“I’ve got to sign them all? Why?”

“Daily reports are only provisional until approved by a senior sergeant, sir. There’s also the company accounts in there, sir. They’ve got to be tallied and brought up to date with the reports.”

“You can’t do that, either?”

Bobby looked shocked. “Corporals are not permitted to view the company accounts, sir!”

Winter regarded the folder in her hand as though it were some new and particularly poisonous species of scorpion. The Colonials, as far as she knew, had managed without the formality of paper accounts. Admittedly, they’d managed rather badly, all things considered, with equipment constantly in short supply and pay so far in arrears that the men joked that if they’d been allowed to collect interest they’d own the kingdom by now. Apparently things were to be different from now on. She allowed herself a moment of pleasure at the thought of Davis, a pencil between his fat fingers, trying to puzzle his way through a book of accounts.

“All right,” Winter said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you, sir! And I’ve forwarded your request to the quartermasters, sir!”

“Right.”

The three men looked at her. Winter stared back. After a moment Graff cleared his throat.

“Is there anything else you need from us at this time, sir?”

“What?” Winter shook her head. “Ah. No. No, that will be all, Corporal. Corporals. Thank you.” She felt, vaguely, that something more was expected of her. “I look forward to working with all of you.”

Bobby saluted again, his whole body vibrating with attentiveness. Graff gave a nod, and Folsom said nothing.

13th of May, 1208 YHG. One hundred thirteen present, six sick, one suspended. Ranker Gabriel Sims assessed 1b 6p for loss of cap (blown overboard). Ranker Arcturo d’Venn judged in violation of Regulations Ch. 6 Part III Para 2b, Behavior Likely to Incite Disorder. Sentence: Confinement, 2 days. Ranker Falrad Inker judged in violation of Regulations Ch. 6 Part II Para 3a, Excessive Drunkenness. Sentence: Hard Labor in service of Captain Belson, 1 day.

14th of May, 1208 YHG. On hundred fourteen present, four sick, two suspended. Ranker George Tanner assessed 4p for damage to civilian property (ship’s rope). Ranker-

Winter closed her eyes and massaged her temples, which had started to throb alarmingly. Bobby’s handwriting was not helping-it had the careful precision of someone who’d practiced under a tutor’s switch, but he wrote so small the words all ran together. No doubt the corporal had been motivated by a sincere desire not to consume too much of the king’s paper.

She leaned back from the miniature desk, hearing something pop in her back, and looked at the discouragingly large stack that remained. Fatigue settled on her like a heavy blanket, payment for the keyed-up nervousness she’d been feeling ever since her interview with the captain. She crawled over to the bedroll and flopped onto it facedown.

This could almost work. She shied away from the thought, as though even to contemplate it invited disaster. I could live with this.

So far, her secret seemed safe. And being a sergeant had definite advantages: the privacy of her own tent, and a certain automatic distance from the rankers. If a stack of account books was the worst she had to deal with, then it was undeniable that Captain d’Ivoire had done her a favor.

The remaining unknown was the company lieutenant-she’d already forgotten the man’s name-and what his attitude might be. Even there, though, signs were encouraging. The less time he spent with the men, the better, as far as Winter was concerned.

For the first time in weeks she allowed herself to contemplate the future with something other than a sense of dread. The fleet had been dispatched weeks ago, in response to reports of rebel strength that were themselves weeks out of date. Even rankers like Buck and Peg could see that it was fruitless to remain here now that the Redeemers had taken the capital. “Fort” Valor was a joke, a death trap. It might be a few days until the new colonel resigned himself to the situation, but soon enough they’d all be packed aboard ship and set a course for home.

The voyage itself loomed large in Winter’s apprehensions, but that was only a discomfort to be endured, like so many others. And then. .

The Colonials will get some awful posting. They were more or less a penal regiment, after all. Far away from the city, maybe up north, keeping the king’s sheep safe from Murnskai raiders. Either way, they would be a long way from Mrs. Wilmore’s, and anyone who might connect a boyish sergeant with the ragged girl who’d made her escape from that institution.

Winter closed her eyes. Honestly, I’m sure they’ve forgotten all about me.

• • •

“Sergeant?”

Winter surfaced from a dream of cavernous, echoing halls and a pair of haunting green eyes. For one confused moment, she was convinced she was back at Mrs. Wilmore’s Prison for Young Ladies, and that Khandar and everything that had come after that was the dream.

“Sergeant? Sergeant Ihernglass?”

Winter opened her eyes.

Bobby stood by the open tent flap, looking embarrassed. Beyond him was the gray darkness of early evening, broken by the flickering, reflected light of campfires. Winter slowly sat up, feeling her cheeks redden. She coughed.

“Y-yes? What is it, Corporal?”

“Sorry, sir,” Bobby said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s all right.” Winter yawned. “It’s been a long day, that’s all.”

“Yes, sir. For all of us, sir.” The boy hesitated. “Dinner’s on outside, sir. Would you care to join us?”

Winter felt a sudden complaint from her stomach-she hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. But she shook her head.

“I’m not sure that would be. . appropriate.”

“Then I’ll bring you something, sir, as soon as it’s ready,” Bobby said.

“Thank you, Corporal,” Winter said, with real gratitude. “In the meantime I suppose I’d better get back to this paperwork.”

The corporal saluted and left, letting the tent flap fall closed behind him. Winter rubbed her cheeks, trying to massage some life into them, and then her temples, to discourage the headache she still felt looming.

From outside, there came the low buzz of voices in conversation, punctuated by the sound of laughter. She wondered, idly, how much of it was at her expense. Nothing new there, of course.

She pulled herself over to the desk and tried to focus on the accounts ledger, but the figures swam across her vision. Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms, she caught a sudden flash of green. A pair of green eyes, and a half smile.

Her fingers curled through her hair. Why now, Jane?Three years. . Fingernails tightened on her scalp, to the point of pain, hands tightening to claws. What more do you want from me?

With some difficulty, Winter forced her hands into her lap and sat back. Her heart thumped a fast tattoo, matched by answering pulses in her temples.

Red hair, dark and slick as oil, slipping through my fingers. .

Can you be haunted by someone who isn’t dead?

There was a rap at the tent pole. Winter opened her eyes and took a long, shaky breath.

“It’s me, sir. Bobby.”

“Come in.”

The corporal entered cautiously, obviously determined not to embarrass his sergeant again. He carried a platter with a steaming tin bowl, which filled the tent with the smell of spiced mutton, and a couple of hardtack crackers. Winter took it from him, set it on the desk on top of the accounts, and attacked it with genuine enthusiasm. The retreat had wreaked havoc with the army’s supply trains, and the quality of food had seriously declined since their Ashe-Katarion days. The new officers had obviously put things back in order. The mutton was in a sort of soup, not quite a proper stew, and the hardtack absorbed the juices and softened to something approaching an edible consistency.

It wasn’t until she was mostly finished that she noticed the folded slip of paper on the platter beside the food. Catching her expression, Bobby gave a polite cough.

“It’s a message for you, sir. We had a courier just now from the lieutenant.” He paused, torn between curiosity and propriety. He obviously hadn’t risked a peek.

Winter nodded and picked up the paper, breaking the blobby wax seal. The contents were short and to the point, although the scribbled signature was illegible. Winter read the note again, just in case she’d gotten something badly wrong.

“Sir?” Bobby prompted, watching her face.

Winter cleared her throat. “We’re ordered to strike tents at first light tomorrow, and be ready to march by ten o’clock. Can you inform the men?”

“Yessir!” Bobby said, saluting. He turned, obviously pleased with this responsibility, and left the tent.

Ready to march? Winter gratefully let this new worry banish both the account book and her memories. Where? Down to the fleet? That was possible, of course, although she’d have thought the ships would need longer to replenish their supplies. But if not there, then where?Against the Redeemers? She allowed herself a smile. She couldn’t believe even a colonel would be mad enough to try that.

MARCUS

Marcus awoke to the groans and curses of the First Battalion soldiers as their lieutenants rousted them from their tents. He dressed hurriedly, had a brief conference with Fitz, then went in search of Janus.

He found the colonel waiting by the gate, watching the men break camp. Aside from his horse, which stood quietly with all the well-bred dignity befitting Vordan’s finest, he was alone. All around the courtyard, tents were coming down and stacked arms were being reclaimed by their owners. The First Battalion, entitled to the place of honor at the head of the march, was already starting to form up.

The regiment, Marcus thought, resembled a snake. At rest it was coiled tightly around itself, forming a more-or-less orderly camp with lines of tents, horses, and artillery parks. The work of picking up all the accoutrements would go on for some time, even as the head of the column started out. Each battalion had its assigned tasks in making or breaking camp, depending on its place in the order. The First would march out, dragging the Second after it, and so on, until the snake was fully extended and crawling down the road.

It was the tail that worried him. The Preacher’s guns could keep up, more or less, but on the retreat the ox-drawn supply carts had ended up strung out over miles of rough track, straggling in well after dark. Now, Marcus looked at the route ahead and imagined every rock hiding a Desoltai scout, and every defile a gang of Redeemer fanatics.

The sound of hooves from behind him took a moment to penetrate his gloom. Janus glanced back and said, “Ah. I believe this is our chief of cavalry. Captain, would you be so kind as to provide an introduction?”

“Of course, sir.” Marcus waited while the horseman dismounted, spurs jingling. “Colonel, may I present Captain Henry Stokes? Captain, this is Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran.”

“Sir!” The captain saluted, with his usual ferocity. Henry-that was what Marcus called him to his face, although he was more commonly known to officers and men alike by the nickname “Give-Em-Hell”-was a short, bandy-legged man with a pigeon chest and a peacock’s disposition. His weapons were always brightly polished, and Marcus didn’t doubt that he’d given them an extra rubdown today. He wore an expression of fierce concentration.

A major contributor to Henry’s inferiority complex, in addition to his height, was that the Colonials hardly had any cavalry. Members of that branch of the service were generally wealthier and better connected than those in the infantry, and thus less prone to-or at least more able to get out of-the kind of official disapproval that got a man sent to Khandar. To add insult to injury, the great Vordanai stallions and geldings so beloved of the horsemen fared poorly in the arid climate, so by now most of the captain’s hundred or so troopers were mounted on smaller, sturdier Khandarai breeds.

“Captain,” Janus said. “I regret that we have not had the chance to meet before now. Matters have, unfortunately, been busy.”

“Sir!” Henry was practically vibrating with excitement. “Think nothing of it, sir! Just glad to be on the march again, sir!”

“Indeed. I’m afraid there is a great deal of hard work ahead for you and your men.”

“Sir!” The cavalryman’s chest was so puffed up he looked in danger of leaving the ground. “Just point the way, sir, and we’ll give ’em hell!”

Janus coughed. “I’m sure you will. At the moment, however, I require them to serve in a more reconnaissance-oriented capacity.”

Henry deflated a little. “Yessir.”

“You’re to range ahead of the advance, make sure the road is clear, and report on any potential opposition.” Janus had obviously picked up on some of the captain’s attitude, because he added, “That’s report, not engage. And make sure your men travel in groups. I understand the Desoltai delight in ambushes.”

Henry looked sour. That was light cavalry work, and Marcus knew his heart was in the cut-and-slash of the cuirassiers. He saluted anyway.

“If anyone’s out there, sir, we’ll find them.”

“Excellent. Once you’ve gone fifteen miles, or thereabouts, detail some men to start laying out a campsite.”

“Yessir!” Henry turned and remounted. Janus watched him ride away.

“He seems a most. . enthusiastic officer,” the colonel said, once the captain was out of earshot.

“Yes, sir,” Marcus said. “Very keen.”

“I must say, a little more cavalry would be a comfort.” Janus sighed. “Ah, well. We must work with what we’re given.”

“Yes, sir.”

Janus shot him a penetrating glance. “You seem dissatisfied, Captain.”

“No, sir,” Marcus said stiffly. “Just a little bit anxious, sir. That matter we discussed last night.”

“Ah.” Janus shrugged. “If it helps relieve your mind, we’re hardly likely to run into any opposition this far out. Any raid they could mount would have only nuisance value.”

Marcus nodded. In the courtyard, the march had begun, and the snake was uncoiling and on the move. Standing beside the colonel, Marcus was forced to see his men through an outsider’s eyes, and the perspective made him wince.

It was easy to see, even at a distance, the distinction between the recruits the Colonel had brought with him and what everyone already called the “Old Colonials.” Rather than break up existing companies, Janus had simply installed the new men as additional units onto the regiment’s four battalions. The old companies, being lower-numbered, led the way on the march, which meant that the long blue snake appeared to be suffering from some sort of skin disease that started from the head. The Old Colonials had done their best, digging long-forgotten blue jackets out of trunks or wheedling them from the quartermasters, but their shirts and trousers didn’t match, and everything was ragged and worn. Here and there a flash of color marked a man who’d refused to give up some treasured bit of silk.

The recruits, by contrast, were an unrelieved mass of blue, broken by the sparkling steel and brass of polished weapons. They marched in the vertebrae-shattering, knee-smashing style dictated by the Manual of Arms, rather than the world-weary slouch of veteran soldiers. Even their packs were all identical, tied up with the bedroll behind the neck, just so. The Old Colonials looked more like a pack of beggars, with clothes tied around their heads to keep off the sun and extra waterskins dangling from their belts.

Before too long, the tramp of thousands of pairs of boots raised such a cloud of dust that the men were nearly obscured. Marcus derived a slight satisfaction from the knowledge that all those bright blue uniforms and all that flashing steel wouldn’t be quite so pristine by day’s end. The leaders of the march-Marcus’ own First Battalion-had already passed through the gate and up the road, and the companies of the Second were forming up. The sound of drums came through faintly, under the rumble of thousands of footsteps.

“Musicians,” Janus said, apropos of nothing in particular.

“Sir?”

“I knew I had forgotten something. One always does, when leaving on a long journey.” He smiled at Marcus. “The Colonials lack a regimental band, do they not?”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, we don’t have one. I suppose it’s hard to earn yourself a tour in Khandar as a musician. We make do with the battalion drummers.”

“Music can have a fine effect on troops on the march. De Troyes wrote that, in his experiments, merely including bands reduced straggling by up to thirty percent, and that he was able to extend the daily distance by almost a mile.” He trailed off, looking thoughtful. Marcus cleared his throat.

“Hadn’t we better mount up, sir?”

“Yes,” Janus said, shaking his head. “Don’t mind me, Captain. Sometimes I find myself. . distracted.”

“Of course, sir.”