The Thousand Names

Chapter Four

MARCUS

Rank, Marcus thought, has its privileges. And in an army on the march, any little bit of comfort was to be savored.

In this case, the privilege was having someone else to erect his tent. It had been carried with the rest of the First Battalion baggage and put up for him at the center of the area allotted to his men. No doubt Fitz had supervised the furnishings, such as they were-camp bed, folding desk, a pair of trunks, and the leather portfolios full of paperwork.

Marcus sat down heavily on the camp bed, keeping his boots well clear so as not to dirty the sheets. He stared dully at his bootlaces, trying to remember how they functioned.

Fifteen miles. Not so far, in the scheme of things. Scarcely a journey to notice, in a well-sprung carriage, and certainly nothing a good horseman should complain of. Marcus was many things, but a good horseman was not one of them, and he ached from thighs to shoulders.

He could not even blame his mount, since he’d chosen her himself. He had purchased the mare a year or so earlier, after making a search of the Ashe-Katarion markets for the calmest, most stolid, least demanding mount that could be had. The sort of horse frail old ladies rode to church, or whatever it was that Khandarai old ladies did. He’d named her Meadow, on the theory that this might help.

And it had, in a way. Meadow was as unflappable an animal as had ever been bred, which meant that Marcus had to confront the fact that his frequent equine misadventures were solely the result of his lackluster horsemanship. The upshot was that up to now Meadow had led an extremely comfortable life and was hardly ever called upon to do any actual work, while Marcus walked or rode on carts whenever he could and saddled up only when it was absolutely unavoidable.

But senior officers were expected to ride while on the march. And not just in a straight line, either, but up and down the column, watching for problems and encouraging the men when their spirits flagged. Janus had set the example here, eschewing his black sun cape for full dress uniform to let the men get a good look at him. Marcus, perforce, had to follow, with the result that it felt like he’d ridden closer to thirty miles than fifteen.

For all that, the men in the ranks had it worse. Fifteen miles was a good day’s walk under the best of conditions, but it was hellish with a full pack and the Khandarai sun blazing down. The Old Colonials, toughened by years of trudging through the heat, had grumbled and produced all manner of unorthodox headgear to keep off the vicious rays. The recruits, feeling they had something to prove, had shuffled gamely in their veteran comrades’ wake and dropped like flies from exhaustion and heatstroke. Give-Em-Hell’s cavalry were even now ranging back along the route of march, gathering up the stricken and delivering them to the regimental surgeon to be given a cold compress and a jot of whiskey.

Fifteen miles. Damn the man. It was Janus who’d insisted on the pace. At least the Redeemers had the courtesy to start their revolution in April instead of August. Even in spring, in spite of the coastal breezes, the Khandarai heat was trying. By high summer, the coast would be baking, and the inland desert would become a bone-dry furnace. Be thankful for small graces.

A rap at the tent pole made Marcus raise his head. That would be Fitz, ideally with dinner. He shifted, gingerly, to a sitting position and said, “Come in.”

Fitz entered, but not alone. Val was as dusty and sweat-stained as Marcus, but didn’t look half as exhausted. An aristocrat’s son, Captain Valiant Solwen had learned to ride about the time he’d learned to walk, and no doubt considered the day’s journey merely a bracing jaunt. He was short and broad-shouldered, giving him an almost apish appearance when not on horseback. His looks were not improved by a ruddy face that hinted at his ability to consume truly heroic amounts of alcohol. He adorned his upper lip with a pencil-thin mustache, which he claimed gave him a rakish air, and he spent an inordinate amount of time maintaining it. In Marcus’ opinion it made him look like a penny-opera villain.

“I’m sorry,” Val said, with a half smile. “I didn’t realize you were going to bed straightaway.”

“Just resting my eyes,” Marcus muttered. He turned to Fitz. “Have they got dinner going yet?”

“Yessir,” the lieutenant said.

“Mutton again, I suppose?”

“More than likely, sir.” Khandar was rich in sheep, if little else. “Shall I fetch you something?”

“Please. Val, will you join me?”

“I suppose so,” Val said, without enthusiasm.

Marcus swung his legs down and unlaced his riding boots, letting his feet emerge with an almost audible creaking as his bones flexed back into shape. He stood up in his socks and winced.

“Always meant to get new boots,” he said. “A hundred boot makers in Ashe-Katarion, there’s got to be one who can get it right. Kept putting it off, though, and now here we are.” He grinned at Val. “There’s a lesson in that, I think.”

“‘Make sure you’ve got decent boots, because you never know when a pack of bloodthirsty priests are going to take over the place’? Doesn’t sound very widely applicable.”

“More like, ‘Don’t put things off too long, because you may never get a chance at them.’” Marcus went to one of his trunks, flipped it open, and rooted amongst his assorted rags until he found what he wanted. He held the bottle up to the lamp. The wax seal over the cap was still intact, and amber liquid glistened seductively inside the lumpy glass. Bits of green stuff floated on the surface. Herbs, Marcus hoped. “I’ve been saving this one. Damned if I know why. Scared to drink it, maybe.” He held the bottle out to Val. “Join me?”

“Gladly,” Val said. While Marcus hunted for his tin cups, Val added, “Adrecht has the same idea, I think. He’s convinced that we’re all going to die, so he’s drinking his way through that liquor chest of his.”

“Serve him right if he falls off his horse and hits his head,” Marcus said.

“Small chance of that. Last I heard, his head already hurt so badly he was riding in a wagon and cursing every bump in the road.”

Marcus laughed and came up with the cups. He broke the seal, poured, and offered one to Val, who took it gratefully.

“To Colonel Vhalnich!” Val proclaimed. “Even if he is mad.”

He emptied his cup and made a sour face. Marcus only sipped from his. The sensation on his tongue made him think Val had the right idea after all. He frowned.

“Mad?”

“What else, marching us out here like this?” Val leaned forward. “That’s what I came to ask you. You’ve been spending a lot of time with him. Has he let you in on the big secret?”

Marcus thought for a moment of Miss Alhundt and Janus’ feud with the Last Duke. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“The plan!” Val gestured violently with the cup, spraying a few drops of liquor against the tent wall. “He can’t be planning to just march up to Ashe-Katarion and knock on the gates, can he? You know as well as I do what’d happen next. The Redeemers have a goddamned army in the city. What are we supposed to do against that with one regiment?”

“I know,” Marcus said, downing the rest of his drink in one brutal swallow.

“But does he? In other words, is he ignorant, stupid, or deluded?”

“He knows,” Marcus said. Then, echoing his words to Fitz, “He’s clever.”

“Clever! Clever’s the worst. God save us from clever colonels.” Val shook his head. “Have you talked to Mor?”

“Not recently.”

“He’s not happy.”

“I can imagine.” Captain Morwen Kaanos was irascible at the best of times, which these hardly were. And his dislike of anything related to the nobility was well-known. He and Val had a long-simmering feud on the subject, based on nothing more than Val’s being a distant cousin to some peer or other. Janus was an actual count, and taking his orders was certain to send the captain of the Third Battalion into a rage.

“He’s not the only one,” Val said quietly. “I’ve been hearing a lot of talk, Marcus.”

Silently, Marcus proffered the bottle. Val gave it an evaluative look, then sighed and refilled both cups. He looked suspiciously into the depths of his drink.

“What are the green bits?” he said.

“Herbs,” Marcus said. “What kind of talk?”

“Commonsense talk,” Val said. “Which is what worries me. Talk like, we should have shipped out from Fort Valor. Talk that there’s thirty thousand screaming savages who like to cook and eat anybody with pale skin, and that if they want Khandar so badly they’re welcome to the damned place. Talk that maybe it would be best to take a quick hike to the rear, ’cause there’s no sense getting killed just so some damned count can play soldier. It’s going to be a run for the boats in the end, so why not get a head start?”

Marcus frowned, looked at his cup, and set it carefully aside. “You think anybody’s serious?” The Colonials were famous grumblers-it was practically the regimental sport-but. .

“Not yet,” Val said. “But it’s days before we get to the city, even at this pace. The recruits seem to be game, but I’m not sure how long that’ll last. They’re awfully green. Did you know that most of them didn’t finish their time in depot? Some of them didn’t have any. I talked to a whole company today who said they’d marched straight from the recruiting station to the ships.”

That was disturbing, too, partly because it reminded Marcus how little time he’d spent with his own men. Janus seemed determined to make him into a kind of aide-de-camp, and had been monopolizing his time.

“They’ll toughen up quickly,” he said aloud. “Khandar has that effect on people. It certainly did on me.”

“Tough is one thing,” Val said. “It doesn’t do much good if they don’t know how to handle their muskets or form a line.”

Marcus sighed. “What do you want me to do about it?”

Val looked perplexed. “Talk to him, of course.”

“Talk?” It took Marcus a moment to get that. “To the colonel?”

“He spends more time with you than anyone in the regiment,” Val said. “I don’t think he’s given me more than the time of day. So it’s on you to tell him what we need. I don’t understand what the goddamned hurry is, but we need to cut down the marches and get these men drilling. Even a few days could make a big difference.”

“Easy enough to say,” Marcus said. “I don’t think he’ll listen to me.”

“If he doesn’t, we’re all in the shit,” Val said. “Half the supply train is still trying to catch up, and this ‘road’ is a joke. If we do another few days like this, we’ll be on short rations, and if you think the men are grumbling now. . ”

Fitz reappeared, bearing two bowls of the ubiquitous dump-everything- in-a-pot-and-boil-it meal known affectionately as “army soup.” Marcus glared at it, but Val took the proffered spoon and dug in with a will.

“I’ll try,” Marcus said. “That’s all I can promise.”

Val shrugged, too busy eating to reply.

• • •

Standing outside Janus’ tent, as torches and fires flared throughout the camp and the reds of the sunset gave way to darkness, Marcus realized he had no idea how to begin.

There was certainly no procedure for it in army etiquette. Captains didn’t offer unsolicited advice to colonels, much less issue warnings or present demands. They might occasionally give their opinion, when asked, but directions started from the top and flowed downward. That was the point of the chain of command, after all. A colonel was supposed to know what he was doing.

All the relief that he’d felt when Janus had taken command had vanished. Marcus stood, one hand raised to knock at the tent pole, and dithered.

How would Fitz do it? The lieutenant never openly contradicted his captain, but he had his ways of making it known when he thought Marcus was making a bad decision. A glance, a cough, a “Yes, sir” with just the right tone of voice-the meaning always came across as clearly as if he’d shouted. But he, Marcus, wasn’t Fitz; he didn’t have the boy’s carefully calibrated manners. Or half his brains, for that matter. Besides, he and Janus had been together for only a day or so. It had taken Marcus years to learn the ins and outs of Fitz’s little hints.

He had still not reached a decision when the tent flap opened and Augustin emerged. The old servant bowed ever so slightly and cleared his throat.

“His lordship instructs me to say that if you’re only going to stand there, you might as well come inside,” he said, with a touch more dryness than was really necessary. Marcus instinctively bristled, but fought the reaction down.

“Thank you,” he said, with as frosty a tone as he could manage. “I shall.”

He followed the manservant through the tent flap. From Augustin’s manner, Marcus half expected that the man had worked some magic to transform the standard army-issue tent into a feudal palace, complete with ancient oil paintings and suits of medieval armor.

Instead, he found a tent much like his own, if somewhat neater and better organized. A simple bedroll was still stowed in one corner, a set of trunks in another. The colonel sat on a cushion in front of a wide wooden table, divided into quarters and cunningly hinged so it could be stowed away for transport. Beside him sat another trunk, this one full of books. Marcus couldn’t read the titles in the dim light, but they all had the same dark green leather binding, and fit as neatly inside the little case as if it had been designed for them. It probably had, Marcus reflected. Janus had certainly come prepared to his army career.

“Captain,” he said, looking up from a stack of loose pages. “Have a seat. I assume this is not a social call?”

“No, sir.” Marcus debated remaining on his feet, but decided there was nothing to be gained from it. He took the cushion opposite Janus. “I wondered if I might have a word.”

“Of course.” Janus slid the papers aside and steepled his fingers. “What’s on your mind?”

Marcus glanced uncomfortably at Augustin, who had discreetly faded into the background. Janus looked up at the manservant.

“Augustin, would you be so good as to make the captain a cup of tea?” he said.

With another sour look at Marcus, Augustin bowed and ghosted out.

“You really must learn to ignore him,” Janus said. “I assure you that his discretion is impeccable. But, if it makes you more comfortable. .” He spread his hands.

“Thank you, sir.” Marcus cleared his throat. “I-that is-I’m not sure how to begin.”

“You have some advice for me,” Janus said.

Marcus blinked. “How did you know that?”

“You’d hardly dither so over a report or some minor matter, would you?” Janus gave a disarming smile, gray eyes shining in the lamplight. “I did ask for your assistance, Captain. So long as we’re in private, you may always consider yourself at liberty to speak your mind. I can’t promise I will always follow your counsel, but I’ll certainly listen.”

“Thank you, sir.” He took a deep breath. “Then I respectfully suggest that the marches be shortened, and that we institute some sort of regimental drill.”

There was a moment of silence. Janus, leaning back, cocked his head as though considering the matter from a new angle. Finally he said, “And why do you say that?”

“Fifteen miles a day. .” Marcus paused. “It’s not that the men aren’t capable, sir, but the wagons won’t make it. Our supplies-”

Janus waved a hand. “There’ll be time for the supply train to catch up, never fear. It’s more important that the troops accustom themselves to hard marching. Soon enough we’ll have need of it.”

Marcus sat back, feeling defeated. Janus, watching him, burst out laughing.

“Sir?” Marcus said uncertainly.

“I’m sorry,” the colonel said, still chuckling. “It’s my own fault, I think. I’m not yet used to what you might call the military context. Captain, if you disagree with me, I encourage you to say so. I’m not Karis speaking the Law.”

“You’re a colonel,” Marcus pointed out. And a count besides. “It’s not my place-”

“I intend to take advantage of your judgment and expertise. That means you must be more than a dumb recipient of my lordly wisdom. So long as the enemy are not actually before us, I expect you to correct me if I say anything foolish.”

“Yes, sir,” Marcus said. He’d forgotten how useful that phrase was-it could mean anything you wanted it to mean.

“So-you’re not really worried about the supply train, are you?”

“Sir. .” Marcus paused again, then gave an inward shrug. “There’s been talk. The men aren’t happy-well, that’s nothing new-but they don’t think we can win. They’re saying that you’re just out for glory, or that you’re mad, and if we come up against the Redeemers. .” He shook his head. “I haven’t spent much time with the recruits, sir, but the Old Colonials feel. . fragile. They’ll march, for now, but one hard rap and they’ll fly all to pieces.”

Janus said nothing. His smile had gone, replaced by a thoughtful expression, but there was still a touch of humor at the corners of his eyes. Encouraged, Marcus went on.

“Val-Captain Solwen, that is-came to me this afternoon. He said some of the new men never even made it to depot, and none of them had the full training course.”

“That’s true,” Janus said. “The Ministry was unwilling to send an experienced regiment to Khandar, so it was decided to bring the Colonials up to strength by throwing together the scraps from the depots and the backcountry recruiters.”

“Then I’m not sure hard marching is what they need. They might get where they need to be, but will they fight when you need them to?”

“Just because they’re untrained doesn’t mean they’re cowards.” Janus frowned. “I was hoping the veterans would provide some unofficial instruction.”

“From what I’ve seen, sir, the two groups don’t seem to mix much. And the recruits need to practice formations most of all. That’s not something you can do on your own time.”

The colonel tapped one finger on the table. “Nevertheless,” he said, “time is of the essence. If we delay. .” He appeared to be speaking half to himself, and didn’t wait for an answer. “I will think on it. Thank you, Captain.”

“Sir-”

“You’ve made your point.” Janus smiled again, but only briefly. “Now I need to consider.” The tent flap rustled, and the colonel looked up. “Ah, and here’s Augustin with your tea!”

• • •

Though he knew Give-Em-Hell’s men had swept the route of march, Marcus found his eyes drawn to every obstacle that might hide some kind of ambush. It made for uncomfortable riding, all the more so because Janus seemed oblivious to any sense of danger. With the sun barely past the overhead, the heat was at its worst, and Marcus had to keep wiping sweat from his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Meadow plodded placidly beneath him, unperturbed.

Behind him, the regiment trudged onward, four thousand men in blue uniforms that by now had a healthy coating of the ubiquitous brown dust. To the left, the land fell away gradually to the sea, and on the right rose a line of dry, rocky hills. In between was a strip of ground bearing what the Khandarai laughably called a road, which amounted to a pair of wagon ruts and a path worn through the scattered scrub weeds. The only virtue the track had was that it kept the men from getting lost. Hundreds had dropped out, from heat or exhaustion, and would have to straggle in as best they could after the main body finally reached camp.

And if there’s a Desoltai ambush over the next rise. . The Redeemers were the principal enemy, but it was the desert nomads Marcus feared the most. The Desoltai had never been comfortable with Vordanai hegemony, and they’d thrown in with the rebels at the first opportunity. They lived out in the Great Desol, where the more cautious Khandarai feared to go, and practiced both horsemanship and marksmanship in endless raids against one another and the surrounding towns.

And now they have a leader. The Steel Ghost, a subject of endless rumor, was supposed to have committed a dozen atrocities already, and to possess fell powers besides. But the man’s personal characteristics were less worrisome than the fact that the Desoltai were united, and committed to ridding their land of foreigners.

It wouldn’t take much. A hundred horsemen would cut us to pieces. The infantry might be able to form square, eventually, but the wagons and guns would be so much meat for the butchers. And with Give-Em-Hell out scouting, we wouldn’t be able to chase them off.

He looked at Janus, who rode with the unconcerned air of a man without a care in the world, moving with a natural grace in his saddle. Marcus scowled.

The hell of it was, the colonel was probably right. He would get away with it today-the odds of the Desoltai being so far west were small. And he’d get away with it tomorrow, and the next day, until one day he didn’t. Then it would be too late. But try explaining that to him.

He glanced over his shoulder at the drummers, three of whom walked beside the sweltering column. Each battalion had its own, stationed around the colors, and in theory signals could be relayed from one to the next, allowing orders to pass all the way down the extended line of march without the need for galloping messengers. This worked well enough on the drill field, Marcus knew, but in the field of battle only the simplest commands would get through. “March,” say, or “halt.”

Or “form square.” Marcus stiffened as the idea struck him. Just for a moment, he allowed himself to think of the possible consequences. Janus would be furious, of course, and as a count he might have influence at court in addition to his pull in the Ministry. He could. .

. . What? Ship me to Khandar? Marcus reined up, and Meadow came to a halt. After a few moments the drummers drew level.

“Sir?” one of them said, a heavyset, red-bearded man named Polt. His cheeks were slick with a sheen of sweat, and he looked about ready to drop. “Is it time to call a rest?”

Janus had proscribed rest and water breaks every two hours, but there was some time yet before the next. Marcus looked at Polt’s eager face and smiled.

“We’re having a drill. Beat emergency square,” he said.

“Sir, I- What?” He scanned the horizon frantically for signs of approaching enemies. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Do it now.”

“But-” He caught Marcus’ expression and decided not to argue. Instead he turned on his heel and addressed the two drummer “boys.” In a normal regiment, these would be promising young sub-officers, but no one promising was sent to Khandar. These two looked like they were older than Marcus.

“Emergency square!” Polt bellowed, veins standing out on his neck. “Now!”

The three carried their drums strapped to their backs, where an ordinary soldier would have his pack. They scooted them round and let them fall flat, the straps holding them at waist level, and retrieved their heavy wooden sticks. Tentatively at first, but with increasing volume, they pounded out a basic rhythm. Boom, pause, boom, pause, boom boom boom-a simple signal for a vital command that might have to be executed on a moment’s notice, with no more warning than a sentry’s scream.

At the sound of the drums, the men at the head of the column halted. Those behind took some time to react, so the whole column closed up a little, but the regiment was still dreadfully strung out. There were no neatly dressed ranks on the march. Men walked in little clusters, vaguely divided by company, with their sergeants and lieutenants more concerned with chivying slackers than keeping order. They were expecting the command to halt for rest, and some few even took the opportunity to sit down in the road.

It was a few moments before the battalion drums picked up the signal, but once they did, it echoed up and down the whole column. The effect was everything that Marcus had hoped for-or, more precisely, dreaded. The Old Colonials knew what the signal meant, but had only a foggy idea of what they were supposed to do; the recruits mostly didn’t understand, but they knew something was up by the panicky looks. Their officers, the lieutenants Janus had brought with him, were split about evenly between the two camps. Marcus heard a few shouts of “Square! Form square!” but for the most part these were submerged in the babble.

The long march column contracted as the men instinctively bunched up, forming a blob around the battalion color bearers and the drums. From where he was sitting, Marcus had a good view of the First and Second Battalions, and he was pleased to see that the First, at least, was slowly coming into some kind of shape. That was Fitz at work-he had a brief glimpse of the lieutenant grabbing an officer several years his senior by the arm and shoving him in the right direction. The blob gradually opened out in the center and became a ring, whose sides straightened as sweating lieutenants and sergeants shouted their men into something like a line. Bayonets came out of their sheaths, and there was a chorus of swearing as the recruits tried to fit theirs with suddenly awkward fingers.

The Manual of Arms said that a battalion in column of companies should be able to form square within two minutes of the order being given. A battalion on the march was allotted a bit more time, five minutes considered the standard. It was at least fifteen before the First Battalion emerged into something recognizable as a formation-a hollow rectangular block, each side three ranks deep, with fixed bayonets bristling like a hedge of steel points from every face.

Nor was the First the worst offender. Val had screamed the Second into shape, and Marcus didn’t have a good view of the Third, but before long a stream of running, shouting men came up the road from the rear. Marcus thought they were from the supply train, fleeing a supposed enemy attack, until he saw the uniforms and the desperate, shouting officers and realized they were the men of the Fourth Battalion. Apparently all attempts to bring order there had failed, and the men had decided their only chance was to seek shelter in the steadier squares. A few shoving matches resulted, and Marcus winced, hoping that no bayonets would come into it. The last thing he needed was for his demonstration to cause actual casualties.

Next up the road came a dozen guns, pulled at a brisk trot by sturdy Khandarai horses, and accompanied by a double column of gawking artillerymen. Marcus had to grin at that. At least the Preacher knows how to keep his men in order. An infantryman of the Fourth, seeing the approaching cannon, decided he would be safer in amongst them, while a sword-waving lieutenant ran after him to a volley of curses and protests from the gunners.

All it needs is a fat captain with his pants around his ankles chasing a skinny blonde with a tuba going oompah-oompah, and we’d have a perfect music-hall farce. Marcus jerked Meadow’s reins and turned back toward Janus, steeling himself for the colonel’s reaction.

Janus was staring at the disorderly scene below. It took Marcus a moment to realize he was laughing, inaudible in the din. When he saw Marcus approaching, he turned on him with a faint but unmistakable smile.

“Sir!” Marcus barked, trying to make himself heard. Janus brought his horse alongside and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Point taken, Captain,” he said. “Your point is very much taken.” He shook his head ruefully. “Once everyone gets sorted out, you may order a halt for the day. We start drill in the morning.”

• • •

A halt was inevitable in any event, as it took most of the rest of the day to get the troops back into something approximating order and untangle the panicked supply trains. Marcus winced when Fitz presented him with the final bill-forty-six men with scrapes and bruises, four horses so badly injured they’d had to be put down, and one wagon that had cracked an axle when its driver had driven it into a ditch. It could have been worse, though. The losses of matériel could be replaced or repaired, and he was relieved to hear that no one had been seriously hurt. And who knows how many lives saved, down the road. As the sun was setting, Marcus headed back to his tent with a cautious sense of optimism.

He was nearly there when a meaty hand descended on his shoulder. He started, spun to face his assailant, and found himself staring into a wild tangle of hair that failed to conceal a mocking smile.

“What’s the matter, Senior Captain? You seem a little jumpy.”

Captain Morwen Kaanos, of the Third Battalion, was a tall, heavyset man with weathered, tanned skin that spoke of years in Khandar. Between a thick goatee, bristly muttonchops, and an unkempt mustache, his face was almost invisible. His eyebrows were bushy as well, giving him the look of a wild man, hermit, or possibly the scruffier class of saint. The hand he’d clapped on Marcus’ shoulder was big enough to be called a paw, and the hair on the back of it was practically fur.

“It’s been a long day,” Marcus said, irritated by his own reaction. “And I was hoping to get off my feet for a minute.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Mor said, in his heavy mountain accent. “Mind if I poke my head in, though? We wants a word.”

Marcus gave an inward sigh, but nodded. The two of them practically filled the little tent. Marcus sat heavily on his bedroll and started unlacing his boots, while Mor stood by the flap, arms folded across his chest.

“I hear,” he said, “that we got you to thank for the mess this afternoon.”

“Where did you hear that?”

Mor tapped his nose, then shrugged. “Ain’t no big secret. Polt’s been telling the story since he put down his drum. Prob’ly ’cause half the Old Colonials seemed inclined to blame it on him.”

“They’re angry, are they?” Marcus worried at a knot that seemed to have become inextricably glued tight with sweat and Khandarai dust.

“Some are. You didn’t make them look good back there.”

“I didn’t make them look bad, either. I’ve seen a pack of wild dogs form a better square.”

“Hell, your boys in the First weren’t too quick about it,” Mor snapped. “Don’t try to pin this-”

“It’s on no one,” Marcus said. The knot came free, and he slid his foot out of the boot with a sigh of relief. “It’s a gang of half-trained recruits and a bunch of old grumblers who’ve had it too soft for too long. What do you expect?”

“What did you expect? Why’d you do it? Don’t tell me you saw some old goatherd on a pony and shat your pants.”

“I did it,” Marcus said grimly, “because I knew what would happen, but His Lordship didn’t believe me.”

“Ah.” Mor uncrossed his arms. “Suddenly it all makes sense.”

Marcus frowned. Mor was always happy to suspect the worst of senior officers, particularly noble officers. As a general rule, the Colonials didn’t dwell on the stories of how they’d ended up in exile, or ask about the disgraces of others, but Mor’s tale was well-known: he’d illegally dueled a nobleman, he said, over the attentions of a young woman, and had accidentally killed the man. Whether that was true or not, he certainly harbored an inveterate hatred of nobility and privilege.

“He’s not bad,” Marcus said. “I think we can work with him. He just needed a little lesson on what’s possible and what isn’t. If he thinks he’s going to take this lot into battle after a week of forced marches. .”

“Battle?” Mor said. “You think it’ll come to that?”

“Probably. We aren’t marching all this way for our health.”

“Last time I checked, there were a hell of a lot more of them than there are of us. Has anybody told His Lordship?”

“I told him myself,” Marcus said. “Fighting isn’t just about counting noses, though.”

“Let’s hope you’re right about that. Though I’d lay ten to one we come scampering back down this road before the month is out.”

“Either way,” Marcus said, starting on the other boot, “it’s not our problem.”

“True. Our problem is currently sprawled in a supply wagon, making a solid try at drowning himself in wine.”

Marcus swore softly. “Adrecht.”

“Adrecht. You saw the way his men behaved today?”

Marcus nodded. Adrecht’s Fourth Battalion hadn’t even managed to stay together, let alone form square. “Where was he?”

“Search me, but he wasn’t with them. Lieutenant Orta said he rode off around midday and never came back.”

“Saints and martyrs,” Marcus cursed. “Is he trying to get himself brought up on charges?”

“Last I talked to him, he was convinced we were all going to end up on Redeemer spikes, so I’m not sure he cares anymore.” Mor gave Marcus a careful look. “What do you want to do?”

Marcus heard the question under the question. Do we cover for him, he translated, and try to snap him out of it? Or ignore it and let the colonel deal with him? He suspected he knew what Mor’s opinion was. Mor had never had much use for the mercurial, unreliable captain of the Fourth.

“What do you think of this. . Orta, was it?”

Mor shrugged. “He seems competent enough. A little hesitant to cuss an’ shove when he needs to, though. The new lieutenants your colonel gave us are a bunch of spoiled-rotten assholes, and they like to talk back.”

Marcus wondered if Fitz had the same problem and hadn’t mentioned it. Somehow he doubted it. Fitz had a way of getting what he wanted, though he never raised his voice.

“Right. Have you got a sergeant with a big mouth you’d be willing to part with for a while?”

Mor laughed. “You can have your pick of a dozen.”

“Send one or two of them over to Orta, and tell him to work on getting the Fourth into shape. Hopefully that will buy us enough time to have a word with Adrecht.”

“I suppose that’s fair enough. It’s going to have to be you that talks to him, though. He’s never paid me much mind, and I doubt he’ll start now.”

Marcus nodded. “I’ll wait until morning. Hopefully he’ll have dried out a bit by then.”

“Either that or he’ll still be sleeping it off.” Mor sighed. “I hope he appreciates this.”

“I’m sure you’re not likely to let him forget.”

The big man laughed. “Bet your ass.”

• • •

By rights, it ought to have been easy to get to sleep. The day had left Marcus near exhaustion, though more from anxious fretting than physical exertion. On the way back to his tent the only thing he’d been able to think about was collapsing into bed, but now that he was actually there sleep refused to come. He felt alert, even twitchy. If someone had tapped his shoulder he might have jumped a foot. Lying on his side, he could feel the thump-thump of his pulse, fast enough to march to.

After an hour, he dragged himself up with a silent curse, slipped his boots on without tying the laces, and staggered outside. The sky was a blaze of stars, dimmed only slightly by the torches and fires that still burned amidst the rows of tents. The moon hung huge and horned just above the western horizon, washing the labyrinth of blue canvas in a ghostly light.

When he started out, Marcus had the notion of taking a walk to convince his body to let him rest, but by the time he passed the last row of tents his steps had acquired more purpose. Beyond where the camp ended, across a few hundred yards of scrub, a line of torches marked the ring of sentries.

Sentries carried loaded weapons, and on a night like this they were bound to be jumpy. Marcus stopped a good fifty yards from the line, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted, “Sentry, ho! Friends approaching!”

The torch waggled in response. Marcus crossed the remaining distance at a brisk walk and found a young man with a musket resting on his shoulder and a torch in one hand. The shadows made everyone seem pale and hollow-eyed, but from the deep blue of his uniform Marcus could tell he was a recruit. He straightened up when he saw the captain’s bars on Marcus’ shoulder and tried to figure out how to salute with a torch in one hand and a musket butt in the other.

“No need, Ranker,” Marcus said. “I’m just taking a quick look at the lines. What’s your name?”

“Ranker Ipsar Sutton, sir!” He tried to salute again and nearly singed his forehead. “First Battalion, Fifth Company, sir!”

“One of mine,” Marcus said. “I’m Captain d’Ivoire.”

“I know, sir!” the young man said proudly. “I saw you at the drill this afternoon.”

Drill, Marcus thought, is one way to put it. “How long is your shift, Ranker Sutton?”

“Another three hours, sir!” He gestured with the torch. “Nothing to see so far, sir!”

“It does us good knowing you’re out here,” Marcus said. “I for one couldn’t sleep otherwise.”

“Yes, sir!” Sutton stood up even straighter. “Thank you, sir!”

“Keep up the good work.” Marcus patted him genially on the shoulder and walked on, into the darkness.

He went along the line of sentries, meeting each man in turn and exchanging a few words of greeting. They were all recruits-apparently this section of the perimeter was held by the Fifth and Sixth companies-and to man they seemed distressingly keen. Getting a word from him seemed to cheer them up immeasurably, and by the time he turned back to his tent Marcus felt like he’d actually done some good.

It would have been different with the Old Colonials. Familiarity bred contempt, of course, and after the long years in the camp near Ashe-Katarion even the rankers had come to treat officers with a genial disregard. It might have been different if Ben Warus had been the sort of colonel to take offense at insubordinate conduct, but he’d always been an easygoing type, and the others took their cues from him. Seeing the straight postures and bright young faces of the recruits reminded Marcus of his last year at the War College, drilling squads of sweating underclassmen out on the Long Field.

That was what the army was supposed to be like. Not. . this. He’d long ago resigned himself to the fact that Khandar wasn’t much of a post. It certainly wasn’t what he’d envisioned when he’d started at the College. But that had been before, when he’d still cared about his career and his standing in the world, before he’d volunteered for service at the edge of the world with the hope that it would let him outrun his ghosts. He’d done his best to enjoy the soft life of a sinecure and not to dwell on the past. Then, during the retreat, he’d been too busy to think. But now, with his comfortable routine broken-

“Good evening, Captain,” said a woman’s voice from the darkness. Such women as were with the regiment-laundresses, cooks, and whores, those who’d been brave enough to accompany the column when it had marched-would be on the other side of camp, with the supply train. That left a field of one, so Marcus hazarded a guess.

“You must have eyes like a cat, Miss Alhundt.”

“Good night vision is essential in my line of work.” She materialized out of the darkness.

“For peeking in people’s windows?”

“For poking through dusty old shelves,” she said, toying with her glasses. She pushed them up her nose and looked down at him through the lenses. “You wouldn’t believe the mess back at the Ministry vaults. There are some rooms where we don’t dare risk open flames.”

“Couldn’t have that. You might set fire to everyone’s secrets.”

“Secrets are not really my business, Captain. There’s so much to know that isn’t hidden at all.”

“Fair enough,” Marcus said.

“What about you?” she said. “Are you out spying on your subordinates? Or is this a surprise inspection?”

“Just checking over the arrangements,” Marcus said.

“Very diligent of you,” Miss Alhundt said. “I understand we also have you to thank for that. . exercise this afternoon.”

Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “What about it?”

“Did you intend to embarrass Colonel Vhalnich? Or merely to delay his progress?”

“Neither. It was a-a demonstration. I wanted to make a point.”

“The point that the Colonials are woefully unprepared.”

That was it precisely, of course, but he didn’t want to say so. Marcus shook his head in silence.

“Do you mind if I ask why?” Miss Alhundt said.

“I’m not sure why you’re so interested.”

She cocked her head, one finger touching the bridge of her glasses. Beneath the spectacles, the severe hairstyle, and the mannish clothes, he guessed she was actually quite pretty.

“Because I’m curious about you, Captain,” she said finally. “You are something of an enigma.”

“I don’t see why that should be. I’m just a soldier.”

“A soldier who honestly volunteered to serve in Khandar. An officer. That makes you one of exactly two.”

Marcus snorted. “Really? Who’s the other fool?”

“Colonel Vhalnich, of course.”

“But-” Marcus bit back his response. Jen smiled.

“He’s talked to you about me, then,” she said. “It’s all right. I won’t insult you by asking to tell me what he said. I’m going to guess it was something like, ‘She’s here because that villain Orlanko is up to something.’”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“After a fashion.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “The colonel has a reputation for eccentricity. He also has powerful friends at court. They worked hard to get him this assignment.”

Janus hadn’t mentioned that. Marcus considered for a moment. “Why?”

“His Grace would very much like to know.” She tapped her nose. “Therefore, here I am.”

“I see.”

She cocked her head. “I don’t suppose you have any light to shed on the subject?”

Marcus stiffened. “I don’t.”

“I thought not.” She straightened up. “Just remember, Captain, that when all is said and done, we’re all on the same side here. I want to serve the king and Vordan just as much as you or the colonel.”

“I’m sure you do,” Marcus said. “And right now, the best way I can serve is to get some sleep. I understand that the colonel wants us to start drilling after the march tomorrow.”

“Of course, Captain. Don’t let me keep you from your bed.”

• • •

“Adrecht!” Marcus called, knocking at the tent post. “Get up!”

If the soldiers of the Fourth Battalion found anything unusual in the sight of the senior captain storming down to their commander’s tent before dawn, they didn’t say anything about it. The sky was lightening in the east, and in the First Battalion camp the men would already be up and about, breaking down their gear and getting it stowed on wagons in preparation for the day’s march. As rearguard, the Fourth Battalion had a bit more time to wait, though in Marcus’ opinion the extra sleep didn’t make up for having to eat the dust of the whole column all day.

Adrecht’s tent was not the usual faded blue army issue, peaked in the center and barely tall enough for Marcus to stand erect. It was silk, to start with, and much larger, with four foundation posts, while the army tents had only two. Once, it had been elaborately decorated with frilled hangings, ropes of colorful cloth, and colored-glass lanterns that threw fanciful patterns against the fabric-years in Ashe-Katarion had given Adrecht time to exercise his talent for acquiring the trappings of luxury. Now all of that was gone, the fine fabrics either packed in trunks or abandoned in haste on the retreat to Fort Valor.

And a good thing, too. If they’d had to set up Adrecht’s whole palace every night, they would never have outrun the Redeemers, however halfhearted the pursuit had been. Marcus knocked again, hard enough to sting his knuckles. “Adrecht!”

“Marcus?” The voice sounded muffled, and not just from the thin silk walls. “’S that you?”

“I’m coming in,” Marcus announced, and slipped past the tent flap. The broad interior was unlit, and the weak morning light did little to relieve the gloom. Marcus blinked until his eyes adjusted, then spotted a lantern hanging from one of the tent poles. He rummaged in his pockets until he produced a match, then lit the lamp and hung it up again. Its swinging sent the shadows to arcing wildly.

Adrecht groaned and held up one hand to block out the light. “Good God,” he said, raising his head from the silk cushion where it rested. “What do you think you’re doing? It’s much too late for this kind of nonsense.”

“It’s early, not late,” Marcus said. There was another lamp on the other side of the tent, and he lit it as well.

“When did you turn so pedantic?” Adrecht groped with one hand until he came up with a heavy gold pocket watch, which he clicked open. “See? It’s two in the morning. What kind of time is that to be waking me up?”

“It’s dawn,” Marcus said.

“Is it?” Adrecht blinked at him. “You’re sure?”

“Most of us can tell by looking.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” He shook the gold watch, then snapped the cover shut. “My watch has stopped. I thought I was just drunk.”

“You were drunk.”

That was a guess, Marcus had to admit, but an educated one. By the light of the lamps he could see that there were several empty bottles strewn across the rug-covered floor of the tent. A trunk in one corner held three rows of cotton-padded compartments, suitable for transporting fine liquors. More than half the slots were empty. Another pair of trunks, tumbled haphazardly between the tent poles, spilled a mess of clothes, books, and papers that looked as though it had been thoroughly rummaged.

There was little else, not even a bedroll. Adrecht had gotten rid of the uncomfortable army-issue camp furniture at the first opportunity, replacing it with fine hand-carved pieces purchased in Ashe-Katarion. Marcus had forced him to leave it all behind when they’d fled, lest some gilt-encrusted armoire take up wagon space needed for food. That argument had led to a week of strained relations.

“It’s really dawn?” Adrecht said again, looking up with eyes filmed by a gathering hangover.

“Yes,” Marcus snapped. “Get up.”

With some effort, Adrecht managed to lever himself into a sitting position, legs crossed in front of him. His fine white linen trousers were stained purple where he’d spilled something across them. He looked down mournfully at the splotch, then up at Marcus.

“I need a drink,” he proclaimed. “You want a drink?”

“Water,” Marcus said. “Do you have any water around here?”

“Water!” Adrecht made a double circle over his heart with one hand, the ancient Church ward against evil. “Don’t say that so loud. God may hear you and strike you down. Water!” He snorted. “I made good progress last night, but if I recall there was a little something left in the purple bottle. .” He fumbled with a bottle, which glugged the last few swallows of its contents into the carpet. Adrecht shrugged and tossed it aside. “Oh, well. There’s still a few more.”

Marcus located a carafe of lukewarm water and handed it over. Despite his protests, Adrecht drank greedily, without bothering to locate a cup. He swirled the final mouthful around, then swallowed it thoughtfully.

“I don’t remember drinking any gun oil,” he said. “But now my mouth seems to be coated with the stuff. Are the lads playing pranks, do you think?”

“Adrecht. .” Marcus looked for somewhere to sit, but after a survey of the rancid carpet he decided against it. He squatted instead. “Adrecht, where were you yesterday?”

“Yesterday?” He blinked slowly. “Yesterday. . yesterday. .”

“Drinking somewhere?”

“Oh, yes. One of the quartermasters invited me to spend the march in his wagon, since I offered to share my spirits with him. Great fellow, absolutely wonderful. He-I can’t recall his name, actually, but he was kindness itself.”

“You were at it all day?”

“Not all day. I wouldn’t call it all day. Just. . you know. .” He shrugged. “So what?”

“You should have been with your men.”

“Why? For moral support? They know what they’re supposed to do. It’s just marching, after all.”

“When I called for emergency square-”

Adrecht snorted. “Why would you do a damfool thing like that?”

“If there’d been an attack, we might all have been killed.”

“If there’d been an attack. .,” Adrecht said mockingly. “Come off it, Marcus. Sit down and have a drink with me.”

“Damn it, Adrecht,” Marcus said. “What in hell is wrong with you?”

There was a long pause while Marcus tried to regain control of his temper. Adrecht was a good officer and a good friend. He was smart enough, God knew-at the War College his help had gotten Marcus through a half dozen examinations. And in the field he was personally brave almost to a fault. He was prone to black moods, however, and a bad one could last for weeks, especially when it was exacerbated by drink.

“I should think that would be obvious,” Adrecht said. He staggered to his feet, using one of the tent poles to aid him, and started toward the liquor chest. Marcus moved to intercept him, and Adrecht leaned back and glared at him with exaggerated irritation.

“I’m trying,” he said, “to become a monk. Obviously. The Preacher has finally convinced me that the time of the Beast is upon us. Only I have to get rid of all my worldly possessions first, d’you see? You gave me a good head start”-he narrowed his eyes-“but there was still the liquor to think of. Not really fair to tip it out, I thought. So I’m working my way through the lot. Once I’m done, then”-he clapped his hands-“it’s off to the monastery with me.”

“It’s going to be off to the Vendre with you,” Marcus shot back. “And in irons. We have a new colonel, if you haven’t noticed. If you keep this up, sooner or later-”

“Please, Marcus,” Adrecht said with a chuckle. “The Vendre? Really? You don’t believe that, do you?”

“You’d be lucky to get the Vendre. More likely it’d be a firing squad. Dereliction of duty-”

“I’d be happy to die by an honest Vordanai bullet,” Adrecht said. “At least if I’m allowed to get drunk off my ass beforehand. It’ll make me better off than the rest of you.” He shook his head. “Come on, Marcus. Do you honestly think any of us are going home, in irons or otherwise? The Redeemers don’t exchange prisoners; they eat them.”

“We’re not prisoners yet,” Marcus said.

“We might as well be. Or has the colonel explained his secret plan to you? I’m curious to hear it.”

Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “The colonel doesn’t explain his plans to me. But he’s not just marching off to be a brave sacrifice for king and country, if that’s what you mean.”

Adrecht snorted. “We ought to have gotten right back aboard those ships. This is a death march, and most of the men know it. Can you blame them if they’re not responding well?”

“The other battalions still obeyed orders.” Eventually.

“I always did have more than my share of smart ones.” Adrecht caught Marcus’ expression and sighed. “Marcus-”

“I’m trying to help you,” Marcus said. “If you’re not up to the job anymore, best say so now.”

“Oh, very clever, Doctor-Professor d’Ivoire. Play on Captain Roston’s pride, maybe that’ll get him back into the firing line.”

“Damn it-”

“All right, all right!” Adrecht held up a hand. “I’ll be at the drills. That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?” He shook his head again. “Though it’s a hell of a thing to force a man to spend his last few days on earth sweating and shouting orders.”

It’s really bad this time. He’s already given up. There was something bright and brittle in Adrecht’s eyes, as if a dark, cynical humor was the only thing keeping him on his feet. The only time Marcus had ever seen him like this was five years ago, when he’d first got word he was shipping out to Khandar. Saints. Maybe Mor was right. If this Lieutenant Orta is any good, maybe we should keep him in charge.

That would mean getting rid of Adrecht, though. Unless Janus could be persuaded to accept his resignation, the only way for a captain to leave his company was in disgrace. He’d never do it. And Marcus owed him whatever help he could manage.

“Well?” Adrecht said. “Was there anything else, Senior Captain?”

“No.” Marcus turned to leave, but paused at the tent flap. “I really am trying to help, you know.”

“Oh?” Adrecht snapped. “Why?”

Sometimes I have no idea. Marcus shook his head and slipped out.