The Thousand Names

Chapter Two

MARCUS

Senior Captain Marcus d’Ivoire sat at his makeshift wooden desk and contemplated damnation.

The Church said-or Elleusis Ligamenti said, but since he was a saint it amounted to the same thing-that if, after death, the tally of your sins outweighed your piety, you were condemned to a personal hell. There you suffered a punishment that matched both your worst fears and the nature of your iniquities, as devised by a deity with a particularly vicious sense of irony. In his own case, Marcus didn’t imagine the Almighty would have to think very hard. He had a strong suspicion that he would find his hell unpleasantly familiar.

Paperwork. A mountain, a torrent of paper, a stack of things to read and sign that never shrank or ended. And, lurking behind, on, and around every sheet, the looming anxiety that while this one was just the latrine-digging rota, the next one might be important. Really, critically important, the kind of thing that would make future historians shake their heads and say, “If only d’Ivoire had read that report, all those lives might have been spared.” Marcus was starting to wonder if perhaps he’d died after all and hadn’t noticed, and whether he could apply for time off in a neighboring hell. Spending a few millennia being violated by demons with red-hot pokers was beginning to sound like a nice change of pace.

What made it worse was that he didn’t have to do it. He could say, “Fitz, take care of all this, would you?” and the young lieutenant would. He’d smile while he was doing it! All that stood in the way was Marcus’ own stubborn pride and, again, the fear that somewhere in the sea of paper was something absolutely vital that he was going to miss.

Fitz returned from escorting another newly frocked sergeant out of the office. Marcus leaned back, stretching his long legs under the desk and feeling his shoulders pop. His right hand burned dully, and his thumb was developing a blister.

“Tell me that was the last one,” he said.

“That was the last one,” Fitz said obediently.

“But you’re just saying that because I told you to say it.”

“No,” the lieutenant said, “that was really the last one. Just in time, too. Signal from the fleet says the colonel’s coming ashore.”

“Thank God.”

One year ago, before Ben Warus had gone chasing one bandit too many, Marcus would have said he wanted to command the regiment. But that had been in another lifetime, when Khandar was just a sleepy dead-end post and the most the Colonials had been required to do was stand beside the prince on formal occasions to demonstrate the eternal friendship between the Vermillion Throne and the House of Orboan. Before a gang of priests and madmen-more or less synonymous, in Marcus’ opinion-had stirred up the populace with the idea that they would be better off without either one.

Since then, Khandar had become a very unpleasant place for anyone wearing a blue uniform, and Marcus had been living right at the edge of collapse, his mouth dry and his stomach awash in bile. There was something surreal about the idea that in a few minutes he was going to become a subordinate again. Hand over the command of the regiment to some total stranger, his responsibilities reduced to carrying out whatever orders he was given. It was an unbelievably attractive thought. The new man might screw things up, of course-he probably would, if Marcus’ experience with colonels was any guide-but whatever happened, up to and including the entire regiment being massacred by screaming Redeemer fanatics, it would not be his, Marcus’, fault. He’d be able to turn up for heavenly judgment and say, “Well, you can’t blame me. I had orders!”

He wondered if that carried any weight with the Almighty. It was something to tell the Ministry of War and the Concordat, at any rate, and that was probably more important. Of the two, the Almighty was a good deal less frightening. The Lord, in his infinite mercy, might forgive a soldier who strayed from the path, but the Last Duke certainly would not.

Fitz was saying something, which Marcus had missed entirely. His sleep lately was not what it ought to have been.

“What was that?” he said.

The lieutenant, well aware of his chief’s condition, repeated himself patiently. “I said that the troops are almost all ashore. No cavalry, which is a pity, but he’s brought us at least two batteries. Captain Kaanos is sending the companies up the bluff road one at a time.”

“Will there be room for everybody inside the walls?”

Fitz nodded. “I wouldn’t want to stand a siege, but we’ll be all right for a few days.”

This last was something of a joke. Fort Valor itself was a joke, actually. Like a strong lock on a flimsy door, it was effective only as long as the intruder remained polite. It had been built in the days when the most dangerous threat to a fortress was a catapult, or maybe a battering ram. Its walls were high and unsloping, built of hard native limestone that would crumble like a soft cheese once the iron cannonballs started in on it. They wouldn’t even need a siege train-you could take the place with a battery of field guns, especially since there was no way for the defenders to emplace their artillery to shoot back.

Fortunately, no siege seemed to be in the offing. The Vordanai regiment had scuttled away from Ashe-Katarion, the prince’s former capital, and as long as they looked like they were leaving, the Redeemers had been content to watch them go. Still, Marcus had bitten his fingernails to the quick during the weeks of waiting for the fleet to arrive.

“Well,” Marcus said, “I suppose we’d better go meet him.”

The lieutenant gave a delicate cough. Marcus had been with him long enough to recognize Fitz-speak for “You’re about to do something very stupid and/or embarrassing, sir.” He cast about the room, then down at himself, and got it. He was not, technically, in uniform-his shirt and trousers were close to regulation blue, but both were of Khandarai make, the cheap Vordanai standard issue having faded or torn long ago. He sighed.

“Dress blues?” he said.

“It would certainly be customary, sir.”

“Right.” Marcus got to his feet, wincing as cramped muscles protested. “I’ll go change. You keep watch-if the colonel gets here, stall him.”

“Yes, sir.”

If only, Marcus thought, watching the lieutenant glide out, I could just leave this colonel entirely to Fitz. The young man seemed to have a knack for that sort of thing.

• • •

The dress uniform included a dress sword, which Marcus hadn’t worn since his graduation from the War College. The weight on one hip made him feel lopsided, and the sheath sticking out behind him was a serious threat to anyone standing nearby when he forgot about it and turned around quickly. After five years at the bottom of a trunk, the uniform itself seemed bluer than he remembered. He’d also run a comb through his hair, for the look of the thing, and scrubbed perfunctorily at his face with a tag end of soap.

“Why, Senior Captain,” Adrecht said, coming through the tent flap. “How dapper. You should dress up more often.”

Marcus lost his grip on one of the dress uniform’s myriad brass buttons and swore. Adrecht laughed.

“If you want to make yourself useful,” Marcus growled, “you might help me.”

“Of course, sir,” Adrecht said. “Anything to be of service.”

References to Marcus’ rank or seniority from Captain Adrecht Roston were invariably mocking. He had been at the War College with Marcus, and was the “junior” by a total of seven minutes, that being the length of time that had separated the calling of the names “d’Ivoire” and “Roston” at the graduation ceremony. It had been something of a joke between them until Ben Warus had died, when that seven minutes meant that-to Adrecht’s considerable relief-command of the Colonials settled on Marcus’ shoulders instead of his.

Adrecht was a tall man, with a hawk nose and a thin, clean-shaven face. Since his graduation from the War College, he’d worn his dark curls fashionably loose. Keen, intelligent blue eyes and a slight curve of lip gave the impression that he was forever on the edge of a sarcastic smirk.

He commanded the Fourth Battalion, at the opposite end of the marching order from Marcus’ First. He and his fellow battalion commanders, Val and Mor, along with the late Ben Warus and his brother, had been Marcus’ official family ever since he’d arrived in Khandar. The only family, in fact, that he had left.

Marcus stood uncomfortably while Adrecht’s deft fingers worked the buttons and straightened his collar. Looking over the top of his friend’s head, he said, “Did you have some reason to be here? Or were you just eager to see me embarrass myself?”

“Please. Like that’s such a rarity.” Adrecht stepped back, admiring his handiwork, and gave a satisfied nod. “I take it from the getup that you’re off to meet the colonel?”

“I am,” Marcus said, trying not to show how much he wasn’t looking forward to it.

“No time for a celebratory drink?” Adrecht opened his coat enough to show the neck of a squat brown bottle. “I’ve been saving something for the occasion.”

“I doubt the colonel would appreciate it if I turned up stumbling drunk,” Marcus said. “With my luck I’d probably be sick all over him.”

“From one cup?”

“With you, it’s never just one cup.” Marcus tugged at his too-tight collar and sat down to turn his attention to his boots. There was a clatter as his scabbard knocked over an empty tin plate and banged against the camp bed, and he winced. “What have we got to celebrate, anyway?”

Adrecht blinked. “What? Just our escape from this sandy purgatory, that’s all. This time next week, we’ll be heading home.”

“So you suppose.” Marcus pulled at a stubborn boot.

“It’s not just me. I heard Val say the same thing to Give-Em-Hell. Even the rankers are saying it.”

“Val doesn’t get to decide,” Marcus said. “Nor does Give-Em-Hell, or the rankers. That would be the colonel’s prerogative.”

“Come on,” Adrecht said. “You send them a report that the grayskins have got some new priests, who aren’t too fond of us and have a nasty habit of burning people alive, and by the way they outnumber us a couple of hundred to one and the prince is getting shirty. So they send us a couple of thousand men and a new colonel, who no doubt thinks he’s in for a little light despotism, burning down some villages and teaching a gang of peasants who’s boss, that sort of thing. Then he gets here and finds out that the aforementioned priests have rounded up an army of thirty thousand men, the militia that we trained and armed has gone over to the enemy lock, stock, and barrel, and the prince has decided he’d rather make the best of a bad job and take the money and run. What do you think he’s going to do?”

“You’re making the assumption that he has an ounce of sense,” Marcus said, pulling his laces tight. “Most of the colonels I met back at the College were not too well endowed in that department.”

“Or any another,” Adrecht said. “But not even that lot would-”

“Maybe.” Marcus got to his feet. “I’ll go and see, shall I? Do you want to come?”

Adrecht shook his head. “I’d better go and make sure my boys are ready. The bastard will probably want a review. They usually do.”

Marcus nodded, looked at himself in the mirror again, and paused. “Adrecht?”

“Hmm?”

“If we do get to go home, what are you going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“If I recall, a certain count told you that if you ever came within a thousand miles of his daughter again, he would tie you to a cannon and drop you in the Vor.”

“Oh.” Adrecht gave a weak smile. “I’m sure he’s forgotten all about that by now.”

• • •

Marcus, feeling prickly and uncomfortable, stood beside Fitz at the edge of the bluff and watched the last few companies toiling up the road. The path switchbacked as it climbed the few hundred feet from the landing to the top of the cliff. The column of climbing men looked like a twisted blue serpent, winding its way up only to be devoured by the gaping maw of the fort’s open gate beside him. There seemed to be no end to them.

The men themselves were a surprise, too. To Marcus’ eyes they seemed unnaturally pale-he understood, suddenly, why the Khandarai slang for Vordanai was “corpses.” Compared to the leather-skinned veterans of the Colonials, these men looked like something you’d fish off the bottom of a pond.

And they were so young. Service in the Colonials was usually a reward for an ill-spent military career. Apart from the odd loony who volunteered for Khandarai service, even the rankers tended to be well into their second decade. Marcus doubted that most of the “men” marching up the road had seen eighteen, let alone twenty, given their peach-fuzz chins and awkward teenage frames. They didn’t know how to march properly, either, so the column was more like a trudging mass of refugees than an army on the move. All in all, Marcus decided, it was not a sight calculated to impress any enemies who might be watching.

He had no doubt they were watching, too. The Colonials had made no effort to patrol the hills around the fort, and while the rebel commanders might believe the Vordanai were on the verge of departing for good, they weren’t so foolish as to take it on faith. Every scrubby hill and ravine could hide a dozen Desoltai riders. The desert tribesmen could vanish on bare rock, horses and all, if they put their minds to it.

In the rear of the column, far below, a lonely figure struggled after the last of the marching companies under the burden of two heavy valises. He wore a long dark robe, which made him look a bit like a penny-opera version of a Priest of the Black. But since the Obsidian Order-perennial of cheap dramas and bogeymen of children’s stories-had been extinct for more than a century, Marcus guessed this poor bastard was just a manservant hauling his master’s kit up the mountain. One of the sinister inquisitors of old would hardly carry his own bags, anyway. He wondered idly what was so important that it couldn’t be brought up in the oxcarts with the rest of the baggage.

His eyes scanned idly over the fleet, waiting for the colonel himself to emerge with his escort. He would be a nobleman, of course. The price of a colonel’s commission was high, but there was more to it than money. While the Ministry of War might have been forced to concede over the past hundred years that there were commoners who could site guns and file papers as well as any peer, it had quietly but firmly drawn the line at having anyone of low birth in actual command. Leading a regiment was the ancient prerogative of the nobility, and so it would remain.

Even Ben Warus had been nobility of a sort, a younger son of an old family that had stashed him in the army as a sinecure. That he’d been a decent fellow for all that had been nothing short of a miracle. Going purely by the odds, this new colonel was more likely to be akin to the ones Marcus had known at the War College: ignorant, arrogant, and contemptuous of advice from those beneath him. He only hoped the man wasn’t too abrasive, or else someone was likely to take a swing at him and be court-martialed for his trouble. The Colonials had grown slack and informal under Ben’s indulgent command.

The servant with the bags had reached the last switchback, but there was still no flurry of activity from the ships that would indicate the emergence of an officer of rank. More boats were landing, but they carried only supplies and baggage, and the laboring men down at the dock were beginning to load the carts with crates of hardtack, boxes of cartridges, and empty water barrels. Marcus glanced at Fitz.

“The colonel did say he was coming up, didn’t he?”

“That was the message from the fleet,” the lieutenant said. “Perhaps he’s been delayed?”

“I’m not going to stand out here all day waiting,” Marcus growled. Even in the shade, he was sweating freely.

He waited for the porter in black to approach, only to see him stop twenty yards away, set down both valises, and squat on his heels at the edge of the dusty path. Before Marcus could wonder at this, the man leaned forward and gave an excited cry.

Balls of the Beast, he’s stepped on something horrible. Khandar was home to a wide variety of things that crawled, slithered, or buzzed. Nearly all of them were vicious, and most were poisonous. It would be a poor start to a professional relationship if Marcus had to report to the colonel that his manservant had died of a snakebite. He hurried down the path, Fitz trailing behind him. The man in black popped back to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, one arm extended, holding something yellow and green that writhed furiously. Marcus pulled up short.

“A genuine Branded Whiptail,” the man said, apparently to himself. He was young, probably younger than Marcus, with a thin face and high cheekbones. “You know, I’d seen Cognest’s illustrations, but I never really believed what he said about the colors. The specimens he sent back were so drab, but this-well, look at it!”

He stepped forward and thrust the thing in Marcus’ face. Only years of army discipline prevented Marcus from leaping backward. The little scorpion was smaller than his palm, but brilliantly colored, irregular stripes of bright green crisscrossing its dun yellow carapace. The man held it by the tail with thumb and forefinger, just below the stinger, and despite the animal’s frantic efforts it was unable to pull itself up far enough to get its claws into his flesh. It twisted and snapped at the air in impotent rage.

It dawned on Marcus that some response was expected of him.

“It’s very nice,” he said cautiously. “But I would put it down, if I were you. It might be dangerous.” Truth be told, Marcus couldn’t have distinguished a Branded Whiptail from horse droppings unless it bit him on the ankle, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t give both a wide berth.

“Oh, it’s absolutely deadly,” the man said, wiggling his fingers so the little thing shook. “A grain or two of venom will put a man into nervous shock in less than a minute.” He watched Marcus’ carefully neutral expression and added, “Of course, this must all be old hat to you by now. I’m sorry to get so worked up right off the bat. What must you think of me?”

“It’s nothing,” Marcus said. “Listen, I’m Captain d’Ivoire, and I got a message-”

“Of course you are!” the man said. “Senior Captain Marcus d’Ivoire, of the First Battalion. I’m honored.” He extended his hand for Marcus to shake. “I’m Janus. Most pleased to meet you.”

There was a long pause. The extended hand still held the frantically struggling scorpion, which left Marcus at something of a loss. Finally Janus followed his gaze down, laughed, and spun on his heel. He walked to the edge of the path and dropped the little thing amidst the stones. Then, wiping his hand on his black robe, he returned to Marcus.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “Let me try again.” He re-offered his hand. “Janus.”

“Marcus,” Marcus said, shaking.

“If you could conduct me to the fortress, I would be most grateful,” Janus said. “I just have a few things I need to get stowed away.”

“Actually,” Marcus said, “I was hoping you could tell me where the colonel might be. He sent a message.” Marcus looked over his shoulder at Fitz for support.

Janus appeared perplexed. Then, looking down at himself, inspiration appeared to dawn. He gave a polite cough.

“I suppose I should have been clearer,” he said. “Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran, at your service.”

• • •

There was a long, strained silence. It felt like the moment just after you’d done something monumentally stupid-bashing your thumb with a hammer, for example-and just before the pain came flooding in. A quiet moment, in which there seemed to be all the time in the world to contemplate the destruction you’d wrought.

Marcus decided to take the bull by the horns. He stepped smartly back, coming to stiff attention, and ripped off a salute that would have made his instructors at the War College proud. His voice rose to a parade-ground bark.

“Sir! My apologies, sir!”

“No apology necessary, Captain,” Janus said mildly. “You couldn’t have known.”

“Sir! Thank you, sir!”

They matched stares for another long moment.

“We had better get the formalities over with,” Janus said. He fished in his breast pocket and produced a crisply folded page, which he handed to Marcus. “Senior Captain d’Ivoire, as ordered by the Ministry of War in the name of horses and all, I am hereby assuming command of the First Colonial Infantry Regiment.”

Marcus unbent sufficiently to take the note. It said, with the usual Ministry circumlocutions, that Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran was directed to assume command of the First Colonial Regiment and employ it, “as far as practicable,” to suppress the rebellion and protect the interests of the Kingdom of Vordan and her citizens. At the bottom was affixed the seal of the Ministry, sky blue wax impressed with the image of a diving eagle. He handed it stiffly back to Janus.

“Sir,” he said. “You have the command!”

Another salute, which the colonel returned. And that was it-with those few words command of the Colonials and all the attendant responsibilities were removed from Marcus’ shoulders. He took what felt like the first breath of air he’d had in the weeks since the rebellion.

“And with that done,” Janus said, tucking the paper away, “I hope you’ll do me the favor of relaxing a little. That stiff posture is bad for the spine.”

The parade-ground rigidity was already producing an ache across Marcus’ shoulders. He gratefully complied.

“Thank you, sir. Welcome to the Colonials.” He waved Fitz forward. “This is Lieutenant Fitzhugh Warus, my aide.”

Fitz saluted smartly, as comfortable with strict military decorum as Marcus was awkward with it. Janus nodded acknowledgment.

“Lieutenant,” he said. “You’re the younger brother of the late Colonel Warus, are you not?”

“Yes, sir,” Fitz said.

“My condolences on your loss, then. Your brother was a brave man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

That was fair enough, Marcus thought. Maybe not terribly bright, or honest, but brave, certainly. He was surprised Janus knew anything about him, though. For all the attention the Colonials had received from the Ministry of War before the rebellion, Khandar might as well have been on the moon. Perhaps he’s just being polite.

“If you’ll wait a moment, sir, I’ll have someone carry your things,” Marcus said. “We have rooms prepared for you inside.”

“I’ll carry them myself, if it’s all the same to you,” the colonel said. “Just show me the way.”

“As you wish. Shall I order some food brought in as well? You must be tired.”

“No need,” Janus said. “My man is accompanying the rest of my baggage, and he can handle all the arrangements of that nature. Besides, it seems incumbent on me to pay a call on His Grace as soon as possible, don’t you think?”

“His Grace?” Marcus was puzzled for a moment. “You mean the prince?” It had been so long since he’d given the exiled ruler any serious thought that he’d almost forgotten the man was with them.

“Of course. It’s for his sake I’m here, after all.”

Marcus quashed a frown. Janus was likely to be disappointed when he came face-to-face with the ruler of Khandar, but that was not for him to worry about it. All I need to do now, he reminded himself, is obey orders.

“Yes, sir. I’ll get someone to show you to his chambers.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d accompany me, Captain.” Janus flashed a smile. “I may need your expertise.”

If so, we’re in it pretty damned deep. Nevertheless, Marcus saluted. “Certainly, sir!”

• • •

Once they were under the shade of the fortress walls, the colonel doffed his flowing black robe, which turned out to be a thin silk affair sheer enough to be folded up like a pocket handkerchief. Marcus hurriedly summoned a nearby soldier to collect it and instructed him to take it to the colonel’s quarters. The astonished man was too startled to salute properly, but Janus acknowledged him with a cheerful nod.

Under the robe, the colonel wore an ordinary uniform. It was as crisp and unfaded as Marcus’ dress blues, but without any of the gilt or ornamentation Marcus might have expected from a senior officer. Only a pair of Vordanai eagles on his shoulders, silver with flashing jade eyes, marked his rank.

Janus himself was mostly unremarkable, aside from his relative youth and his striking eyes, which were a luminous gray color and somehow a size too large for his face. His dark hair was cut and combed in precise military style, which made Marcus uncomfortably aware that his own was getting out of control.

The prince’s apartments were on the other side of the fortress. His entourage had insisted that they have one of the corner towers to themselves, so Marcus had given them the northwest tower, which faced the ocean and was unlikely to be needed for any defense. The huge silk banner that the prince had hauled all the way from Ashe-Katarion snapped from an upper story: a gray eagle on a white field, half concealed behind a rearing red scorpion.

The tower itself was protected by the Heavenly Guard, but Marcus had placed his own sentries at a polite distance, reliable men from the First Battalion. The last thing he needed was an altercation, and he also wanted to discourage any covert investigation of the prince’s things. A dozen sealed wagons had accompanied the royal court on the retreat, and camp rumor said they’d been filled with as much of the Vermillion Throne’s relics and treasury as the prince had been able to lay hands on.

Marcus’ sentries saluted and stepped aside at his approach, but the pair of Khandarai flanking the door were more obstinate. Marcus had to bite his lip to keep from smiling at their earnest scowls. No doubt the Heavenly Guard had once been a fearsome fighting force, but that time was long past. More-recent princes had filled the ranks with aging sycophants, and these two presented a typical example. Both were gray-haired, and the one on the left had rolls of fat threatening to burst around the edges of his gilded breastplate. The spears they bore were elaborately worked with gold and silver wire.

One of them banged the butt of his weapon on the flagstones as the two officers approached and barked a challenge in Khandarai. Marcus turned to Janus and translated. “He wants to know who we are.”

A smile flickered across the colonel’s face, there for an instant and gone again, like heat lightning.

“Tell him the new colonel begs an audience with the Chosen of Heaven,” he said.

Marcus made a sour face, but translated dutifully. His Khandarai was rough and ready, and his accent was atrocious, but the guard understood him well enough. He and his companion stepped apart and gestured the two Vordanai through the doorway.

The first floor of the tower was a single large room. When they’d arrived it had been empty, like the rest of the fortress. Now the floor was strewn with overlapping carpets, and veils of hanging silk obscured the dirty stones. Incense burned in gilded braziers, lest the nose of the Chosen of Heaven detect an odor he did not approve of. A small table was set with silver bowls of water and fruit, in case he should be hungry or thirsty.

Under the attempt at opulence, the seams were showing. The fruit on the table was dried and old-looking, and all the veils couldn’t hide the squat, utilitarian proportions of the chamber. Most damning of all, only a half dozen or so Khandarai danced attendance on the man who had once commanded the attention of thousands. A pair of young women of no obvious function lounged at the bottom of the throne, another pair wielded fans in a vain attempt to move the stifling air about, and a plump-faced man bustled up, all smiles, as Janus and Marcus approached.

The throne itself was not the actual Vermillion Throne. That hallowed seat, a marble-and-gilt monstrosity that would have half filled this room, was back in the Palace at Ashe-Katarion, no doubt being warmed by the holy bottom of some Redeemer. The servants had done their best here with carved wood and red paint, but the result was still more a chair than a throne, and Marcus thought it looked uncomfortable.

On it sat Prince Exopter, the Chosen of Heaven, Supreme Ruler of Khandar and the Two Desols. He cut the traditional figure. His own hair was cropped short beneath an elaborate painted wig that to Marcus’ eyes resembled a gaggle of snakes having an orgy, and his gray-skinned face was slathered in white and red makeup so thick that it was practically a mask. Gems and gold glittered everywhere-on his fingers, at his ears, at his throat-and the purple silk drape he wore was fastened with a diamond brooch, while seed pearls clattered gently on the fringes.

Marcus wondered if the colonel would be overawed. I doubt it. He’s a count himself, after all. Technically, a count might not beat a prince in the hierarchy of nobility, but the humblest peer of Vordan considered himself far superior to any Grand Pooh-Bah from abroad, no matter what lofty title the foreigner might affect.

As they entered, Janus glanced around with an expression of polite but distant interest. The round-faced man, sweating freely, bowed low in front of the pair of them.

“Welcome,” he said, in accented but passable Vordanai. “I am Razzan-dan-Xopta, minister to His Grace. The Chosen of Heaven bids you to approach his magnificence.”

The prince, his face unreadable under the caked-on makeup, said something in Khandarai. He sounded bored.

“His Grace welcomes you as well,” the minister translated. “He is most pleased that you have obeyed his summons.”

This was the part that Marcus had been dreading. While he could understand most of the natives, the denizens of the royal court spoke a formal dialect that bordered on a separate language. He couldn’t catch more than one word in four, not even enough to be certain that Razzan was providing an accurate translation.

He leaned close to Janus and whispered, “The prince may be under the impression that the only reason you were sent is because he asked them to-”

Janus held up a hand for silence, thought for a moment, and said, “Give His Grace my greetings. I have the honor to be Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran, commanding the First Colonial Infantry. I believe His Grace already knows Senior Captain d’Ivoire.”

Razzan rendered that, and listened to the response. “His Grace is most gratified that his valued friend Farus the Eighth would send him so worthy an individual.”

Janus bowed again. “I will do my utmost to live up to His Grace’s expectations.”

The prince’s lip twisted, and he rattled off something that sounded unhappy. Razzan hesitated a moment, then said, “His Grace is curious regarding the whereabouts of the rest of his fleet.”

The colonel’s expression never flickered. “The ships are all arrived, and anchored in the bay.”

Exopter spoke again, at some length.

“His Grace wonders if perhaps there has been some error in translation.” Razzan licked his lips. “Only thirteen vessels are currently in the bay, he understands.”

“That is correct.”

“But that is insufficient. His Grace’s summons to his most beneficent ally King Farus the Eighth specifically instructed him to send one hundred thousand men. Thirteen ships could never carry so many.”

Marcus almost choked on a laugh. A hundred thousand men would be most of the Royal Army, and it would take every ship on the coast to carry them. Razzan was feigning incomprehension, but the royal eyes were watchful.

“The ships have brought sufficient replacements to bring the First Colonials to full strength,” Janus said. “Along with ammunition, supplies, and other necessaries.”

Exopter snapped something. Razzan said, “Are these men of the First Colonials demons, then? Does each fight with the strength of ten men? Are they impervious to bullets?”

No hint of a smile crossed Janus’ expression, but Marcus could hear the amusement in his voice. “They are brave and skilled, but I must admit that they are only men.”

“Then His Grace would like to know how you plan to go about regaining his kingdom with a single regiment.” Razzan said it politely, and looked apologetic, but there was a gleam in the prince’s eyes, as though he’d just delivered a killing stroke. “Or, perhaps, you plan no such thing? Perhaps our friend the king has abandoned his sworn duties?”

“His Majesty would never dream of it,” Janus said. “As for regaining your kingdom, you may rest assured that the matter has my full attention.”

The prince drawled a response, and Razzan turned pale. Before he could muster a suitably watered-down translation, Janus rattled off a string of court Khandarai so perfect that the obsequious minister gaped. Even the prince was taken aback, eyes widening under the painted mask. Marcus blinked.

“If that’s all,” Janus continued in Vordanai, “then I will take my leave. Please thank His Grace for his time.”

He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, the pair of Heavenly Guards parting before him. Marcus hurried to keep pace, feeling like a boy running at the heels of an older brother. He waited until they were well clear of the tower to speak.

“I didn’t know you spoke the language, sir.” He tried to keep his tone neutral, but it still felt uncomfortably accusatory.

“I speak seven languages,” Janus said absently. “In addition to the usual Vordanai, Noreldrai, and Hamveltai, I have made a particular study of Borelgai, Murnskai, Vheedai, and Khandarai.” He shrugged. “Though I will admit I needed to brush up on the more formal usages. I found the time aboard ship most conducive to study, as there was so little else to occupy the mind.”

“That’s. . very impressive.”

Janus shook his head and seemed to come back to himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to boast.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“If we’re to work together, Captain, it is important that we be honest to ourselves and one another about our capacities. I’m sorry if I caught you off guard.”

“It just surprised me, sir.” Marcus hesitated. “What did the prince say to you? I can follow most Khandarai, but not that formal stuff.”

Janus’ lip quirked. “He said that my full attention didn’t amount to much, considering that the king had sent the dregs of his officer corps.”

“Dregs” was a fair description of the Colonials, but that hit a little close to home. Marcus winced. “And what did you say to him?”

“I told him that since he was coming to us as a beggar, dregs were the best that he should expect.” The quick smile again. “I suppose that was not. . diplomatic of me.”

“After he insulted His Majesty, it’s only understandable,” Marcus said loyally. “But. .”

Janus noticed the hesitation and cocked his head, birdlike. “What is it? You may always speak freely with me, Captain, provided we are alone.”

He took a deep breath. “Do you really intend to try to recapture Khandar, sir? Most of the men are expecting to get right back aboard the transports and sail home.”

There was a long silence. Janus regarded Marcus thoughtfully, his gray eyes glittering. There was something extraordinary about those eyes, Marcus thought. They seemed to look through you, past all the trappings and courtesies and even through flesh and blood until they got at your very essence. If there really was a Beast of Judgment, it would have that sort of stare.

“And what are you expecting, Captain?” Janus said softly.

“I-” Marcus stopped, sensing a trap. “I wouldn’t venture to anticipate your plans, sir.”

“But what would your opinion be?” Janus leaned closer. “What would you do, if the command was yours?”

Turn tail and never look back. Marcus shook his head slowly. “According to the last reports before we retreated, the Redeemer army at Ashe-Katarion was nearly twenty thousand strong. It will be larger by now. Then there’s General Khtoba”-he wanted to spit at the sound of the name-“and his Auxiliaries, six battalions worth of Vordanai-trained and Vordanai-armed soldiers. And ever since this Steel Ghost whipped up the Desoltai and threw in their lot with the priests. .” He spread his hands. “If we’re up to full strength, we’ll have nearly four thousand men.”

“A bit more,” Janus interrupted, “with the attached cavalry and artillery.”

“A bit more than four thousand,” Marcus agreed. “Against-call it thirty thousand. Six to one against us, and that’s only counting soldiers in the field. Practically the whole population of Ashe-Katarion wanted to see the back of the prince by the time the Redeemers had gotten them fired up.”

“Six to one,” Janus said. “Those are long odds.”

“Long odds,” Marcus said. “I’m not saying my men aren’t up to a fight, sir. If we had another brigade, a few more guns, maybe a regiment of cuirassiers, I wouldn’t hesitate. But long odds are long odds.”

Janus gave a slow nod. Then, as though reaching a decision, he grinned.

“Would you care to take your dinner with me, Captain? I suppose I owe you an explanation.”

• • •

Before dinner there were a few hours of daylight remaining. That meant more paperwork. There was no way around it; the ledgers and files of the Colonials had gotten woefully out of date during Ben Warus’ tenure, in spite of Fitz’ clandestine efforts to clean up his brother’s messes, and Marcus had hardly had time to make a start on the backlog. Now, with upward of two thousand new recruits needing to be added to the rolls and dozens of rank amateurs for sergeants and lieutenants, the ocean of bureaucratic requirements threatened to close over his head.

Marcus was not a man to admit defeat easily, though, and he spent the rest of the day puzzling through arcane forms and adding his signature where required. He barely noticed when Fitz ghosted in and left a steaming cup by his elbow. When he reached out for it and took a sip, though, the taste made him look up.

“Tea?” he said. “Real tea? Have you been holding out on us, Lieutenant?”

The young man smiled. “From the fleet, sir. Compliments of the colonel, as a matter of fact.”

Marcus pursed his lips and blew across the top of the mug, then took a longer swallow. The delicate flavor worked like some sorcerer’s incantation, flinging him across the miles and years to a safer time. For a moment he was back at the War College at Grent, letting a steaming mug cool by his elbow as he worked his way through another dense text on tactical theory and half listened to Adrecht prattle about the latest campus gossip. He closed his eyes.

The Khandarai drank coffee-a rare delicacy in Vordan, but so cheap here that you could buy the raw beans for pennies to the bushel. They liked it dark and sludgy, and heavily spiced. It was a taste Marcus had managed to acquire over the years, and it certainly packed a kick that would keep you up for half the night, but still. .

He breathed out, feeling at least fractionally more at peace. “Thank you, Fitz.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

Marcus opened his eyes. “Speaking of the colonel. .”

“Yes, sir?”

“It appears he’ll be requiring my services, at least part of the time. I’ll be relying on you to take care of the First.”

Properly speaking, Marcus should have had at least two more field lieutenants to whom he could delegate command authority in his absence so that his staff lieutenant could concentrate on staff work. As it was, though, Fitz wore all the hats, sometimes simultaneously.

“Of course, sir. No need to worry on that score.” He hesitated. “If I may, sir. .”

Marcus sipped at the tea and waved a hand. “Hmm?”

“What’s your impression of the colonel?”

“He’s. .” Marcus paused, thinking. “He’s very clever.”

Fitz frowned. “Clever” was not a good thing in the lexicon of the common soldier. Clever officers came up with elaborate plans that backfired at just the wrong moment and got you killed.

“He’s a count,” Marcus went on, “but he doesn’t stand on privilege. Likable, I suppose, but there’s something”-he thought of those eyes, gray and judging-“something a little odd. I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I’ve just met the man myself.”

“Has he given you any indication what he plans to do?”

Before Marcus could reply, there was a knock at the outer door. Fitz hurried off to answer it, and Marcus turned back to the papers in front of him, trying to bully his eyes into focus. He took a long drink and let it sit on his tongue, warm and bitter.

A cough made him look up again and swallow hurriedly. Fitz stood at the inner doorway. His expression was as officially blank as usual, but the barest hint of an arched eyebrow indicated that something strange was afoot.

“There’s someone to see you,” the lieutenant said. “A Miss Jennifer Alhundt.”

Marcus was taken aback. “Really?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Show her in, I suppose.” Marcus straightened up and tugged at his collar, peripherally aware of the sweaty patches that were beginning to show through his dress blues.

The woman was pale, even for a Vordanai. She had the look of someone who’d spent too much time indoors, an impression enhanced by watery eyes behind silver-rimmed spectacles. Her hair was long and dark, tied back in a severe braid. She wore a thin brown coat over a shapeless cotton blouse and brown trousers. When Marcus had left Vordan, a well-bred woman wearing trousers would have been, if not a scandal, at least the occasion for much comment. He wondered idly if all the noble ladies had traded their frilly dresses for boyish leggings since then. Stranger things had happened in the world of high fashion.

He got to his feet as she entered, and sketched a bow, which she returned awkwardly. Her spectacles threatened to fall off, and she caught them automatically and pushed them back up her nose with a well-practiced motion.

“Welcome, Miss Alhundt. I’m Captain Marcus d’Ivoire. Will you sit down?” He paused, suddenly painfully aware that he had just asked a lady to squat on the bare floor. He coughed to cover his embarrassment. “Fitz, fetch a cushion for Miss Alhundt, would you?”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

They settled themselves on opposite sides of Marcus’ crude desk, and she peered at him through thick lenses in the manner of a naturalist studying some surprising insect. Marcus was still trying to work out a polite way to ask what the hell she was doing here when she said, “I expect you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”

He shrugged, and waved desperately at Fitz, who bustled off. “Would you like some tea?”

“Please,” she said. “I came in with the fleet, of course. I’m on assignment.”

“What sort of assignment?”

“His Grace was instructed by His Majesty to gather an independent perspective on events in Khandar.”

Marcus froze. “His Grace?”

“His Grace, Duke Orlanko,” she clarified. “I’m with the Ministry of Information.”

Fitz appeared with the tea, which saved Marcus from having to think of an immediate response to that. Miss Alhundt accepted the mug from the lieutenant, sipped, and resumed staring at Marcus.

“The Ministry of Information,” Marcus said eventually. “May I ask in what. . capacity?”

“Only a poor scholar, I’m afraid.” She gave a tight little smile. “I know our reputation, Captain, but I assure you that His Grace employs many more scribes than he does spies and assassins.”

Miss Alhundt certainly didn’t look like a spy or assassin. She had the air of someone more comfortable with books than people. But everyone in Vordan knew about the all-seeing eye and long reach of Duke Orlanko’s Concordat.

“And you mentioned a royal order?” he said, buying time.

She nodded. “His Majesty was concerned that the reports we’d been receiving from Khandar might be. . inadequate. In view of our expanded commitment and the situation here, he thought it expedient to try to get a disinterested view of how things stand. That isn’t easy to do through military channels.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.” Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “So what is it that you need from me?”

“I just thought I would introduce myself.” She favored him with a smile, showing pretty white teeth. “I’m afraid my experience in the field is rather limited, and I’m sure I’ll be relying a great deal on you and the other officers for your opinions.”

“I thought you were supposed to get an unbiased view of things.”

“I will present your views along with my own opinions,” Miss Alhundt said. “That way, His Majesty and His Grace will have all the available information. Things have certainly been confused lately.”

Marcus could imagine that. He’d written only one hasty report during the retreat, and it was unlikely that even that had reached the capital by now. His Grace must be groping in the dark.No wonder he sent some of his own people along. But her?

“I’ll do whatever I can,” he said. “You understand, though, that this is now Colonel Vhalnich’s command. My opinions may not count for very much anymore.”

“I’ll be speaking to the colonel, too, of course,” she said briskly. “I take it you’ve met him?”

“I received him this afternoon.”

“Would you care to offer your impression?”

“I wouldn’t,” Marcus said. Gossiping with Fitz was one thing, but talking about a senior officer to a civilian was deeply taboo, even if that civilian didn’t work for the secret police.

“Fair enough,” Miss Alhundt said, still smiling. “I understand.” Abruptly, she held her hand out across the table. “I do hope we can be friends, Captain d’Ivoire.”

Marcus shook awkwardly, again at a loss. Miss Alhundt sipped, handed her teacup to Fitz, and got to her feet.

“And now, I imagine you have work to do,” she said. “I’ll see you soon, I’m sure.”

Once the young woman had swept back out the door, Marcus looked up at his aide. “Do I have work to do?”

“Yes,” Fitz said. “But first you’re having dinner with the colonel, remember?”

• • •

The door to Janus’ quarters opened at Marcus’ approach, revealing a liveried servant with a haughty expression. Marcus, caught off guard, sketched a slight bow, and received a nod in return.

“I’m Captain d’Ivoire,” he said. “The colonel’s expecting me.”

“Of course, sir.” The manservant, a pinch-faced man with a shock of white hair who couldn’t have been younger than fifty, gave Marcus a somewhat deeper nod and a disapproving stare. “Come in.”

“Ah, Captain!” called Janus from inside. “Augustin, you can get dinner started.”

“Yes, sir.” The manservant bowed again, deeply, and withdrew.

“Augustin has been with my family since he was a boy,” Janus confided as the man bustled away. “He thinks of it as his mission in life to maintain the dignity of my station. Don’t let him bother you.”

Somewhat to Marcus’ surprise, the largest and outermost chamber of the little suite had been converted into a passable imitation of a dining room. The walls were still bare rock and there were no carpets on the floor, of course, but a table big enough for six had appeared, complete with chairs, napkins, and cutlery. Even plates-Marcus hadn’t seen real china since he’d arrived in Khandar. He wondered whether the colonel planned to carry it all into the field.

“Take a seat, Captain! Take off your jacket, if you like.” Janus was in his shirtsleeves, his blue coat tossed carelessly on top of a trunk in one corner. “You may have gathered that I don’t stand on ceremony.” When he saw Marcus still hesitating in the doorway, he commanded, “Sit! I’ll be back in a moment. I need to sort something out.”

He bustled off through the flimsy curtain that divided the dining room from the rest of the suite. Marcus, somewhat uncertainly, took one of the chairs and settled into it. It was a more complex affair then it appeared at first glance, with a canvas seat and back, and was surprisingly comfortable. After a bit of investigation Marcus decided the thing could be folded up for transport.

His curiosity piqued, he picked up his plate. The lack of heft told him it wasn’t porcelain after all; it felt more like tin. He rapped it with his fingernail.

“A special alloy,” the colonel said, from the doorway. “And the glaze is an interesting design. It has nearly the look of proper china, doesn’t it? But it’s practically impossible to scratch.” He shook his head. “The food won’t be much, I’m afraid. Augustin is a wizard, but there’s only so much that can be done with salt beef and hard bread.”

Marcus, whose last meal had been a thin mutton soup from a wooden bowl, shrugged.

“Once we’ve had some time to settle in, I hope that you’ll introduce me to the local delicacies,” the colonel went on.

“When we left Ashe-Katarion,” Marcus said, “the thing to eat was roasted imhalyt beetles in the shell. Under the right conditions they can grow to be eight inches long, and the meat is supposedly delightful.”

Janus didn’t bat an eye. “It sounds. . fascinating. Did you spend a great deal of time with the locals?”

“Before the Redeemers, we had reasonably good relations,” Marcus said, considering. “On the whole I wouldn’t say they loved us, of course, but I had friends in the city. There was a little place by the harbor that sold arphalta-that’s a sort of clam-and I used to spend my free evenings there. The damn things are hard to get open unless you know the trick, but the meat is sweet as candy.”

Marcus paused, wondering suddenly if the little arphalta shop was still there or if it had been consigned to the flames by the Redeemers. Wondering, for that matter, how many of his friends might have shared a similar fate.

“I wish I’d been here,” the colonel said. “It’s a fascinating culture, and I’d have loved to have explored it in peace. I imagine any further interactions will be somewhat-strained.”

“Quite probably,” Marcus deadpanned.

Augustin came back in with a silver tureen of thick red soup and a pair of bowls. He placed and poured with all the noiseless elegance of the ancient retainer, then went back to the kitchen for glasses and a bottle of wine. He presented the latter to Janus for approval.

“Yes, that will do,” Janus told him. Glancing at Marcus, he said, “You have no objection to Hamveltai flaghaelan, I hope?”

Marcus, whose appreciation of wine began and ended with what color it was, nodded uncertainly.

“Augustin was quite upset with me when I didn’t allow him to bring half the cellar,” Janus said. “I kept telling him that we were unlikely to require a Bere Nefeit ’79 while on campaign, but he was most insistent.”

“One never knows what may expected of one,” Augustin said. He poured deftly. “A gentleman must always be prepared to entertain guests in the manner of a gentleman.”

“Yes, yes.” Janus took up his glass and raised it. “To the king’s health!”

“The king’s health,” Marcus echoed, and sipped. It was good, truthfully, though after years of Khandarai rotgut it felt like drinking fruit juice. He was more interested in the soup-if the ingredients were salt beef and hard bread, they had certainly been well concealed. Before he realized it he had cleaned the bowl and found himself looking around for more.

“Another helping for the captain,” Janus said.

“Thank you, sir,” Marcus said. He cleared his throat. “You’d best know, I had a visitor this afternoon-”

“Our Miss Alhundt? Yes, I thought you might.”

“She. .” Marcus paused, looking at Augustin. Janus caught his expression.

“You may trust in Augustin’s discretion. I certainly do. However, if it makes you more comfortable-Augustin, would you leave us for a few minutes?”

“Certainly, sir.” The manservant bowed. “I will be outside if my lord requires anything.”

He ghosted out. He should get together with Fitz, Marcus thought. Both men had obviously mastered the art of noiseless movement in order to sneak up on their superiors.

“You were saying something about Miss Alhundt?”

“Ah, yes, sir.” Marcus shook his head. “She works for the Ministry of Information. I suppose you know that.”

“I do indeed,” Janus said. “What did you think of her?”

“Personally?” Marcus shrugged. “We didn’t talk long enough to form much of an opinion. A bit stuffy, perhaps. Harmless.”

The corner of Janus’ lip twitched. “Harmless in her person, perhaps. How much do you know about the political situation back home?”

Politics. Marcus fought back a surge of panic. “Almost nothing, sir. We don’t even get the gossip until it’s six months stale.”

“I won’t bore you with the details of plots and counterplots. Suffice it to say that for some time now His Majesty’s government has been divided into two factions. One-call them the ‘peace’ party-favors a greater accommodation with the Borelgai and Emperor of Murnsk, and particularly with the Sworn Church of Elysium. The other side would prefer an aggressive policy toward both. Precisely who belongs to which faction is never entirely clear, but the leader of the peace party has for some time been His Grace Duke Orlanko.” Janus cocked his head. “You’ve heard of him at least, I trust?”

“The Last Duke,” Marcus said. “Minister of Information.”

“Indeed. It was the ascendancy of the war party that brought us the War of the Princes, which ended so disastrously at Vansfeldt.”

“You don’t need to remind me of that,” Marcus said. “I was there.”

He’d been on his tour as a lieutenant, supervising a supply company well short of any action. He’d been close enough to catch the distant flash and grumble of the guns, though, and to be caught up in the panicked rout that followed.

Janus nodded. “After the treaty was signed, the peace party found its rule nearly uncontested. The death of Prince Dominic had robbed the war party of its leader, and the king was too debilitated by grief and illness to interfere. Orlanko forged closer ties than ever to the Borelgai and the Church. As the king’s sicknesses have become more frequent, Orlanko’s power has increased. If His Majesty were to die-Lord forbid, of course-Princess Raesinia might take the throne, but Orlanko would rule, to the extent that he does not already.”

“All right,” Marcus said uncertainly. “What does that have to do with Khandar? I would have thought we’d be the last thing on his mind.”

“Indeed. When the Minister of War suggested a Khandarai expedition, everyone expected Orlanko to oppose it. Instead, he not only threw his own weight behind it, but demanded that one of his people be sent along as an official observer.”

“Why?”

Janus smiled. “I have spent most of the past few months trying to figure that out. One possibility is that he guessed that I would be chosen for the command. The Duke and I are. . not on good terms. He may think that we are doomed to either bloody failure or ignominious retreat, and in either case he could use the fallout to destroy me.”

Marcus, somewhat alarmed by the casual reference to “bloody failure,” kept his expression carefully neutral. “But you don’t think that’s it.”

“I don’t. It’s too roundabout, even for a compulsive schemer like Orlanko. No doubt my downfall would be gratifying, but there’s something here that he wants.” Janus pursed his lips. “Or something that someone wants. It may be that Orlanko is merely an errand boy for his friends in the Sworn Church. There have been a great many clerical comings and goings from the Ministry of Information lately.”

“What would the Sworn Church want from Khandar?”

“Who knows?” Janus shrugged, but his eyes were hooded. “It could be anything. They still believe in demons up in Elysium.”

“It doesn’t seem very clever of Orlanko to put his agent out where everyone can see her,” Marcus said. “I can have a couple of men tail her, if you like.”

“Thank you, Captain, but don’t bother. As I said, I suspect she’s harmless in her person. The real agents are no doubt salted amongst our new recruits.”

Marcus hadn’t thought about that. All those new men, and how was he supposed to know which to trust? He felt a sudden, irrational stab of rage at Janus. What the hell have you brought down on my regiment?

After a moment he said, “Why tell me all this, sir?”

“I take it you’re not accustomed to senior officers speaking plainly?” Janus chuckled. “No, don’t answer that. I’m trying to be honest with you, Captain, because I need your help. You know the country, you know the Khandarai, and most important, you know the Colonials. I’m not foolish enough to think I can do this without you and your fellow officers.”

Marcus’ back straightened involuntarily. “I will perform my duty to the best of my ability, sir. As will the others.”

“I need more than obedience. I need a partner, of sorts. With the Redeemers in front of us and Orlanko behind, I need someone I can trust.”

“What makes you think you can trust me?”

“I’ve read your file, Captain,” Janus said. “I know you better than you might think.”

There was a long pause.

“What is it that you intend to do?” Marcus asked eventually.

“Whether he intended it or not, Orlanko has backed me into a corner. My orders require me to suppress the rebellion, but no one at the Ministry of War understood how badly out of hand things had gotten here. The only way out is to fight the campaign and win, while keeping one eye on Miss Alhundt and whatever friends she may have brought with her.”

Marcus considered for a moment. “May I ask something, sir?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t fancy the idea of my men being used as pawns in this game between you and the Duke. I want. .” Marcus hesitated. “I would like your word, as an officer, that you really think this can be done. I’m not interested in helping you die gloriously.” Or doing so on your behalf.

He’d been worried that Janus would take offense, but the colonel gave another quick smile. “Of course, Captain. You can have my word as an officer, a count, or in whatever other capacity you’d like.”

“As an officer will be sufficient,” Marcus said, fighting a grin. “I never did place much trust in nobility.”