The Thousand Names (26 page)

“We need— Ah, here he is.” Val pushed aside the tent flap and entered, blinking in the lamplight.

“Marcus, Mor,” he said politely. “Fitz seemed agitated, so I hurried over.”

“Agitated?” Mor said. “He doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

“Agitated for Fitz, I mean,” Val said.

“Sit down,” Marcus said. “We need to talk.”

“Now I’m starting to get worried,” Mor said with a smile.

“Given the company,” Val said, “I think I can guess the subject. It’s Adrecht, isn’t it?”

“It’s Adrecht,” Marcus confirmed. “The colonel’s not happy with what happened to the Redeemer camp.”

“Bah,” Mor said. “It’s not pretty, I’ll grant you, but they got what they deserved.”

“Deserved?” Marcus said. “They were running away. There were women—”

“Women who followed an army into battle,” Mor said. He waved a hand dismissively. “If they’d stayed in Ashe-Katarion they would have been safe. And nobody
had
to run away. We gave them a chance to surrender.”

“That’s still no excuse for slaughter,” Val said stiffly. “The rules of civilized warfare—”

“Last I checked the goddamned Redeemers were not exactly signatories to the goddamned Convention of ’56. They
eat
their prisoners, remember?”

“That’s just a rumor,” Val said.

“In any case,” Marcus cut in loudly, “Adrecht is taking the fall for it. The colonel told me he wants him arrested.”

“Arrested?”
Val looked incredulous. “For what?”

“Dereliction of duty.” Marcus shrugged. “Whether he can make that stick in a court-martial, I have no idea, but Adrecht would spend the rest of the campaign in a cage on just the colonel’s say-so.”

“Who gets the Fourth?” Mor said.

“Fitz,” Marcus said, a sour taste in his mouth. “Or so the colonel implied.”

“About time,” Mor said.

Val ignored him and turned to Marcus. “What are we going to do?”

“I wanted to see you two first,” Marcus said. “We need to decide, together—”

“Decide what?” Mor said. “Sounds like the decision’s already made.”

“We need to decide if we’re going to stand for it,” Val said.

“Exactly,” Marcus said.

There was a long moment of silence. Mor looked from one to the other, started to chuckle, then trailed off. He sat up abruptly.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” he said.

“Adrecht is one of us,” Val said. “One of the Colonials. We can’t just abandon him.”

“He never was worth a damn,” Mor said. “And he hasn’t lifted a finger since the Redeemers sent us packing. Half the time he’s too drunk to walk!”

That hit a bit close to home for Marcus. The answer might be simple for Val, but he was a man of simple loyalties.
Fitz
would
make a better battalion commander than Adrecht. Janus was right about that.
And Adrecht was—well, Adrecht. Marcus had been with the other captains so long that he’d lost sight of them. They were simply part of the landscape, as immovable as the fixed stars. The Colonials without Adrecht would be like waking up without an arm or a leg. But Janus forced him to look with an outsider’s perspective, and he had to admit that he didn’t like what he saw.

“I can’t believe you’re talking like this,” Mor said. “I know he was at the College with you, Marcus, but—”

“I can’t believe you
aren’t
,” Val snapped. “If it was Marcus or I taking the blame, would that be any different?”

“Of course it would! Adrecht—”

“Got what he deserved?” Marcus suggested.

“Yes,” Mor said, though he had the grace to blush slightly.

Mor had never liked Adrecht. Adrecht’s feud with Val had reached such epic proportions that it had become a sort of friendship, but between him and Mor there had never been anything but cold politeness. Adrecht’s privileged background was the cause, Marcus suspected. The nobility were at the top of Mor’s list of hatreds, but as the scion of a wealthy family Adrecht wasn’t too far behind.

“He doesn’t deserve it,” Marcus said. “Not for this. Green troops, in their first real fight—it could have happened to any one of us. His men were just the first ones over the line.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Mor said. “You made it sound like the colonel was pretty set on this—do you think you can talk him out of it?”

“If Adrecht is arrested, I’ll submit my resignation,” Marcus said.

Val nodded slowly. Mor looked from one of them to the other, aghast.

“Do you realize what you’re saying?” he said. “This isn’t some peacetime infraction. If you refuse to serve during a campaign, the colonel can get you for desertion. Forget spending the march in a cage. He could shoot you on the spot.”

Val’s face clouded. Evidently he hadn’t considered that aspect of the situation. It was one thing to resign as a matter of honor, but quite another to be branded a deserter and shot like a common criminal.

“You were the one who said the Redeemers deserved what they got, Mor,” Marcus said. “Can you really let one of your fellow officers be disgraced for letting that happen?”

“If the alternative is being shot, you’re damn right I can,” Mor said.

“He wouldn’t shoot all three of us,” Marcus said. “If we stand together—”

“He won’t get the chance,” Mor said. “I’ll have no part of this. I’m sorry, Marcus.”

There was a long pause. Marcus looked at Val.

“I . . . ,” Val began, then hesitated. “I need to think.”

I’ve lost,
Marcus thought. He knew Val too well. In the hot flush of anger and honor besmirched, he would have willingly marched into hell itself, but given a night to reflect, his fears would get the better of him.

He forced a smile and got to his feet. “Well. I think we can leave it there for tonight, then.”

“You’re not going through with this, are you?” Mor sounded anxious. “For God’s sake, Marcus—”

“Good night, Mor. Val.”

The two of them left, though not without a few backward glances. Only a moment after they’d gone, Fitz ghosted in carrying a mug of steaming tea. He presented it without comment.

“Thank you,” Marcus said. “That will be all for tonight.”

“Sir.” Fitz saluted and withdrew.

•   •   •

“Sir,” Marcus said. He’d dressed in his best, the formal blues he’d worn to welcome Janus to the regiment, and his salute was parade-ground crisp. Only the darkness around his eyes betrayed any hint of a sleepless night.

If the colonel was similarly troubled, he showed no sign of it. He sat in the blue-shaded half-light of his tent, the folding table assembled and a painted-leather map unrolled across it. Alongside this were a number of paper maps, mostly hasty pencil sketches. He studied these so intently that he didn’t even look up at Marcus’ greeting, merely waved a hand for the captain to take a seat. Only after a few seconds, when Marcus remained standing, did he raise his head.

“Captain?” he said. “I would value your input, if you don’t mind.”

“Sir,” Marcus said again. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a folded slip of paper, which he placed in the center of the map.

“Ah,” Janus said. “Is this from Captain Roston?”

Marcus closed his eyes for a moment. “No, sir. From me.”

It was the first time that Marcus could recall seeing Janus look surprised. The expression flickered across his face for a split second, only barely visible before iron control slammed back into place. Still, somehow, it was gratifying.
At least he
can
be surprised.
Marcus had half expected to find Janus waiting for him with a court-martial.

The colonel, his expression once more a mask, reached for the note and flicked it open. It wasn’t long, just a few lines. A moment later he tossed it aside and looked back up at Marcus.

“Would you care to explain, Captain?”

“Sir. I don’t believe it requires—”

“Captain.” Janus’ voice cracked like a whip.

Marcus swallowed. “The charges against Adr—against Captain Roston. Your original order was relayed to him through me, and I was the officer in overall command. Therefore the failure is mine, as are the consequences. If you required Captain Roston’s arrest, I could not in good conscience refrain from submitting my resignation.”

“I see.” Janus tapped his index finger on the desk. “I assume you’re aware that I can reject this?”

“Yes, sir. And I can refuse to recognize your rejection.”

“And since we are engaged in an active campaign, that qualifies as desertion,” Janus said. “I see.” The finger tapped again. “You agreed with me that Captain Roston was not the best man for the job.”

“Yes, sir.” Marcus hesitated, but there was no going back now. “That doesn’t make it right to remove him like this.”

Tap, tap, tap. Then, all at once, Janus’ face became animated again, as though someone had shone a spotlight on it. “Very well.” He pushed the letter back across the table. “You may keep this.”

Marcus blinked. “Sir?”

“Getting rid of Captain Roston is not worth losing you in the bargain. You win, Captain.” Another flicker, this time a smile. “As usual, it seems.”

“Captain Roston—”

“You will convey my displeasure to Captain Roston at the conduct of his men. But unofficially.” Janus fixed Marcus with a penetrating stare. “You understand that should the captain fail in his duty again, you will bear the responsibility for it?”

“Yes, sir.” Marcus took what seemed like his first breath in hours. “Thank you, sir.”

“No thanks are necessary,” Janus said. “Now sit. We have plans to go over.”

“What—? Now, sir?”

“Time is short,” Janus said. “We’ve wasted far too much on peripheral matters already.”

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus’ mind felt like a clockwork engine thrown suddenly into reverse, gears screeching and stripping. He tried to focus on the map, but it seemed like nothing but a random set of painted splotches.

He did his best not to show his confusion, but hiding his feelings from Janus was apparently beyond his ability. The colonel gave him a cool glance, then waved a hand vaguely.

“A few minutes, on the other hand, will not greatly delay us. I suggest you go and change into your usual uniform. You seem—uncomfortable.”

“Yes, sir.” Marcus hesitated. “Thank you, sir.”

Janus was already bent over the map again, leafing through a stack of scouting reports. Marcus beat a hasty retreat.

Stepping outside, he practically ran into Val. The other captain was approaching at a jog, his uniform sending up a gentle jingling sound like a fool with his cap and bells. He’d embellished it, over the years, with bronze and silver trinkets and embroidery in the Khandarai style. None of them had anticipated needing their dress blues for official Vordanai functions again.

“Marcus,” Val said, breathing hard. “I’m sorry. I came as quickly as I could.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Have you given it to him already?”

“Given it . . .” Marcus stopped as realization dawned. “You’ve come to
resign
?”

“Of course!” Val said stoutly, then abruptly looked sheepish. “I admit that Mor nearly had me convinced last night. But this morning I thought—hell—” His blush deepened. “I couldn’t stand leaving you in the lurch, and that’s that. But it took me a while to get dressed and write the bloody thing out.” He fished in his pocket. “Please tell me it’ll still do some good.”

Marcus smiled. He felt, abruptly, like a weight had fallen from his shoulders, as though he could only now acknowledge the reality of what had happened.

“I don’t think the colonel has any need of it,” he said. “But it’s certainly a great comfort to
me
.”

“But . . .”

Marcus clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. I still need to change.”

•   •   •

Half an hour later, back in his regular sun-bleached uniform and fortified by a cup of coffee strongly flavored by a splash of Khandarai liquor, Marcus ducked into the colonel’s tent again and snapped another textbook salute. The colonel was in the same attitude as when he’d left, though most of the scouting reports had been converted into pencil notations on the maps.

“Captain,” Janus said, “will you actually sit down this time?”

“Gladly, sir.” He hesitated. “I must apologize for disturbing your planning earlier—”

The colonel gave an affected sigh. “Think nothing of it. We have more important matters to discuss.”

Marcus nodded and sat. The colonel turned the leather map so that it faced him, and tapped a finger on it. It took Marcus a moment to parse—the script was Khandarai, and the mapmaker had used unfamiliar symbols—but once he found the label for Ashe-Katarion, the landscape snapped into place. Janus’ finger marked the regiment’s current position, roughly thirty-five miles from the city.

“We march tomorrow,” Janus said. “The question, of course, is where.”

“To the city, presumably,” Marcus ventured.