The Thousand Names Part 22

Marcus had ridden through the town many times, most recently on the retreat from the Redeemers that had ended at Fort Valor. There were no purpose-built defenses, no fortress walls or emplaced artillery, but the place would be a nightmare to take nonetheless. The bridges were narrow, barely wide enough for a pair of wagons to pa.s.s one another, and the islands commanded the approaches and provided excellent fields of fire. Troops attempting to cross would have to do so without cover, in the face of every gun the defender could muster, and even if they succeeded in storming the first island they would only have to accomplish the same task twice more. Then, on the far bank, they'd need to hold the bridgehead against whatever counterattack the enemy would have waiting.

"Khtoba's dug in around the bridge," Marcus guessed.

"Like a tick on a dog," Ja.n.u.s said. "With only three battalions, though. He's no fool, and he knows we won't go that way unless we have to." He tapped the map again, upstream of the city. "The other three are here. There's a ford just north of this river bend, good enough to cross if we don't mind getting wet."

A ford sounded hardly better than the bridge. Marcus tried to imagine slogging through a waist-deep river and a.s.saulting the far bank, while the enemy flailed the water with musket and canister. It might be done, if the attackers were determined enough, but the losses would be ghastly.

Ja.n.u.s was watching him with those deep gray eyes, and Marcus decided this was a test. He looked down at the map and searched his memory.

"We might march down the east bank," he said eventually. "There's another bridge here, at Saal-Khaaten, and more fords upstream where the river's narrower."

"Khtoba would follow," the colonel said. "And he has the inside track."

"If we can threaten more than two crossings at once, he'll have to spread himself thinner. He can't cover them all."

Ja.n.u.s gave a slow nod. "It might serve. And then what, once we've crossed?"

"A battle, presumably."

"A head-on fight, and he'll choose the ground," Ja.n.u.s said. "And Khtoba has us three to two."

"The last Redeemer army had us five to one," Marcus said. "I didn't think the odds concerned you."

The colonel waved a hand. "Those were rabble. The numbers didn't concern me because I knew they would never stand up to disciplined fire. They might as well have left three-quarters of those men at home, for all the good they did. But the Auxiliaries are a horse of a different color."

That was true enough. The Auxiliaries comprised six battalions of Khandarai recruited by Prince Exopter and trained by his Vordanai allies. Marcus had taken his turn at the training a time or two, and they'd certainly looked disciplined enough, marching up and down in their brown uniforms. More important, they had Vordanai weapons, including a full complement of artillery. They were supposed to have been a bulwark against rebellion, but no one had counted on the fervor the new religion inspired. The Auxiliaries had gone over to the Redeemers almost to a man, along with their commander.

"On even terms, in open ground, I wouldn't hesitate," Ja.n.u.s said. "But Khtoba is not likely to give us a chance at that. Judging from his actions thus far, I doubt he'd even give battle. More likely he'd fall back behind the ca.n.a.l, or into the city itself, and fight us in the streets. That we must avoid at all costs."

Marcus shook his head. "So what, then?"

"The general has given us an opportunity here." He tapped the bridge again, and then the ford. "Two detachments, widely separated, and not much between them but pickets. Where we need to be"-he moved his finger to a point between the two-"is here."

"We'd be surrounded, with no line of retreat," Marcus objected. "Even if we could get there, which we can't, since we can't cross the river."

The colonel grinned like a cat.

a a a It was nearly sundown. Rest-which at the start of the day had seemed like some distant and unreachable oasis-was practically within his reach, and Marcus therefore had a strong inclination not to answer when there was a knock on his tent pole. In theory, it might be important, although short of an impending Khandarai attack Marcus couldn't think of anything that qualified. He compromised by responding with a sort of m.u.f.fled grunt, in the hopes that the knocker either wouldn't hear him or would give up and go away.

Instead, the visitor spoke. "It's Adrecht."

d.a.m.n. "Oh, all right."

Adrecht ducked through the flap. Even in the dim lantern light, there was no mistaking the huge bruise that purpled his cheek and nearly closed one eye. A shallow cut above his eyebrow was dark with scabbed blood.

"Saints and martyrs," Marcus swore. "What happened to you?"

"Mor," Adrecht said, with an exaggerated wince. "Do you mind if I sit?"

Marcus nodded, and Adrecht folded his lanky form up beside the camp table. Marcus waved at his trunk.

"Do you want a drink? I think I've got something . . ."

"No," Adrecht said. His expression was thoughtful. "No, I don't think so."

"So what happened? Mor just jumped you?"

"After a manner of speaking," Adrecht said. "He came into my tent and told me that he'd had it with me, and that Marcus was a better friend than I deserved." He smiled slightly. "With more swearing, of course. Then he picked me up and tossed me into a tent pole. Snapped it in half, as a matter of fact."

"h.e.l.l." Marcus' face clouded. "I'll talk to him. I don't care what he thinks, that was out of line-"

"No," Adrecht said. "Not really."

Marcus swore inwardly. He'd hoped to avoid this for a while. "Ah. He told you the whole story, then."

"Most of it. I got the rest out of Val. If you want to keep something a secret, you ought to think twice before sharing it with those two. Think three times, maybe." Adrecht shook his head. "Why didn't you talk to me?"

"I wanted to keep it quiet."

"Honestly, Marcus."

Watching his friend's expression, Marcus could tell that excuse wouldn't do. He sighed. "I didn't want you to do anything . . . rash."

"Rash? Like turning myself in before you got a chance to resign?"

"Like that, for example."

"Accepting dismissal," Adrecht deadpanned, "rather than risking your being shot for desertion. That would be *rash.'"

"I suppose so." He frowned, searching for words. It was hard to explain to the others, but he'd never really felt endangered-he had no reason to be sure that Ja.n.u.s wouldn't shoot him, or even bring him up on charges, but he felt the certainty nonetheless. "It wasn't really about you. I tried to explain that to the colonel."

"Did he believe it?"

"I'm not sure." Marcus shrugged. "It doesn't really matter."

"I suppose not." Adrecht paused, then said, "Well, if it makes any difference, you were right. I would have been rash."

There was a long, awkward silence. Marcus searched for something to say, but drew a blank, and in the end it was Adrecht who spoke.

"You don't owe me anything, you know. It's been-"

"Eighteen years," Marcus said. "I know."

Another silence. Adrecht sighed.

"What am I supposed to do now?"

"What do you mean?" Marcus said.

"How can I just go back to my battalion now? I know the colonel would rather be rid of me. Mor seems to hate me. And you-" He shook his head. "It seems like I ought to resign, but after what you've been through that would be a bit of a waste, wouldn't it?"

"I don't know." Marcus hadn't thought that far ahead. "Mor will come around eventually. But I think you need to prove the colonel wrong."

"Small chance that I'll get the opportunity. He'll have me guarding the latrines for the rest of the campaign."

"He won't, as it happens." Now it was Marcus' turn to smile. "We're going into action again tomorrow, and you've got a big part in it. Right beside me, in fact."

"Oh." Adrecht didn't sound surprised. "And how did that happen?"

"You volunteered."

"I suspected as much. I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"Probably not," Marcus admitted. "I didn't."

Chapter Ten.

WINTER.

Winter sighed and rubbed her weary eyes. The lantern on her little table had guttered low while she'd been working. She blew it out, added another inch of oil, and wound out more wick, then struck a match and relit it. The sudden flare of light seemed bright as noon in the darkness of her tent.

What I ought to do is sleep. But awake, she could feel the captain's orders for tomorrow staring at her from where she'd tucked them in her coat, and every time she lay down to sleep she found herself faced with accusing green eyes.

Her only solace lay in work, of which there was fortunately a sufficiency. In spite of Winter's intermittent efforts, the company books were still badly out of date. Not only did the various infractions, minor penalties, and daily logs of the march still need to be recorded and approved, but the deaths of nearly a third of the men still needed to be processed. Each of the dead had left behind some pathetic bundle of possessions, all of which Bobby had carefully inventoried and a.s.sessed. These would be sold at the first opportunity, and the proceeds forwarded to the dead men's kin along with the army's standard benefits.

The lists made for sad reading. Winter tapped her pen beside a line that read, "One locket or keepsake, bra.s.s, containing a miniature of a young woman. Of indifferent quality. 2f 6p." She wondered whether the girl had been a wife, a lover, or merely some object of brotherly affection. Then, frustrated, she tossed the pen aside and leaned back on her elbows. Her eyes, itchy with fatigue and lantern smoke, filled with tears.

"Are you unwell?"

The voice was Feor's-there was hardly anyone else likely to speak to her in Khandarai-but Winter started anyway. The girl was so quiet it was easy to forget that she was there. She lay on her stomach on the extra bedroll Graff had cadged from the quartermasters, reading by the flickering light of Winter's lamp. Aside from the occasional rasp of a turning page, she might have been a queer-looking statue.

"No," Winter said, blinking away the tears. "Well, yes, but not how you mean. I'm tired."

"Your diligence does you credit," Feor said. Sometimes the girl's tone was so solemn that Winter was sure she was joking, but her face never showed any hint of it.

"I'm sorry. I must be keeping you awake."

"It's no trouble. Since I have no duties here, I have time enough to sleep."

With a broken arm, Feor could hardly set up tents, or cook, or clean weapons or uniforms. She spent most of her time bundled in a white robe, trudging along with the quartermasters and the rest of the camp servants. Graff escorted her to Winter's tent when they stopped for the day, and she stayed inside until full dark. Bobby or Folsom brought food in at dinnertime.

Winter had been worried that someone would notice, and undoubtedly many had, but it hadn't attracted the attention she'd feared. The army had started out with a considerable "tail" of servants and camp followers, and had only added to it during the slow progress up the coast road toward Ashe-Katarion. However much the Khandarai might hate their Vordanai oppressors, it seemed as if some of them were not averse to washing those oppressors' clothes, selling them food and wine, or sharing their bedrolls. Not if the price was right. So while it was an open secret that Winter shared her tent with a young woman every night, she was hardly the only one, and the only response from the men had been some wistful grumbling about the privileges of rank.

No doubt Davis and the others were laughing at what their "Saint" was up to. Thankfully, Winter had not run across the sergeant since the battle. If her earlier promotion had angered him, her brevet to lieutenant would drive him to a frenzy. She hoped idly that he'd gotten himself killed somehow, but she doubted she would be so lucky.

"I'm sorry I don't have more for you to read." Winter's inquiries among the servants and camp followers had produced only a couple of slim volumes, mostly myths and tales for children. "You must have seen all that before."

"I consider myself lucky that I was rescued by someone with such a command of our language."

"Most of the Old Colonials speak it, at least a little."

"You have more than a little," Feor said. "You must have made a study of it."

Winter shrugged. "Here and there. There wasn't much else to do while we were in camp."

"In my limited experience, most soldiers seem to be satisfied with drinking, dicing, and whoring. These did not appeal to you?"

"Not especially." Winter cast about, eager to change the subject. "What about you? I suppose you lived on the sacred hill, before the Redemption started?"

Feor nodded. "In a special cloister, with the other naathem."

"What was that like? The old priestesses never let any Vordanai so much as set foot on the holy ground."

The girl reflected for a moment. "Orderly," she said. "We live our lives for Mother and the G.o.ds. Our days were tightly circ.u.mscribed-so much time for prayer, so much for study, so much for ch.o.r.es."

"That sounds familiar," Winter muttered. "Did it bother you, living like that?"

"I knew no other way to live, until the Redemption. We were kept from contact with the unholy."

"What about before you came to the temple? Did you have a family?"

Feor shook her head. "We were all orphans. The word is sahl-irusk, sacred children. Those entrusted to the temples in infancy. Mother chooses her naathem from among these." She paused, and there was a hint of pain in her eyes. "The last few months have been something of a shock. The Redeemers have brought us . . . chaos."

"And you want to go back?"

"Yes," Feor said. "I must return to Mother."

"Even if she locks you up again?"

"It is for our own protection. Naathem are in danger from the unholy world. It would use us, or destroy us."

Winter frowned. "Then why tell me?"

"You saved my life," Feor said. "Lies seemed a poor way to repay you."

Winter nodded. She still wasn't sure what to make of this naathem business. Feor seemed ordinary enough, for a priestess. But she clearly believed the t.i.tle meant something, and Winter had been hesitant to challenge her on it. Let her have her beliefs, if it makes her happy. The naathem of the stories were monstrous figures, powerful and malicious, but perhaps the priests of the sacred hill meant the term differently.

"I should get some sleep," Winter said. She glanced at her coat, as though she could read the orders through the pocket lining. "Tomorrow is going to be . . . busy."

"Another battle?"