The Thousand Names Part 3

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 b.u.t.tons 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 embarra.s.s 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-h.e.l.l. Even the rankers are saying it."

"Val doesn't get to decide," Marcus said. "Nor does Give-Em-h.e.l.l, 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 a.s.sumption 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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."

a a a Marcus, feeling p.r.i.c.kly 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 ma.s.s 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 n.o.bleman, 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 n.o.bility, and so it would remain.

Even Ben Warus had been n.o.bility 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.

b.a.l.l.s 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 ill.u.s.trations, 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 Ja.n.u.s. 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 Ja.n.u.s 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. "Ja.n.u.s."

"Marcus," Marcus said, shaking.

"If you could conduct me to the fortress, I would be most grateful," Ja.n.u.s 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.

Ja.n.u.s 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 Ja.n.u.s bet Vhalnich Mieran, at your service."

a a a 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," Ja.n.u.s 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," Ja.n.u.s 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 a.s.suming command of the First Colonial Infantry Regiment."

Marcus unbent sufficiently to take the note. It said, with the usual Ministry circ.u.mlocutions, that Count Colonel Ja.n.u.s bet Vhalnich Mieran was directed to a.s.sume 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 Ja.n.u.s.

"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," Ja.n.u.s 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. Ja.n.u.s 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 Ja.n.u.s 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," Ja.n.u.s said. "My man is accompanying the rest of my baggage, and he can handle all the arrangements of that nature. Besides, it seems inc.u.mbent 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. Ja.n.u.s 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." Ja.n.u.s flashed a smile. "I may need your expertise."

If so, we're in it pretty d.a.m.ned deep. Nevertheless, Marcus saluted. "Certainly, sir!"

a a a 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 Ja.n.u.s 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.

Ja.n.u.s 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 b.u.t.t of his weapon on the flagstones as the two officers approached and barked a challenge in Khandarai. Marcus turned to Ja.n.u.s 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 d.a.m.ning 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 Ja.n.u.s 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 n.o.bility, but the humblest peer of Vordan considered himself far superior to any Grand Pooh-Bah from abroad, no matter what lofty t.i.tle the foreigner might affect.

As they entered, Ja.n.u.s 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 pa.s.sable 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."