The Thousand Names Part 12

He tossed a coin from his own pile into the pot, then took one from the small pile in front of Winter and did likewise. Winter caught Bobby's eye across the circle. The boy shrugged and gave a wry smile.

"Oh, ho!" said a booming voice from over her shoulder. "Gambling, is it? The Holy Karis isn't going to like that, Saint. He's not going to like that at all! See, I let you out of my sight for half a minute and you're already sliding down the dark path."

Winter's heart froze in her chest, and for a moment she couldn't breathe. The others around the circle were all looking at her, and she forced herself to turn and confront the shadow looming up behind her.

"Sergeant Davis," Winter said stiffly.

The huge man laughed. "Good evening, Sergeant Iherngla.s.s."

He rounded the little circle, dark eyes never leaving her face. Buck and Peg stood behind him, trailing the big sergeant like dogs. When he was across from her, he pushed his way forward and sat down cross-legged. The soldiers on either side spread out hurriedly to make room.

"I just thought I'd come by," he announced, "to see how our Saint is getting on. I'm sure he's told you all about me. Good old Sergeant Davis, and all that. Taught him everything he knows."

"Welcome to the Seventh, Sergeant Davis!" Bobby said eagerly.

Davis ignored him. "So how are you getting on, Saint?"

The past week seemed to roll away. Davis, flanked by Buck and Peg with their nasty grins, filled the world. He had been a constant in her life for more than a year. Without him pus.h.i.+ng down on her, the past few days, she'd felt safe enough to unfold a little. Now here he was again, to mash her flat.

"Fine," she muttered. "Good."

"You should have seen what he did yesterday!" Bobby burbled, oblivious to the tension. "Lieutenant d'Vries had told us-"

"Oh, we've got all kinds of funny stories about our Saint," Davis said softly. "Remember that time we all went to the inn, and we all clubbed together to buy him a wh.o.r.e?"

"I remember," Buck said. "G.o.d, that was a beautiful girl. Standing there wearing not a st.i.tch when we opened the door to his room, and he looks at me, and I said, *Go on, friend, all for you!'"

"Then he sends her away," Peg said. "What a d.a.m.ned waste. And Buck says, *b.l.o.o.d.y martyrs, Saint, have you even got a c.o.c.k?'"

Davis just smiled. Winter could well remember what had happened next. Buck, so drunk he could barely stand, had followed his words with a grab for her crotch, presumably to check. When she'd stepped out of the way, Peg had grabbed her from behind. In the ensuing scuffle, she'd kicked Buck in the face and bitten the back of Peg's hand.

The sergeant had administered "justice." He couldn't sanction fighting amongst the company, he said, and ruled that Winter had to stand and receive two blows for the ones that she'd given. In the interest of fairness, he himself would deliver them. The first punch, to her face, had nearly broken her nose; the second, in the gut, had left her curled and retching on the floor. The rest of them had looked on, laughing.

Involuntarily, Winter's hand went to her cheek, where the ma.s.sive bruise had blossomed. Davis saw the movement, and his smile twitched wider.

"D'you think, Sergeant, that we could have a word in private?" Davis said. "Man to man. For old times' sake?"

Winter, anxious to get away from the curious looks of her new company, nodded jerkily. The three Old Colonials rose. She led them back toward her tent, away from the pots and the fires, and into the narrow alley between two canvas walls.

"Sergeant," Davis said. "You, a sergeant. f.u.c.king martyrs, this army is really gone to s.h.i.+t, isn't it?"

"I didn't want it," Winter said. "I told the captain-"

"I thought I was sending you out for a suicide mission," Davis interrupted, "and the captain makes you a sergeant. How the h.e.l.l did you pull that one off?"

"Prob'ly sucked his c.o.c.k," Peg said.

"Saint does have a pretty little mouth," Buck mused. "Practically like a girl's."

"Was that it, Saint?" Davis said. "You engage in a little persuasion? Thought you could put one over on old Sergeant Davis? h.e.l.l, that's not so bad, a little c.o.c.k-sucking for a double promotion. Should have let him f.u.c.k your a.r.s.e-then you might have made lieutenant, and I'd have to salute you. Wouldn't that be a h.e.l.l of a thing?"

"What do you want?" Winter managed.

"What do I want?" Davis echoed. "G.o.d, I'm not sure. I suppose I want an army where little pieces of s.h.i.+t like you aren't promoted over the heads of better men, to where you can get people killed. But I'm not likely to get it, am I?" He shrugged his ma.s.sive shoulders. "How about this? You go to the captain and tell him you're done being a sergeant. It's too much for you. You can't handle it. Suck him off again if you have to. Then you can come on back to old Sergeant Davis. Won't you like that?"

"He wouldn't let me." Winter felt her hands curl into fists. "I tried to tell him no, but he wouldn't-"

"What, because you were too good to be a sergeant?" Davis leaned close to her, until she could smell the foul rotted-meat stink of his breath. "f.u.c.king Saint. You're just too good for this world, aren't you?"

"Maybe we ought to, you know, help him along," Buck prompted.

Davis smiled. Winter saw, suddenly, that he was going to hit her. She tensed, ready to dodge, but Buck and Peg were on either side of her, boxing her in.

"Sergeant?"

It was Bobby's voice. Davis froze. Winter looked cautiously over her shoulder. The boy stood at the end of the little alley, framed by the firelight.

"We're still talking," Davis rumbled. "p.i.s.s off."

"The thing is," Bobby said, advancing, "we were in the middle of a game, and we can't go on without the sergeant. So if you wouldn't mind having your chat in the morning?"

Buck stepped in front of Bobby. The Old Colonial had at least a foot and fifty pounds on the boy. He loomed.

"Sarge said p.i.s.s off," he growled. "We're busy."

"But-"

Buck put one hand on each of Bobby's shoulders, pressing hard. The boy's legs buckled, and he fell involuntarily to his knees.

"Listen, kid," Buck said. "Just crawl back out of here, and you won't get hurt."

Winter caught Bobby's eye. Go! She tried to communicate the message, but apparently it didn't get across. The boy smiled and flicked his eyes upward.

"'Scuse me," said a deep voice, behind Davis. Corporal Folsom stepped forward and smiled at Winter.

Davis half turned, his face twisted in rage, and then paused as he rea.s.sessed the situation. He was a big man, used to commanding respect by physical presence alone, but Folsom was nearly as tall as he was. Moreover, Davis' bulk was layered with fat, the product of years of soft living in Ashe-Katarion. The corporal had a laborer's build, corded with muscle. There was something in his stance that spoke of a familiarity with violence-he stood on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, ready to move.

Peg turned to face him, too, and there was a moment of dangerous silence. Winter wanted to scream, or run, or do something. She wanted Corporal Folsom to push Davis' fat face through the back of his skull, but at the same time the thought terrified her. Standing up to Davis led to pain: that lesson had sunk into her very bones. Better to avoid notice. But there was no avoiding notice now.

A clatter of boots behind Bobby broke the pause. Corporal Graff turned the corner, puffing a little, and behind him came a half dozen brawny soldiers. Davis reached a decision. He straightened up, and his face twisted into a parody of a smile.

"My, you do take your games seriously," he said, slapping Peg jovially on the shoulder. "Well, I suppose the sergeant and I had more or less finished our business." He grinned down at Winter, eyes flas.h.i.+ng murderous fire. "Now you take care, Saint. We wouldn't want anything to happen to you, would we? Don't go stepping on any scorpions."

"Stepping on a scorpion" was the standard cover story for any intra-regimental violence. When some poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d was so bruised and bleeding he couldn't make roll call, his fellows would report that he'd stepped on a scorpion.

Bobby gave a bright, guileless smile. "Don't worry, Sergeant. We'll take good care of him."

"S'right," Folsom said, from behind Davis. "Don't worry."

"Well, that certainly makes me feel better." Davis clapped his hands, gruesomely cheerful. "Come on, lads. Let's leave the Saint and his new company to their dinner."

Buck seemed eager to go. Peg was more reluctant, glaring acidly at Folsom, but at a glance from Davis he turned away. The soldiers behind Graff parted to let the three Old Colonials through. After a moment, Winter heard Davis' booming laughter.

"Sergeant?" Bobby said, closer at hand. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Winter said automatically. Her breath still came fast, and her heart pounded. Her gut felt twisted into knots.

"You look like you need to lie down for a bit." Bobby stepped beside her. "Let me help you-"

At the brush of the boy's fingers, Winter pushed him away, too violently. It was a conditioned reflex, and she regretted it immediately. The expression on Bobby's face was like she'd kicked a puppy. She swallowed hard and straightened, fighting for self-control.

"It's all right," she said. "I'm fine. I just need to rest a bit." She looked around. "Go back to dinner, the rest of you."

The soldiers behind Graff stood aside as she pa.s.sed by them to slip into her tent. She sat on the camp bed, not bothering to light the lamp, and hugged her stomach. The muscles there were taut in memory of the impact of Davis' meaty fist.

Someone knocked at the tent pole. "It's Graff."

Winter didn't want to see him, or anyone else, but that would be a poor way to show grat.i.tude. "Come in."

The corporal entered, looking a little embarra.s.sed. Winter looked up at him curiously.

He coughed. "I wanted to say that I'm sorry," he said. "For interfering. I thought it prudent, but it was a liberty, and you'd be well within your rights to be angry."

Winter shook her head dumbly.

"Jim was worried about you," Graff explained. "He sees more than he lets on most of the time. There were three of them and just you, and we thought, well, that's hardly fair. So I ran over and rounded up a few of the lads who looked like they'd been in a fight or two."

"Thank you," Winter managed.

Graff relaxed. "Thing is," he said, "I've seen the type before. These backwoods sergeants are the worst-present company excluded, of course. They get a tiny bit of authority and they turn into little tin G.o.ds. Even worse when they're big b.a.s.t.a.r.ds like this Davis." He shrugged. "Well, you don't have to worry about him. That lot are all cowards at heart. Show them a strong front, and they'll just scurry along."

Winter shook her head. She knew Davis. He was a brute and a bully, and quite possibly he was a coward, but he also had overweening pride and a vicious cunning. Show him a strong front, and he'd find some way around it, some way to strike when you weren't watching.

"I can't do this," Winter said quietly.

"Do what?"

"Any of this." She waved a hand. "How am I supposed to be a sergeant? I don't have the first idea what I'm doing, and now Davis . . ." She shook her head, her throat thick. "I can't do it."

"You're doing a first-rate job so far," Graff said. "I've served under much worse, let me tell you."

"But what am I supposed to do now?"

"Come back out and have dinner, for starters. You'll feel better for a hot meal."

Winter nodded slowly. Before she could rise, there was another rap at the tent pole, rapid and frantic.

"What?" Graff barked.

"It's Bobby," came the reply. "You've got to come out and see this!"

a a a A squadron of cavalry had returned, walking down the aisle that separated the Seventh Company's tents from those of the neighboring units. Winter recognized Give-Em-h.e.l.l at their head, looking as puffed up and proud as a rooster. A dozen of his men followed behind him in a loose square. In the center were four men on foot, and it was these that were the center of attention.

Most of the recruits had probably never seen a Khandarai, unless one had rowed the boat by which they'd come ash.o.r.e. The natives were shorter than Vordanai, with dark hair and gray-brown skin. This last varied; they were called "grayskins," and Winter had arrived expecting everyone to be the color of gunmetal, but in Ashe-Katarion she'd seen everything from the pale ash coloring of the n.o.bility to the brown-black faces of the Desoltai, burned crisp by the desert sun.

These particular Khandarai were about average in that respect. They looked skinny and poorly fed, and they were dressed in fraying, baggy white cloth, painted all over with V shapes in red and yellow.

"Who are they?" Bobby asked, standing beside her.

"Not farmers, that's for certain," Graff said. "Look, they've got ammunition pouches."

"Redeemers," Winter said. She remembered that sigil all too clearly. "The triangles are supposed to look like flames."

"What are they doing out here?" Bobby said. "I thought all the Redeemers were at the city."

"Scouts," Graff said grimly. Winter nodded.

Bobby looked from one to the other, confused. "What's that mean?"

"It means that out there somewhere"-Graff pointed east-"there's an army."

"It means we're going to have a fight before long," Winter said. Staring at the sullen fanatics, she could almost forget about Davis after all.

Part Two.

JAFFA.

"So, General," said Yatchik-dan-Rahksa. "We see the true shape of your courage at last."

Khtoba's frozen face cooled another few degrees. "Courage?" He looked as though he wanted to spit. "Arrogant pup. Fight a few battles yourself before you speak to me of courage."

"And how am I to do that, if I heed your counsel?" the priest replied. "You would have us cower here, praying the hammer does not fall on our heads!"

"You may pray as you like," the general said. "If you had studied the art of war as you've studied the teachings of the Divine Hand, you would know there is such a thing as strategy. We are strongly placed here, and there is nothing between Ashe-Katarion and the Vordanai but flyspeck villages and miles of worthless desert. Let them make the march. At the end of it, we'll be that much stronger, and they that much weaker."

"Are you so certain of that?" Yatchik said. "Already the people mutter that we fear to face the foreigners. Wait another few weeks and even the devoted may lose heart. Action is what is required." He sniffed. "Besides, what need do we have of strategy? We have the blessing of Heaven. And we have the numbers."

"Numbers," Khtoba said, "aren't everything."

Jaffa sat, watching them go after each other like a couple of angry cats. They had been at it for some hours, circling around to side topics before returning again and again to the main issue. The Vordanai army had left its tumbledown fortress at Sarhatep and was advancing up the coast road. The Steel Ghost had told them as much, and Khtoba's scouts had belatedly confirmed it. Yatchik was all for a general advance to meet and crush the foreigners where they stood, but the general was more cautious.

The real issue went unspoken. The authority of the Divine Hand rested on the violent sanction of the Swords of Heaven, the Redeemer host now nearly twenty-five thousand strong, gathered in the plain around the city. But that host could not sustain itself indefinitely, not without starving the people it was intended to protect. At some point the Hand would need to make the transition from revolutionary to ruler, to disband the army and restore a semblance of normal life to the city, but he didn't dare to do so with the Vordanai still in the field.