The Thousand Names

Chapter Nineteen

MARCUS

Marcus could see from Razzan-dan-Xopta’s expression that the conference had not gone well. He stood hastily as Janus emerged from the august presence of the prince, trailing the Khandarai minister like an overinflated silk balloon.

“Colonel,” Razzan said, wringing his hands, “perhaps it was my translations that were at fault here. I urge you-”

“Your translations were adequate,” Janus snapped. “Also, as you know, unnecessary. I believe that all that needs to be said has been said. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a march to organize.”

“But. . the prince has forbidden it!”

“I have informed the prince of my intentions. He is welcome to take whatever steps he feels are necessary.”

Janus made a shooing motion, then beckoned to Marcus, who fell into step behind him. They left the bewildered minister gaping like a landed fish.

“I take it he wasn’t pleased,” Marcus murmured.

“He called me a coward and a traitor,” Janus said. “How refusing to sit behind the walls of Ashe-Katarion makes me a coward, I’m not sure I understand, but no doubt the minds of royalty work in mysterious ways.”

“You can’t blame him,” Marcus said. “He’s frightened.”

“I don’t blame him for that. I only wish he would accept the reality of the situation.”

The reality of the situation, of course, was that the colonel could do as he liked. The prince had a handful of Heavenly Guards and Jaffa’s Justices, and the loyalty of the latter was far from certain. Janus could depose the monarch with a wave of his hand, and they both knew it. Still, old habits died hard, and the Vermillion Throne continued to issue “commands” to its Vordanai allies.

That, in this case, the prince might be right made it all the worse from Marcus’ point of view. He coughed. Janus turned to look at him, gray eyes glittering.

“You don’t approve,” the colonel said.

“Of the way you dealt with the prince? Of course I approve. It’s about time someone-”

“No,” Janus said. “You don’t want to march.”

“I had wondered whether it is entirely. . wise,” Marcus admitted.

“I’ve told you before that you may speak your mind to me, as long as we’re in private.” Janus gestured at the empty corridor. “Speak.”

“I follow your logic, as far as it goes,” Marcus said. “I agree that the fires and the assassination attempt mean the Desoltai may still be nearby. But if we pursue, they’ll fall back into the Desol, and following them seems like it would be playing right into their hands.”

“You worry we won’t be able to defeat them?”

“I worry that they won’t fight at all,” Marcus said. “The Desoltai aren’t like ordinary soldiers. You can go days without seeing them, and then suddenly they’re on top of you like a swarm of angry hornets. They let the desert do their work for them, and trying to strike back is like punching a mist.” Marcus had become more fervent than he intended, and he took a moment to regain his decorum. “My concern is that we won’t be able to force a decisive action.”

“They have towns, I know. Camps. Oases from which they draw their supplies.”

“They do, but they’re hidden in the depths of the Desol. There are no maps, no roads. Finding them. .” Marcus shrugged.

Janus looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head. “This time is different, Captain. They attempt to bring the Names to a place of safety. If we can keep close enough on their heels, they will eventually lead us to it.”

“The Names,” Marcus said flatly, and suppressed a sigh. Janus had still refused to explain the exact nature of his mysterious treasure. He tried a new tack. “And you’ve considered that the prince may be right to worry? Without the Colonials to keep order, Ashe-Katarion may rise against him.”

“Unlikely. Whatever standing the Redeemers had left with the people was lost with the fire.”

“That doesn’t mean they like the prince any better. If they string him up from the walls, we’ll have trouble keeping order in all of Khandar.”

“It’s an acceptable risk,” Janus said. “We must have the Names.”

“Even if it costs us-”

“Even if it costs us all of Khandar.” Janus looked solemnly at Marcus. “I expect this sort of protest from less. . imaginative minds, Captain. But you were there. You saw what they can do. We cannot leave that sort of power in the hands of a gang of Khandarai witches.”

“I. .”

That awful morning now seemed like the beginning of a nightmare, a day of flame and windblown ash that blacked out the sky and coated the streets with gray. He’d almost forgotten the assassination attempt amidst the chaos that had followed. The fires had been every bit as bad as Khandarai legend said they would be, sweeping unstoppably through the tight-packed tenements and thatch-roofed buildings of the lower city, washing against the thick stone walls of the inner city like waves against a breakwater.

Sparks driven by the wind had overtopped the wall and started dozens of smaller blazes, but the upper city was built largely of stone. Marcus had deployed the Colonials to battle these flames as best they could, and also to assist the Justices at the walls. Mobs of hysterical commoners assaulted the gates, desperate for safety, and against all tradition Marcus decreed that the inner city be opened to these refugees. That meant guards and pickets to protect the property of the aristocrats.

Thousands more Khandarai had run for the other traditional refuge and jumped into the canal or the harbor, until the shallows resembled a gigantic open-air bath. That saved them from the flames, but hundreds drowned in the choking, shoving mobs or were forced out into the deeps and went under when their strength gave out. Thousands were left behind in the city, too, unable or unwilling to run, and had burned along with their homes. The Justices were unable to provide even a partial body count, but burial squads were still working three shifts.

Casualties among the Colonials, fortunately, had been light. Most of the patrols had hurried back to the gates as soon as the fire started. The First Battalion had fewer than a dozen unaccounted for, and Marcus hoped most of those would yet turn up.

And before the ashes were cold, Janus had announced his intention to march.

“I. . don’t know,” Marcus said. “I’ll admit that something supernatural came to attack you that morning, but whether that has anything to do with these Thousand Names. .”

The gray eyes flashed. “It was a demon, Captain. A creature not of this earth, wearing a human skin.”

It caught a pistol ball. Marcus had seen a conjuror do that once in a stage show, but that had only been a trick. This had been a real ball from a real pistol, and he’d pulled the trigger himself. Which is impossible. A man might be fast, or strong-not as fast or strong as that thing was-but to catch a ball in flight. .

“Even so,” Marcus said. “Even if he was-”

They rounded a corner, and Marcus was relieved to catch sight of Fitz hurrying toward them. The lieutenant stopped in front of them and saluted.

“Your points are noted, Captain,” Janus said. “My orders stand. I expect a report by evening.”

“Yessir.” Marcus stiffened and snapped a salute of his own. The colonel swept past Fitz and on down the corridor, and Marcus didn’t let himself relax until Janus had turned a corner.

“Orders, sir?” Fitz said. “Has the colonel finished with the prince already?”

Marcus nodded wearily. “We march,” he said. “Tomorrow, at dawn.”

“Very good, sir.”

His face was impassive. Marcus gave him a penetrating look. “Doesn’t that bother you? Just the other day you were telling us how it would be unwise.”

“Obviously the colonel does not agree with me,” Fitz said mildly. “Besides, circumstances have changed. In some ways, we may be safer outside the city.”

“What do you mean?”

“Supplies are already running low among the refugees, sir. I came to tell you that there’s been a disturbance. Some farmers were bringing a convoy of food to market-that’s the inner-city market, of course-and they were confronted by a mob demanding that they sell it to them at pre-fire prices. When the farmers refused, the mob attacked the wagons and took everything they could carry. There are three dead and a dozen wounded.”

“If we leave, that sort of thing is only going to get nastier.”

“Certainly our presence contributes to the maintenance of order,” Fitz said, in the slow, calm tone he used to explain things to officers and small children. “On the other hand, shortages are only going to grow worse, and it’s only a matter of time before the people turn their anger on us.”

“Wonderful.” Marcus shook his head. “It’s all academic, anyway. Unless the prince tries to stop us by force, we leave in the morning. How are the preparations?”

“We’ve commandeered all the transport we can lay our hands on,” Fitz said. “You still mean to take the entire hospital with us?”

“Damn right. If we’re marching, that means all of us. I don’t want one Vordanai in uniform left behind.”

“It’s just that the space would be useful to transport more barrels of water, or-”

“Everyone, Fitz.”

“Yessir. Food is going to be the issue, sir, at least at first. We’ve more or less exhausted the supplies that came with the fleet, and there’s not much to be had in the city unless we start turning some nobles out onto the street.”

“That might make the mob happy,” Marcus said, and sighed. “I’ll bring it up with the colonel. Is there any good news?”

“Ammunition is holding up nicely, sir. The Auxiliaries left us a substantial supply, and since they use Vordanai weapons the calibers match up perfectly.”

“It’s a blessing no one thought to torch the magazines,” Marcus said. The fire had been bad enough. If one of the big arsenals had gone up as well. .

“Yessir. Also, Captain Roston appears to have regained consciousness.”

“Adrecht? When?”

“Early this morning, I understand.”

“You might have told me earlier. I’m going to see him.”

“Sir,” Fitz said, “about our stock of barrels-”

“Later,” Marcus snapped. “Or better yet, whatever it is, just take care of it. You have full authority to take any necessary steps.”

“Yessir!” The lieutenant saluted. “Understood, sir!”

• • •

The hospital had been established in a closed-off wing of the Palace. The prince had objected to this use of royal property, but Marcus had insisted and Janus had backed him. The battalion cutters, who handled immediate battlefield triage and most day-to-day complaints, had consolidated the worst of the wounded cases under the regimental surgeons. Marcus had visited a few times to see Adrecht, but until now his fellow captain had never been awake to receive him and the groans of the wounded had quickly driven him away.

Since then, things had quieted down somewhat. The festering infections and bad blood that accompanied battle wounds had reaped their inevitable toll, and the bodies had long since been carried away. Those who were on the road to recovery had left as well, often of their own accord, since no sane soldier wanted to stay under a cutter’s care any longer than absolutely necessary. The patients who remained were those who’d contracted something lingering, or who’d been wounded badly enough to require serious surgery and had survived the process.

Marcus was met by a surgeon’s assistant, who recognized him, saluted, and led him to the narrow bedroom in which Adrecht had been installed. As Fitz had promised, he was sitting up on the low bed, reading something. The captain was out of uniform, but his blue coat was draped across his shoulders. The left sleeve hung flat against his side, limp and empty.

“Adrecht!” Marcus said. “Sorry I wasn’t here earlier. I’ve been with the colonel all morning. Fitz just told me you’d woken up.”

“It’s all right,” Adrecht said. “I wasn’t in a fit state to meet anyone until just now anyway. I finally kicked up enough of a fuss that they brought me a bath and a change of clothes from my room.”

Marcus chuckled. Adrecht’s smile was strained, and an awkward silence descended as Marcus realized he had absolutely no idea what to say. He owed Adrecht his life, but any kind of “thank you” seemed pitifully inadequate in view of the price his friend had paid. To acknowledge the debt would be unbearable, but to do anything else seemed ridiculous. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and gritted his teeth.

Somewhat to his surprise, Adrecht came to the rescue. He held up the paper he’d been reading. “Have you seen this?”

“What is it?”

“Orders. The colonel wants the Fourth Battalion to get ready to march.”

“He sent the orders to you?” Marcus had a flash of incredulous rage.

“Not as such. The colonel informs me that the Fourth will be marching with the rest of the regiment, and inquires whether or not I feel competent to take up the command. If not, he quite understands.”

Adrecht gave the phrase a nasty spin, but Marcus couldn’t help agreeing with his tone. Janus must have written those words while Adrecht still lay unconscious, so he could hardly have expected an answer in the affirmative.

“Have you told him anything?” Marcus said.

“I wanted to talk to you first.” A sudden, pained expression crossed Adrecht’s face, and he grabbed at the stump of his left arm with his right. The note from Janus fluttered to the floor. “Karis’ fucking blood,” he growled. “You’d think the goddamned thing would stop hurting once they’d taken it off.”

“Should I send for someone?”

“No.” Adrecht closed his eyes. Marcus noticed how thin his face had become. His cheeks were sunken hollows, and rings of black circled his eyes. “I’ll be all right. Listen, have you talked to Janus about this?”

“About you leading the Fourth?”

“About the march!” Adrecht said. “You know as well as I do that it’s madness. Have you explained it to him?”

“I. .” Marcus hesitated. “I’m not sure I would call it ‘madness.’”

“Chasing the Desoltai into the Great Desol? What else would you call it? The Desol eats armies and spits out bleached bones. Damn it, you know what it’ll be like. No water, no food, Desoltai raiders snatching up our pickets, night attacks and ambushes-” He broke down into a fit of coughing, violent and disturbingly wet-sounding. Marcus found a basin and cup nearby and poured some water.

“You can’t let him do it,” Adrecht said weakly when he’d recovered. “Come on, Marcus. Anyone who goes into the Desol isn’t coming out again. The Redeemers and ‘General’ Khtoba are one thing, but this is the Steel Ghost. They say he can’t be killed.”

Marcus had heard those rumors, too. He’d always discounted them, but in the light of what he’d seen. . He shook his head.

“The colonel is aware of the difficulties. I’ve given him my opinion. Fitz is working on the supply problem-”

“The hell with your opinion,” Adrecht rasped. “Tell him no. Tell him you’re not going to do it. The First will follow you, and so will Val and Mor. The Colonials know you. If you just explain it to them-”

There was a sharp intake of breath that Marcus took a moment to recognize as his own. Adrecht halted, aware that he had gone too far.

“I think,” Marcus said, “that you may still have a touch of fever.”

“I think you’re right,” Adrecht said dully.

“Shall I inform that colonel that you’re not ready to resume command yet?”

“Tell him whatever you like. You can go and die in the Desol if you’re so determined, but I’m staying here.”

“No,” Marcus said. “Everyone comes with the regiment, even the wounded. Relations between the colonel and the prince have. . deteriorated. Anyone left behind wouldn’t be safe.”

“Saints and fucking martyrs.” Adrecht clutched his head with his remaining hand, face contorting as another spasm of pain ripped through him. His breath hissed from between clenched teeth.

“Should I-”

“Get out,” Adrecht managed. “Just. . go, all right?”

• • •

Marcus turned a corner of the battered sandstone Palace and found Fitz directing a company of the First hauling the battalion baggage to the edge of the field, where wagons and teams were lined up three-deep. Along with the usual transport for food, ammunition, and guns, Marcus was not surprised to see stack after stack of wine barrels.

“Throwing a dinner party, Lieutenant?”

Fitz saluted. “Sir. I need to report-”

Marcus waved a hand. “I think I get it. For water, right?”

“Yessir. Most of the city coopers practiced their trade in the lower city. It was necessary to obtain a supply quickly, so I took the most expedient route.”

“I had a gang of wine merchants waving papers in my face all morning. I take it you handed out promissory notes for compensation, as per regulations?”

“As per regulations, sir.” Fitz’s face was straight, but his tone held the barest hint of humor. “I’m sure the Ministry will compensate them.”

“I’m sure,” Marcus said dryly. “How are things progressing?”

“On schedule, sir. We have a slightly longer sick list than usual, but other than that everything is in order.”

“Something going around?”

“Mostly hangovers, I suspect, sir.”

“Ah.” He lowered his voice. “You’ve been here all morning?”

“Yessir, directing the preparations.”

“Do you have a sense of the. . feeling of the men? About this expedition, I mean.”

“Sir?”

Marcus sighed. “I spoke to Adrecht. He’s. .” Marcus paused. “Well, he’s not in a good state, but that’s to be expected. But he was convinced that the march is going to be a disaster. I was wondering if that was a widespread opinion.”

Fitz nodded, considering. He spoke quietly. “I don’t believe so, sir. Among the Old Colonials, there may be a few, especially those who’ve spent time chasing the Desoltai in the past. But the recruits are confident in the colonel, and I have to say many of the Old Colonials have come around as well. Morale seems to be high, sir.”

“That’s good to know.” That meant that Adrecht’s complaints-technically treasonous-could safely be dismissed as grumbling. “Do we have our marching orders yet?”

“Yessir. We’re to head for a town called Nahiseh. The colonel wants us to reach it by nightfall. I understand that he intends to secure additional supplies there.”

At least he’s thinking about it. Marcus didn’t flatter himself that it was his own harangue that had gotten Janus’ mind onto that track, but he hoped it had helped. Looking at the rows of wagons, and the troops forming beyond them in the field, he felt momentarily comforted. It didn’t last. Out to the east was the Great Desol, the desert that devoured armies and laughed at mapmakers. And somewhere, hiding amidst the sands, the Steel Ghost.

• • •

Once again the long blue snake wound out, flowing through the gate, under the stone walls of Ashe-Katarion, and into the burned-out wasteland that had been the lower city.

The column had changed a great deal since the last time Marcus had watched this scene, back at Fort Valor. For one thing, it had shortened considerably. The battalions themselves had slimmed-the Colonials had lost nearly five hundred fighting men, most of them in the action around Weltae-but the “tail” of wagons was also considerably shorter, shorn of the prince and his entourage as well as the usual gaggle of Khandarai camp followers. Marcus had decreed that nothing that was not absolutely necessary would accompany them into the desert, making the maximum possible use of available wagon space and beasts of burden. Cartload after cartload of barrels rumbled past, weighed down with heavy, precious water.

The men themselves were different, too. It was harder to distinguish between the recruits and the Old Colonials: the new soldiers had lost their fish-belly pallor, and their kit had acquired the patina of dirt and hard wear that marked an army on the march, while the veterans had repaired some of the more obvious shabbiness to make sure they looked better than their younger companions. Strings of cavalry remounts, another thing Marcus had insisted on, walked in riderless lines behind the wagons, while Give-Em-Hell and his troopers were spread in a thin screen around the marching column.

Toward the end came the hospital wagons. Despite his promises to Fitz, Marcus had allowed a few of the very worst stricken to remain behind, those whom the cutters had quietly promised him didn’t have long to live in any case. Subjecting dying men to vicious jouncing along rutted roads in unsprung wagons seemed like one cruelty too many, but he hoped that the prince would not inflict some final indignity on them in petty revenge. The rest of the injured, including Adrecht, had been packed into wagon-beds cushioned with commandeered carpets. He could hear the occasional chorus of shrieks and moans when the vehicles hit a bumpy patch in the road.

He’d made all the preparations he could think to make. Probably more usefully, he’d given Fitz a free hand to make all the preparations he could think to make, and as usual the young lieutenant had come up with a dozen things his chief had forgotten. In spite of it all, though, Marcus couldn’t fight off a dark foreboding. Riding under the walls himself, in the gap between the Second and Third Battalions, he looked at the stout wooden gates and wondered if they would find them closed when they returned.

If we return. He chided himself for the thought.

The fire had left the lower city in ruins, but marching through it reminded Marcus that this sort of clearance was a regular event in Khandar. The scavengers had started in on the rubble before it was cool, and the last of the flames had barely died away before the hunt for building materials was on. New structures were already going up, claiming choice real estate. To Marcus’ eyes, they looked ready to topple at any moment, and just as flammable as the last batch, but they were being raised as fast as gangs could haul blackened but serviceable timber from the debris. He’d seen the vast temporary kilns the brickmakers had raised along the waterfront, too. It wouldn’t be long until the city sprang from the ashes, like new growth after a forest fire.

A horde of Khandarai had turned out to see the Colonials go. They watched in silence, without open hostility but also without cheers or celebration. Marcus saw a lot of dark, angry faces, and heard a great deal of quiet muttering.

He was glad when they passed beyond the old boundary of the lower city. A few buildings had survived here, better built or simply luckier than their neighbors, and the ramshackle grid of streets dissolved into country lanes that wound their way between ancient, rock-walled fields and irrigation ditches. Unlike their previous march, there was no convenient highway to follow. Roads led west and south from Ashe-Katarion, but not east, since there was nothing in that direction but the wasteland of the Great Desol. Instead, the column followed markers laid down by Give-Em-Hell’s scouting horsemen, who rode down any track that looked as though it headed in the right direction and compared what they saw to the vaguely drawn Khandarai maps.

Nahiseh, their initial goal, was a market town twelve miles from Ashe-Katarion. Marcus had hoped to make it there by midafternoon, but by the time the sun was high he realized they’d be lucky to reach it before dusk. The narrow lanes restricted the column to a long, thin line, and every hesitation or obstacle encountered by the troops in front was transmitted down the length of the snake, forcing those behind to halt while the leaders sorted things out. Worst of all, of course and as usual, were the wagons, which suffered badly on the rocky ground.

Marcus’ temper grew shorter each time they had to stop. It was not improved by falling off his horse, which he did just after midday when Meadow shied at a particularly violent outburst. For a terrifying moment he thought the mare was going to trample him, but she stepped daintily aside, leaving him with a long cut on his arm where it had scraped against the stone wall and considerable damage to his dignity.

The colonel, of course, was nowhere to be found. Marcus had seen him go past early in the day, at the head of the column, trotting out as eagerly as if he were off to a fox hunt. Fitz, Val, and Mor were busy corralling their own battalions, so there was nothing for Marcus to do but pick himself up and keep at it, spitting silent curses all the while.

He was just sorting out an altercation between one of the Preacher’s gunners and an unfortunate carter who had gotten in a hopeless tangle when Fitz came trotting up, his uniform somehow still spotless in spite of a day of dusty marching. The artilleryman was in the middle of a tirade, threatening to stuff the teamster down the barrel of one of his twelve-pounders and chop off all the bits that didn’t fit. Marcus let him go on until he’d exhausted his head of steam, then told the carter to get his equipage out of the way as soon as possible, and never mind the risk to his axles.

Then he turned to Fitz, who’d waited patiently at his shoulder. The young man was blank-faced, as always, but something in his manner made Marcus instantly concerned.

“Something wrong?”

“Could be, sir,” Fitz said. “You’d better come and have a look.”

“Lead the way,” Marcus said, then gave the lieutenant a questioning look when he didn’t move.

“Best to ride, sir.”

Marcus cursed inwardly, but there was nothing for it. His legs already ached from a long day in the saddle, and his arm hurt abominably. But Fitz knew of his aversion to horses, and if he thought they had to ride, that meant something was very wrong indeed.

An aide brought up Meadow, and the two of them started down the stalled column. “This is a mess,” he said, more or less to himself. Fitz answered anyway.

“Yessir. Road’s too narrow, sir, and there aren’t any good alternative routes. Give-Em-Hell said that we should break out of these stone-walled fields once we get past Nahiseh.”

“Just be glad the Desoltai haven’t turned on us yet. This would be a hell of a place to be ambushed.” The thought of trying to push past those stone walls as they fumed with gunsmoke gave him the shivers. On the other hand, the Desoltai loved their horses almost as much as they hated the Vordanai, so they would find the idea of fighting on such cluttered ground just as uncomfortable. Then Marcus had a nasty thought. “That’s not what you’re taking me to see, is it?”

“Not exactly, sir. The leading companies of the First have reached Nahiseh, and there was a bit of a fracas.”

“A fracas?”

“An altercation, you might call it. The locals are unhappy.”

“Wonderful. Where’s the colonel?”

“He rode through the town already, sir. Said he saw something on the hill just beyond and took a squadron of cavalry as an escort.”

“At least he had that much sense.” Marcus wouldn’t have put it past Janus to wander off on his own if something really interested him. For a man with his obvious military talent, he could be surprisingly obtuse at times. “Come on. Let’s get to this town before someone burns the place down.”

• • •

It hadn’t quite come to that, but it wasn’t far from it. Marcus found two companies of the First waiting on the outskirts of the little town, which would barely have qualified as a large village in Vordan. It was a collection of dusty shacks and a few brick-and-timber buildings, not much bigger than Weltae. Its primary purposes were to serve as a way station for farmers carting their produce to the city and to host markets for city merchants to sell goods to the rural folk who never got to make that trip. The main attraction was an underground spring that gave pure, sweet water, which some long-ago ruler of Khandar had built up into a fountain and pool with a statue depicting an unrecognizable god.

It was over this fountain that the “altercation,” as Fitz had termed it, had developed. A dozen Vordanai soldiers, looking very nervous, stood with shouldered muskets and fixed bayonets, while another blue-coated man lay in the dust with a corporal leaning over him. In front of the line, Marcus was depressed but unsurprised to find Senior Sergeant Davis, face red and veins bulging, screaming at a square-jawed Khandarai who listened impassively to his tirade. A small crowd of locals stood behind him. They looked more like curious onlookers than an angry mob, but Marcus knew that the line dividing the two could be a thin one.

“You little gray-skinned motherfucker,” Davis said. “If you and your little friends don’t clear this street right now, I mean right fucking now, I am going to order these men to blow the lot of you straight into your fucked-up afterlife. Is that what you want? You want me to take a bayonet and rearrange your insides?”

“Sergeant Davis!” Marcus boomed, in his best parade-ground voice.

Davis whirled, his face still lurid with rage, and for a moment Marcus thought he was about to receive the benefit of his acid tongue. Then good sense took over, and the fat sergeant quivered to attention and saluted as crisply as he could manage.

“Sir!” he barked. “Request permission to assemble my company and disperse this resistance, sir!”

“Are they resisting?” Marcus looked out over the crowd. “They don’t appear to be armed.”

“They’re blocking the road, sir! And one of them decked Peg-that is, one of them struck Ranker Nunenbast, sir!”

“Was that this man here?” Marcus said, indicating the big Khandarai.

“Yessir. I want him punished, sir!”

“Let me talk to him.”

Marcus dismounted awkwardly and went over to the man, with Fitz following at his shoulder. He mustered his politest Khandarai and said, “I am Captain d’Ivoire. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

The Khandarai blinked, a bit surprised, and said, “I am Dannin-dan-Uluk. I am the headman of this town.”

Marcus inclined his head at Peg, who was still groaning theatrically. “And what seems to be the problem?”

“He wished to use the fountain. I explained that he would have to make an offering to the Lord of Waters, but he refused. When he attempted to push his way past, I was forced to do him an injury.”

“I see. Did he understand you?”

Dannin shrugged. Marcus sighed inwardly.

“I apologize on his behalf, then,” he said. “Many of my men do not speak your language. I wish for them to have free access to your fountain for tonight and tomorrow morning. How large an offering to the Lord of Waters would be appropriate?”

“How many men?”

“A little more than four thousand, and our animals.”

The headman shook his head. “Too many. They will deplete the pool, and it will not refill for many weeks. In the meantime, the town will suffer.”

Marcus grimaced. Here’s where I show that I’m no better than the likes of Davis, after all.

“We must have water,” he said quietly, so the crowd behind the headman would not hear. “I am prepared to make a generous donation to your town and your god in exchange for it, and to purchase food and other necessaries besides. If you refuse, however, we can commandeer these things in the name of the prince, and then you will have nothing.”

“You have no right to do such things.”

I have an army.That’s even better. “The prince disagrees. You may apply to him for compensation.”

“And if we refuse?”

Marcus glanced over his shoulder at Sergeant Davis, who was still glaring daggers at the Khandarai. Then he shrugged, as though it were a matter of indifference to him.

“You will pay,” the headman said, after a moment’s contemplation. “And we will bring wine for your soldiers to drink, so only your animals need to use the fountain. You must pay for the wine, too, of course.”

“Of course.” Marcus’ head was starting to pound in time with the ache in his arm. He wondered how he was going to explain this to Janus. If he even bothers to ask.

• • •

“And did he say where we go next?” Jen said.

“Of course not,” Marcus said, pulling off his uniform jacket one-handed and tossing it into a corner. “He just smiles, as though he expects me to enjoy the sense of mystery. I swear to Karis the Savior the man missed his calling as a stage conjuror.” He picked up the wineskin-a too-sweet vintage generously provided by the villagers of Nahiseh-and took another long pull.

Jen, sitting on his bed, nodded sympathetically. He hadn’t invited her in, exactly, but she’d been waiting for him outside his newly erected tent, and his anger at Janus’ refusal to divulge his plans had come bubbling out almost involuntarily. Now he stood with the skin in one hand, facing her bright, curious eyes behind the thick-lensed spectacles, and wondered if he’d said too much.

She’s still Concordat, when all is said and done. And Janus is still my commanding officer. Betraying a confidence went deeply against Marcus’ nature. He hadn’t mentioned the Thousand Names, or that Janus might have a reason for the march other than to run down the Divine Hand, but he wondered how much Jen might infer from his frustration.

“He doesn’t trust me. No surprise, really. I don’t think he really trusts anyone.” He tried a grin. “No offense intended.”

“None taken. His Grace the Duke certainly doesn’t trust him.” She held out a hand, and Marcus silently handed the wineskin across. “That’s why I’m here, after all. Though what I’m supposed to do now is beyond me.”

“No secret instructions from the Ministry?” Marcus said teasingly.

“No instructions at all. ‘Observe and report,’ they told me.” She shook her head. “I don’t think even Orlanko expected the colonel to overthrow the Redeemers so quickly.”

“It had to be quickly, or not at all. If we’d settled into a siege, with the whole countryside against us, we wouldn’t have lasted a month. Janus was right. Breaking straight through was the only way.”

“The men in the camp are saying he’s a genius,” she said. “Farus the Conqueror come again. Is he?”

Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “That may be going a bit far. But he certainly knows what he’s about.”

“Then you agree with him about this march into the Desol?”

“I didn’t say that.” Marcus thought about Adrecht. “It’s not my place to agree or disagree. The colonel gives orders, and I execute them as best I can.”

“Ever the dutiful soldier.”

“Be sure to put that in your report.” He reached down to unlace his boots, and winced at a spasm of pain in his arm. “Saints and martyrs. I suppose I’d better see a cutter for this.”

“I can take a look, if you like.”

Marcus was dubious, but anything was better than a trip to the cutter’s tent. He finished with his boots and tugged his shirttails out of his pants, then looked over at Jen, suddenly embarrassed. It must have shown on his face, because she laughed and waved a hand.

“Go ahead, Captain. You can trust to my discretion.”

He pulled his shirt and undershirt over his head quickly, to hide the burning in his cheeks, and then gently pulled the bloody part away where it had gummed itself to his flesh, flinching each time it pulled out a hair. When he was done, he worked the arm stiffly, watching fresh blood well up through cracks in the clotted mass. Jen leaned forward and sniffed unhappily.

“That’s a mess. Do you have a clean cloth?”

“By the basin.”

Jen wet the cloth in the lukewarm water and sat down beside Marcus on the bed. She worked the cloth back and forth across the injury, and he endured the cleansing patiently, trying not to wince as bits of scab tore free. The cloth was streaked with red by the time she was finished.

“Just a little cut,” she said, holding the linen against the wound to soak up fresh bleeding. “You’ll have a scar.”

“It won’t be the first.”

“I can see that.” Her eyes ran across his torso, which was a patchwork of evidence of other minor altercations. Marcus, suddenly uncomfortable again, shifted himself away from her and nodded toward the trunk.

“There should be some fresh bandages in there,” he said.

Jen got up and fetched them. When she sat down again, she was right beside him, her knee nearly touching his. She knotted the bandage around his injury with the air of an expert, tested the knot, and let his arm fall. It brushed her thigh on the way down, and the tips of his fingers seemed to tingle.

“You were lucky,” she said. “You might have broken your neck.”

“I know.” Marcus sighed. “Fitz has already lectured me. But I couldn’t just let things get out of hand. .”

There was a long silence, or as close to silence as there ever was in an army camp. Outside, there was the usual buzz of men putting up tents, cooking dinner, and dealing with the thousand other mundane tasks that made up the life of a soldier. But they all slowly seemed to fade away, until Marcus was intensely aware of Jen’s breathing. He found himself watching the way her chest moved under the flaps of her coat. When he realized what he was doing, he looked hastily away, blushing again, then caught her gazing at him steadily. He swallowed, hesitated, and opened his mouth, though to say what he had no idea.

“Yes,” Jen said.

Marcus blinked. “What?”

“I know what you’re going to say. Or what you want to say, anyway. And the answer is yes.”

“Yes? I mean-I don’t know what you mean. I wasn’t-”

“You’re very gallant,” Jen said. “But if you keep stuttering, I may have to hit you.”

He kissed her instead. It wasn’t a very good kiss. Marcus was out of practice, and the edge of Jen’s spectacles dug into the side of his face so hard they left a mark. But she was smiling when he pulled away, and her cheeks were as flushed as his. She took the glasses off with one hand, snapped them closed, and set them carefully by the side of the bed.

“I didn’t mean to be. . forward,” Marcus said. “You don’t have to-you know-”

“Please,” she said. “Please stop talking.”

He did. After a while, she snuffed the lamp, leaving them in the warm, dry semidarkness.

It had been a long time for Marcus, and even longer since he hadn’t had to hire his company. Adrecht might have been able to get Khandarai women to fawn over him, but Marcus had never had the knack, so his romantic life had been confined to a few of the cleaner establishments in the lower city. Compared to the practiced embraces of those seasoned professionals, Jen was hesitant and awkward, but he found he didn’t mind.

Afterward, she lay close beside him, her breast pressed against his shoulder. The camp bed wasn’t really big enough for both of them, and Marcus’ injured arm dangled over the edge. His other arm was trapped underneath her, but he felt no desire to move. Jen’s breathing was so soft he thought she was asleep, but when he turned his head he found her eyes open and watching him.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”

“Just thinking.” She pursed her lips. “Remember the bottle we opened?”

“Of course.”

Jen smiled. “I just thought that if we all die in the desert, at least I won’t have to regret not doing this.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Marcus said.

“You didn’t sound so confident earlier.”

“I was angry.” Marcus let out a long breath. “Janus will come through, somehow. He won’t say where we’re going and he won’t explain, but in the end he’ll come through, and drag the rest of us with him.”

“You sound like you have a lot of faith in him.”

For a moment, Marcus was back at Weltae. He saw Adrecht urging him to escape while he had the chance. He struggled to recall the certainty that had blazed in his mind, that Janus would be there. And he was. Another, treacherous voice added, Too late for Adrecht, though. And how many others?

Marcus shifted, bringing his free hand up to run lightly along Jen’s flank. He gave her nipple an idle tweak, and felt it harden under his fingers. A little shiver ran through her body, and she wriggled tighter against him and pressed her lips to his bearded cheek.

• • •

She didn’t spend the night, of course. Sex on the camp bed was uncomfortable enough. Actually sleeping side by side would have been impossible. He must have dozed off at some point, though, because when he woke in the morning, still naked, Jen and her clothes had gone.

There was no question of keeping the liaison a secret-the walls of the tent were just canvas, after all, and there was nothing an army camp liked better than to gossip about its officers. But if the rumors reached Fitz or Janus, neither mentioned them, and the feeling that he was doing something monstrously wrong slowly started to fade from Marcus’ mind. Jen shared his bed the next night, when he’d traded the camp bed for a pair of bedrolls, and the night after that as well. The day after that, the Colonials marched into the Great Desol.

They’d been making steady progress through the Khandarai farmland beyond Nahiseh, in spite of the lack of good roads. As Give-Em-Hell had promised, past the town the land flattened out and the fields were marked by rough dirt tracks instead of stone walls, making for a much more comfortable march and easier going for the vehicles. Marcus’ spirits had revived somewhat, due both to Jen’s ministrations and to the fact that no Desoltai ambushes had materialized.

The second day, the cultivated fields started to give way to patches of rough scrub grass, and the grass in turn to open, sandy wastes strewn with rock. The streams that wound through the low valleys became narrower and farther apart, until they were dust-dry beds more often than not. Huge outcrops of rock, like jagged whales breaching through an ocean of sand and dust, took the place of the gentle hills they had found thus far. There was no definite boundary, but by the morning of the third day Marcus could look back and ahead and see not a hint of green from horizon to horizon.

• • •

On the morning of the fourth day out from Nahiseh, Marcus was roused from an uneasy sleep by Fitz, who knocked discreetly but firmly at the tent pole. Marcus had in fact gone to bed alone that night. The camp was abuzz with expectation, of an attack or some other sign of resistance from the Desoltai, and he’d been up half the night waiting for the alarm to sound. Whether she’d sensed this or had just been preoccupied herself, Jen had stayed away, and Marcus had eventually lapsed into a fitful slumber. He woke up, still fully clothed, and struggled groggily to his knees.

“Fitz?” he said. “Is something wrong?” The light outside didn’t seem bright enough for it to be much past dawn.

“I’m afraid so, sir,” said the lieutenant. “You’d better come and see.”