The Thousand Names Part 45

The colonel's tone was so pleasant Marcus wasn't certain he'd heard properly. "Sir?"

"Not that you deserve much blame," Ja.n.u.s went on. "Whoever commands the Desoltai clearly has a firm grasp of tactical principles, and obviously knows how to employ the advantages of his mobility and the terrain. It's not surprising that you were overmatched. No, the lion's share of the fault must of course go to Captain Roston, for taking so obvious a bait."

Marcus had thought the same thing at the time, but now he bristled. "I'm sure that Captain Roston made the best decision he could under the circ.u.mstances."

"Captain Roston is a cowardly fool," Ja.n.u.s said. There was no rancor in it, just a statement of fact. "I believed I could tolerate him, for your sake, but that was clearly an error, and one that reflects on my own judgment. You see, Captain, none of us escapes censure." Ignoring Marcus' stunned expression, Ja.n.u.s stepped away from him, looking down at the still-smoking camp. "That's something to consider in the future, however. For the present, we must work our way out of this predicament. Fortunately, we have options available to us. Have you completed your survey of the remaining supplies?"

"Ah . . . not yet, sir." Marcus was still trying to digest what he'd heard-Ja.n.u.s apparently blamed him, and Adrecht, for the whole disaster, and yet he didn't plan to do anything about it. Not "for the present," anyway. He forcibly redirected his thoughts onto a more practical path. "Captain Solwen's men are still searching the wreckage. At a guess, we'll have quite a bit of food left, but as to water . . ."

"Certainly the more problematic of the two. A man can go a week without food, but a few days without water will kill as certainly as a musket ball. I want you to organize a detail of trustworthy men immediately and collect the canteens and waterskins from the men."

"Sir?"

"We're going to need every drop, Captain, and it's going to have to be rationed. Leaving it in the hands of the rankers only a.s.sures that it will be wasted."

"Most of those men have been fighting all day," Marcus said. "They're not going to be happy about this."

"I a.s.sume they would prefer to be unhappy and alive to the alternative. Do it. Another detail needs to gather the carca.s.ses from the horse lines and the pack train. Drain the blood and carve as much meat as can be had."

"Drain the blood?"

"Horse blood will keep a man alive, Captain. Among the Murnskai, a man on an urgent journey can subsist on nothing but blood and horseflesh for more than a week."

"The men really aren't going to like-"

Ja.n.u.s gave a little sigh, as though he were a schoolmaster losing his patience with a particularly slow pupil. "Captain d'Ivoire. I wonder if you fully understand the predicament that you and your friend Captain Roston have created."

"I know-"

"We are in the Great Desol," Ja.n.u.s continued, cutting him off. "We are at least a week's march from the nearest known source of fresh water, even allowing for forced marches, and I estimate we'll have less than two days of half water rations remaining. We are surrounded by hostile forces under an extremely capable commander, who has deliberately created this situation and will certainly be standing ready to exploit our increasing weakness. If we do not act decisively, all that will remain of this army will be a pile of bleaching bones."

Marcus gritted his teeth. "What should I have done?"

"Excuse me?"

"When Adr-when Captain Roston took the Fourth after the Desoltai. What should I have done, if going after him was such a mistake?"

Ja.n.u.s blinked, as though the answer was so obvious he was astonished Marcus had to ask the question. "You should have let him go. Kept your men close to the camp, defended the supply train, and carried on with the march."

"Sacrificed the entire Fourth Battalion, in other words," Marcus said.

"Yes," Ja.n.u.s said. "Sacrifices are sometimes necessary to ensure the success of a campaign." His gray eyes glittered. "Besides, if you cared about the welfare of those troops, you would have allowed me to replace Captain Roston with someone more competent."

Marcus had never wanted to hit someone so badly in all his life. Instead, slowly, he saluted.

"Yes, sir!"

a a a The gory work of carving and jointing the dead animals went on all through the rest of the day and into the night, with crews of soldier-butchers working by the light of improvised torches cut from the remains of wagons. Barrels that had survived the attack with only minor damage were patched and filled with steaming blood, while other teams carefully extracted the dregs from smashed containers and combined them with the water from the canteens and waterskins collected from the unwilling rankers. They still didn't have a precise accounting, but Marcus could already see it would be a pitifully small collection.

And then this. Marcus stared at the stark white paper, neatly creased, that Fitz had delivered to him under the colonel's seal. One edge was torn where he'd opened it in haste.

"He can't be serious," Marcus said dully.

"In my experience, the colonel is always serious," Fitz said.

"I know." Marcus glared, as though he could force the neat writing to change shape by force of will. Tomorrow morning, the Colonials will continue the march northeast by north . . .

He looked up at Fitz. "This is going to be trouble."

"The water situation?"

"Not just that. When the news of this gets out-"

The lieutenant nodded. "I've already received messages from captains Solwen and Kaanos. They want to see you."

"I'll bet they do. Go and tell them to come over, and Adrecht, too. Then . . ." Marcus hesitated, embarra.s.sed.

"Sir?"

"See if you can find Jen," he said. It felt wrong employing Fitz on personal business, but he couldn't help it. She'd been gone from his tent when he'd returned from the ill-fated expedition, and he'd been too busy since then to find her, despite his worry. "I just need to know if she's okay."

"Of course, sir," Fitz said. He saluted and slipped out.

It wasn't long before Val and Mor arrived. The former had changed into a clean uniform and applied fresh wax to his mustache, while the latter was still in the grimy coat he'd worn in the battle. Both clutched their own copies of Ja.n.u.s' orders. Mor waved his in Marcus' face, the creased paper flapping like a broken-winged bird.

"What the h.e.l.l is this?" he exclaimed.

"Orders," Marcus managed to say. He gestured for the pair to sit. Val took a cushion beside the low table, but Mor remained standing, and so Marcus had to stand awkwardly between them.

"Orders, my a.s.s," Mor said. "*Continue the march'? We're just going on as though nothing has happened?"

"Not exactly," Marcus said. "We're changing direction-"

"We're still going deeper into the Desol! We've got maybe two days of water left, and then we'll be down to drinking blood and horse p.i.s.s. And when that runs out we're all going to end up dead!"

"He's right," Val said. He didn't look up, as though ashamed to be agreeing with Mor. "I know the colonel is determined, but this is madness. He must give up the campaign."

"Even if we turned around now, there's no guarantee we'd make it," Marcus said.

"We can strike toward the coast," Mor said. "There's streams there, and it's only four days' march. We'll be thirsty, but we'll live if we stretch the supplies."

"Some of us," Marcus said.

"Better than none," Mor shot back.

Val smoothed his mustache with one finger. "More important, if we move deeper into the Desol another confrontation with the Desoltai is inevitable. After a few days without water, the men are going to be in no condition to fight. If we retreat, we may be able to regroup and resupply."

"a.s.suming the Desoltai leave us alone," Marcus said. "Do you really think the Steel Ghost is going to pa.s.s up an opportunity to annihilate this army if he has the chance?"

"So the best you can offer is that it's certain death either way, so we might as well march off the cliff?" Mor said. "Is that what the colonel told you?"

"He didn't tell me anything," Marcus said. "He never tells me anything, I told you. Except when I've done something wrong."

"Then why are you taking his side?" Mor said.

"I'm not taking his side!" Marcus paused. "Suppose I agreed with you in every particular. What am I supposed to do about it?" He gestured at the folded paper. "Orders are orders."

"Only if we obey them," Mor said.

Marcus stared at him. "You don't mean that."

Mor's lip curled, but it was Val who spoke. "There are provisions for this sort of thing. In the regulations, I mean. In the event that a commanding officer is deemed to be mad, his senior subordinate can remove him from his post pending an investigation by a court-martial."

"There isn't a court-martial within three thousand miles," Marcus snapped. "Don't mince words. You're talking mutiny."

"I have a duty to the men of this regiment," Mor said stiffly, "not to get them killed to no useful purpose."

"You have a duty to obey orders. An oath."

"I have an oath to the king, and to defend Vordan. How the h.e.l.l does leading my men to die in the desert serve either?"

"You don't get to pick and choose," Marcus said. "The colonel gives the orders that he decides are in the interests of the king, and we carry them out. That's all."

"Fine," Mor said. "Then let him come and explain to me what he's trying to do."

"He's under no obligation to do that."

"He owes us something."

Val cleared his throat. "It doesn't need to go that far, Marcus. What if you just tried to talk to him? He'll listen to you. He has before. Explain it to him-"

"I have a feeling that my stock with the colonel is fairly low at the moment," Marcus said. He sighed. "I'll talk to him. I was going to try that anyway. But I will not disobey orders. You understand? No matter how mad you think the man is. And if you try it, I will have you put under arrest for treason."

"Good," Mor said. "Then you can shoot me and spare me a slow death from dehydration."

"Just talk to him," Val said soothingly. "That's all we wanted."

"I'll talk to him." Marcus pursed his lips. "Have you spoken to Adrecht?"

"Not since the fighting," Mor said. "Why?"

"The colonel was not happy with the stunt he pulled this morning," Marcus said. "At this point, it may be better if he resigns after all."

"You really think that matters now?" Mor said.

"It matters to Adrecht. If the colonel has to force him out, and we get out of this, he'll face charges."

"I'll try to talk to him," Val said. "You worry about the colonel."

Marcus promised again that he would, and managed to usher his friends out. Soon after, Fitz arrived to report that Jen was fine and in her own tent, and Adrecht had retreated to the Fourth Battalion camp and was not receiving visitors. Sulking, Marcus decided. He sent the lieutenant off again, this time to Ja.n.u.s to request an audience, and settled down to wait.

a a a "Busy," Marcus deadpanned.

"Busy," Fitz confirmed.

"What the h.e.l.l is he doing?"

"I couldn't say, sir. Master Augustin said that the colonel was busy and was not to be disturbed."

Marcus shook his head, bewildered. It smelled like panic. Many senior officers in a desperate situation might deliberately shut the door on their subordinates, but it was hard to picture Ja.n.u.s in such a panicked state. Apart from one flash, under Monument Hill, he'd never shown any emotion more vehement than mild disapproval.

Maybe it's a plan? Marcus frowned. Maybe it's a test. Maybe-no. He would only drive himself mad thinking like that. Maybe Mor is right after all.

"I had another note from Captain Roston," Fitz said. "He wants you to come to speak with him."

"I'm the senior captain," Marcus groused. "If he wants to talk, he should come here."

"Yes, sir. I'll inform him-"

"Don't bother."

Marcus stood up from his cushion, legs groaning in protest. His lips were dry and cracked in the desert heat, and his throat was parched. That was nothing new, of course, but thinking of all those smashed, empty barrels brought his thirst inexorably to the front of his mind. He did his best to ignore it.

The table in front of him was covered with hastily scrawled reports, from which he'd been trying to put together some coherent picture of what supplies the regiment had left. A leather-backed map was marked with penciled circles, indicating how far they could march while the water held out and his estimate of what they could make beyond that, but Marcus would be the first to admit it was only guesswork. Mor had been right about one thing, in any event-even making it back to the coast would be difficult. If we march any farther east . . .

He put the thought out of his mind as he picked up his coat and emerged from his tent for the first time all day. The encampment outside bore little resemblance to the usual neat army camp town. Most of the tents had gone up in flames with the rest of the supplies, and order had decayed badly in the aftermath of the morning's fighting. Each battalion was sprawled in a rough circle, working to light fires in antic.i.p.ation of the night's chill. The sun was sliding toward the horizon, and the reddening light turned the rocky ground the color of rust.

Eyes followed Marcus as he picked his way through the First Battalion troops and headed in the direction of Adrecht's Fourth. He studiously ignored the muttering in his wake, but couldn't help but notice that the recruits and the Old Colonials seemed to have separated again, like oil and water. The recruits sat around the fires, but the veterans drifted to the shadowy s.p.a.ces in between, holding earnest, whispered conversations in small groups. Marcus did his best to convince himself that it didn't mean anything.

It was much the same with the Fourth Battalion. Adrecht's tent was one of the few still standing, and Marcus made his way through the scattered troops to reach it. The stares here were considerably more hostile. The Fourth was obviously aware of the blame Ja.n.u.s had placed on it and its commander for the morning's events, and just as obviously considered Marcus party to that decision. I wonder if I should tell them that the colonel chewed me out as well.

Adrecht appeared in response to his rap at the tent pole. He wore his uniform pants and a white silk shirt, one sleeve of which hung loose and empty. When he saw Marcus, he managed a smile, but his eyes were brittle.

"You wanted to see me?" Marcus said.

"Of course. Come in, come in."

Reluctantly, Marcus stepped into the interior of the tent. No candles burned, and not much of the setting sun came through the canvas, leaving the interior in shadow. Adrecht seated himself on a pile of cushions and invited Marcus to do the same. On the low table he saw a copy of Ja.n.u.s' order, and beside it a bottle of Khandarai wine, its wax seal already broken.

Adrecht indicated the bottle. "Help yourself, if you like. We found it while we were gathering undamaged supplies. Some ranker must have been saving it for a special occasion, poor fellow."

"No, thank you." Marcus crossed his arms in his lap and sat stiffly. "What do you want, Adrecht?"

"Just to talk." A grimace of pain flitted across Adrecht's face, and his good hand went to the stump of his arm. "G.o.d. It feels like my hand is still there, you know that? Like I've got it clenched into a fist, so tight it hurts my knuckles, but I can't make it relax. It aches. Does that make any sense?"

"I'm sorry," Marcus said quietly. "When this is all over, we can send you to the University. I'm sure they'll be able-"

"To grow it back?" Adrecht gave a death's-head grin.