The Thousand Names Part 25

"No," Ja.n.u.s said. "Not really. Has anyone ever told you, Captain, that you need to work on your sense of humor?"

"I'm not used to needing one around senior officers," Marcus muttered. Ja.n.u.s, who had very good hearing, chuckled broadly.

The rigors of the march had reduced the prince's ability to keep up his accustomed style, though his entourage made the best effort they could. He had an enormous tent, sewn together from four of the regulation army tents, but the exterior was plain blue canvas and the inside not much better ornamented. Much of what the royal household had been able to carry away from Ashe-Katarion had been loaded onto the fleet at Fort Valor. A few furs and some silk cus.h.i.+ons were all the luxury the rightful occupant of the Vermillion Throne could manage.

Razzan-dan-Xopta was on hand to greet the two officers, but much of the rest of the entourage had been left behind, including the Heavenly Guard. Marcus approved-nothing slowed down an army like useless impedimenta-but he doubted the prince shared his reasons. He got the feeling the Khandarai ruler was skeptical about their chances.

Perhaps still stung from his last audience with Ja.n.u.s, the prince dispensed with the formalities. He barked out a question, and Razzan translated, for Marcus' benefit if not the colonel's.

"His Grace is concerned," the minister said. "He wishes to know how you propose to defend him from his enemies when your army is on the other side of the river."

"I must admit that I cannot," Ja.n.u.s said. "Please tell His Grace that I would feel much more a.s.sured about his safety if he were to cross with us."

The prince said something petulant. Razzan said, "The Chosen of Heaven points out that, on the other side of the river, escape would be impossible in the event that you are defeated."

Marcus eyed Prince Exopter with distaste. The n.o.bleman had made his preferences clear through an endless stream of "polite" missives, directing Ja.n.u.s to appear before him to "receive guidance on the direction of the campaign." What that amounted to, apparently, was retreat. In spite of the victory over the Redeemer army, the prince wanted to flee to Vordan with his gold. But the fleet would not sail without orders from Ja.n.u.s, and Ja.n.u.s had simply ignored the messages.

And this is who we're fighting to keep on the throne? Marcus wondered again who, exactly, would be hurt if they just let Exopter scuttle away, if he wanted to so badly. The Khandarai certainly don't want him back. In the end, though, it was the honor of the King of Vordan that was at stake, and implicitly the worthiness of a pledge of support from the House of Orboan. Not to mention the small matter of the screaming fanatics who want to burn us alive, prince or no prince.

Among the things that had been left behind was the royal makeup artist. The elaborate red-and-white powder that had been the prince's mask was nowhere in evidence. Underneath it was a rather ordinary face, with sagging jowls and thick, pouting lips. A thin fuzz of hair was just beginning to sprout around the crown of his head, but a patch on top remained bare.

"If we are defeated, Your Grace . . ." Ja.n.u.s paused. "You may tell His Grace that if we are defeated, all hope of regaining his throne falls with us, and so I regard it as my duty to press the campaign to the utmost."

"Your duty to His Grace is to obey," Razzan said, almost before his master had finished speaking.

"My pardon. I mean no offense, but my duty is not to His Grace the Prince of Khandar. Rather, it is to His Majesty the King of Vordan, to whom I have sworn my sacred oath. He has directed me to secure the Vermillion Throne, and I intend to do so or perish in the attempt."

There was a long silence. The prince muttered something that sounded like an insult. Razzan, perhaps remembering that Ja.n.u.s understood well enough without the translation, rendered it after only a slight hesitation.

"You are a most impudent man, His Grace says. He promises that his friend and cousin the king will hear of your conduct."

"I have no doubt of that," Ja.n.u.s said.

Through the Last Duke, if nothing else. He'd seen Miss Alhundt around the camp a few times since the battle, but he'd avoided speaking to her. So far she hadn't pressed the issue. He wondered if he had justified an entry in the reports she sent home.

"His Grace will consider what you have said," Razzan said. "You are dismissed."

"Thank you," Ja.n.u.s said. "The last of the regiment crosses by this evening."

The two Vordanai bowed and retreated from the royal presence. The Chosen of Heaven did not look pleased in the least.

"He'll consider what you have said?" Marcus repeated, once they were outside. "What does that mean?"

"It means he'll cross," Ja.n.u.s said, "but he didn't want to say it, because he'd lose face. The last of the baggage train is over?"

"It should be by now," Marcus said, glancing at the reddening sun. "I'll speak to Fitz."

"Good. Then get the Fourth moving. Save s.p.a.ce on the boats for the prince and his retinue when they decide to turn up."

"What if they don't?"

Ja.n.u.s didn't bother to answer that.

a a a The prince turned up, of course. Ja.n.u.s embarked with the second-to-last boatload, and Marcus with the very last. He settled in for the trip among the stacked cargo at the front of the barge. It was well after sundown, and the colors were beginning to fade from the western sky. Ahead, a few stars were already winking. Fortunately the crossing was not hazardous, even in the dark-the broad, flat Tsel was as hospitable a river as could be imagined.

The prince's servants had thrown up a silk curtain around him, cordoning off their lord and his n.o.ble attendants from the rest of those on the barge. The boat was only half full in any case, and the Colonials seemed inclined to give the Khandarai a wide berth. They accorded Marcus the same privilege. In the days before the Redemption, the men would have thought nothing about coming over to him to share the latest city gossip or grouse about the duty rosters. Now everyone knew he'd been spending time with the new colonel, and apparently Ja.n.u.s' exalted status was contagious.

He was a little relieved, therefore, to hear the sound of boots on the deck behind him. The greeting froze in his throat when he turned to find Miss Alhundt looking down at him through her spectacles, hands on her hips, wearing a curious little half smile.

I want to know where your loyalties lie. Marcus' eyes darted like a cornered animal, but there was nowhere to run. He stood, instead, and sketched a bow.

"Miss Alhundt."

"Captain." Her smile widened slightly. "I feel like you've been hiding from me."

"Duties, I'm afraid. Colonel Vhalnich keeps me busy."

"I imagine." She gestured at the crate Marcus had been using as a bench. "Do you mind if I sit?"

Yes. "Not at all."

She placed herself delicately on one corner, and after some hesitation Marcus resumed his own seat. Together, they stared for a few moments at the black water of the Tsel, smooth as gla.s.s except for the fading scars torn by the other barges. The torches and lanterns of the new camp were tiny specks of light on the distant bank, winking like fireflies.

Miss Alhundt broke the silence. "I heard the colonel had a disagreement with the prince."

"I'm not really in a position to comment," Marcus said.

"No," Miss Alhundt said. "No, I suppose not."

There was something odd in her tone, as though the heart had gone out of her questioning. He waited, expecting another attempt, but when he risked a look at her face she was just staring at the water.

It was a pretty face, he noted absently. Soft and round, with a small nose and wide brown eyes. The spectacles and severe hairstyle lent her an air of formality, but it felt like a borrowed thing. A mask. He cleared his throat.

"Are you all right, Miss Alhundt?"

"He's really committed now, isn't he?" she said. "The colonel, I mean."

"We all are. With the river behind us . . ."

She nodded. "You don't seem worried."

He almost repeated the line about not being able to comment, but it felt wrong. This wasn't a Concordat agent fis.h.i.+ng for information, just a young woman looking for rea.s.surance. He forced himself to relax a little.

"The colonel has been right so far."

"He has." She sighed. "Captain, can you keep a secret?"

"I like to think so." Then, a little unfairly, "I didn't think the Ministry was in the business of sharing secrets."

She nodded, as though the jibe were no more than her due. "Not that sort of secret. This is . . . one of mine."

"Oh." He shrugged. "Go ahead, then."

She turned to face him, swinging her legs over the edge of the crate. "It was at the battle on the road. You remember?"

"I'm not likely to forget."

"I was sitting on my horse, watching the charge come in-it was like watching the sea come in, a wave of screaming faces. And you and your men were out front, such a thin line, and I thought we'd all be pulled under. Just crushed underneath, like a wave lapping over a rock."

Marcus said nothing. He thought back to the same moment, waiting desperately for the order to fire, this close to yanking Meadow's head around and applying his spurs.

"I prayed," she said, in a whisper. "I literally, honestly prayed. I can't remember the last time I did that. I said, *G.o.d Almighty, if you get me out of this and take me back to my nice safe desk under the Cobweb, I swear to-to you that I will never leave it again.'"

"I think every man in that line had something similar in mind," Marcus said. "I know I did."

She let out a long breath and shook her head. "I asked for this a.s.signment, you know. I was bored. Bored! At my safe little desk in the third sub-bas.e.m.e.nt, where mad priests never came screaming over the ridge to try to roast me alive." She looked up at him, gla.s.ses slightly askew. A strand of mouse brown hair had escaped from her bun and hung over her ear. "Do the Redeemers really eat their prisoners?"

"Only on special occasions," Marcus said. At the look on her face, he gave a little shrug. "I expect not. They certainly enjoy setting fire to them, but eating them afterward?" He shook his head. "It's just a rumor. Believe everything you hear in the streets and they'll have you thinking the Steel Ghost is a wizard who can bend s.p.a.ce and time, and that the old priestesses on Monument Hill can speak with the dead."

She gave a weak chuckle, then lapsed into silence again. The last of the light had faded from the sky, and the barge rowed by torchlight. The constellation of fires on the far bank spread wider as they approached, as though to engulf them. Miss Alhundt's knee, Marcus noted, had fetched up against his own. He could feel the warmth, even through two layers of fabric, though she didn't seem to notice.

"I wanted to apologize," she said.

"For what?"

"For the way I behaved before." She looked uncomfortable. "I have to write a report-you know that, of course. So when I first met you I thought, *Aha, here's a good source of information.'"

"I gathered that," he said.

She winced. "Was I that obvious about it?"

"More or less."

"This really isn't my job. I read reports other people write, extract the salient points, and write another report. At first I thought this would be just like that, except I'd have to ask questions instead of reading. But . . ." She paused. "When I saw the barges crossing, it sort of hit me. If we lose-if the colonel makes a mistake-or . . . or anything, we're all going to die. I'm going to die." She looked up at Marcus again with a brave smile. "I'm afraid I've lost my detachment."

"We won't lose." Marcus wished he felt as confident as he sounded. "The colonel knows what he's doing."

"You really admire him, don't you?"

"Is that going in the report?"

She laughed. "I packed the report away. It doesn't matter much now, does it? Either he wins, or else I won't get the chance to send it."

"Then yes. He's-you have to talk to him to understand. He's different. When I was at the War College, I knew plenty of colonels, but no one like Ja.n.u.s."

"Ja.n.u.s?" She smiled again. "You're awfully chummy with him."

Marcus blushed under his beard. "He insists. Usually I can get away with *sir,' though."

"Better than *Count Colonel Ja.n.u.s bet Vhalnich Mieran,' I suppose." Her eyes glittered in the torchlight. "Well, if he's Ja.n.u.s, I should be Jen. Can you manage that, Captain?"

"Only if I can be Marcus. *Captain' sounds strange to me, anyway. Old Colonel Warus always called me Marcus, or just *Hey, you!'"

She laughed again, and Marcus laughed with her.

"Miss Alhundt . . ."

"Jen," she admonished.

"Jen." In the quiet darkness, that felt oddly intimate. "So what are you going to do now?"

"The same thing as everyone else, I suppose. Hope like h.e.l.l the colonel knows what he's doing." She sniffed. "I don't even know why I'm here, not really. The Cobweb is that kind of place. You hear rumors, but you never know anything."

"Not so different from the army after all, then."

"But with us everyone thinks you know. You can see it in the way they look at you." She glanced up at him again, and he was astonished to see tears in her eyes. "I'm just a clerk, really. It's my job. I write reports and . . . and that's all. Just a clerk."

Without really knowing why, Marcus put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her against his side. She gave a little jerk when he touched her, and her skin pebbled into goose b.u.mps, but she raised no objection. After a moment he felt her head on his shoulder.

"I know," he said. "It's all right."

"I'm sorry," she said again.

"It's all right." He gave her shoulder a squeeze. "It's not your fault."

For the rest of the journey, they didn't speak. Jen soon fell into a doze. For his part, Marcus looked up at the growing ranks of stars and thought about Vordan, and the home that now existed only as a fading memory.

a a a The drums started at sunup, in spite of the moans of exhausted men. Those who'd come over on the last relay of boats had gotten only half a night's sleep, but the drummers were relentless, and bit by bit the encampment came alive. Given that he was one of those who'd been deprived, Marcus found himself sympathetic to the groaners.

"I'm still not happy about the split," Ja.n.u.s said, when they met in the sodden fields outside the little fis.h.i.+ng village. "But it's the best we can do."

Marcus nodded. He was taking the Old Colonials with him, and Ja.n.u.s the recruits, rather than splitting by battalion. It made more sense, given the nature of their separate tasks, but administratively it was a headache.

"Figure on four days, at the outside," the colonel went on. "One to locate the enemy, one to destroy him, and two to return. Can you give me that long?"

"I can certainly try, sir."

"Good." His smile again, just a flicker, there and gone. "Good luck, Captain."

Behind the two officers, the First Colonials formed up. The larger column, just over two-thirds of the men, all the cavalry, and half the guns, headed south with Ja.n.u.s toward the upstream ford. The remaining third turned their steps north, toward Ashe-Katarion and the ca.n.a.l that linked the city with the Tsel.

Marcus drove his troops hard, and they made good time, free at last of the c.u.mbersome need to wait for the baggage train. The wagons were strung out on the road behind them, left to straggle in as best they could. Speed, Ja.n.u.s had agreed, was of the essence. By evening the ca.n.a.l was in sight, a winding ribbon of reflected light that looked more like a natural stream than an artificial construct. In spite of protests from the footsore grumblers, Marcus stretched the march until they'd reached the outskirts of the town that was their objective. Then, finally, they were allowed to rest, flopping down wherever they stood without bothering to set a proper camp.

a a a Even then, there was no rest for some.

Marcus looked over his troops by torchlight. They were all First Battalion men, picked soldiers, those whom Marcus knew he could rely on when things got dangerous. At their head was Senior Sergeant Jeffery Argot, a grizzled hulk of a man who was among the longest-serving Colonials. He'd been commander of the First Company as long as Marcus had been in Khandar. What he lacked in imagination, he made up for in solidity. He was as completely unflappable as any man Marcus had ever met. The fact that he could wring a man's neck like a chicken's didn't hurt, either.

By rights, it should have been Fitz leading the sortie. Not having the lieutenant there felt strange, like losing a limb. Marcus kept being surprised to find the vast, pockmarked face of Sergeant Argot watching him instead of Fitz's dark, intelligent eyes. But there was no helping it-six companies of the First Battalion, all the recruits, were away with Ja.n.u.s, and Marcus wouldn't have felt right leaving their command to anyone else.