The Thousand Names (23 page)

“You still have it?” Jane said. Her fingers slid farther upward, Winter’s skirt bunching around them.

Winter risked turning her head, but Jane wasn’t looking at her. Her eyes were hidden by the fall of her hair.

“Do I have what?” Winter whispered.

“The knife,” Jane said, too loud. “You have to bring the knife—”

•   •   •

Light, filtered gray-blue through canvas. It took Winter a moment to remember where she was—not back in the Prison, nor back in the ravine, with Khandarai horsemen all around, but safe in her tent in the midst of the Colonial camp.

And not alone. She sat up from her improvised bed and immediately regretted it. Her body felt like a solid mass of aches and bruises, and the sweat and grime of the previous day had dried into a crust on her skin. She leaned forward, clutching her head, and groped for a canteen. The water was tepid, but it cut through the dust in her mouth.

The Khandarai girl lay on the bedroll beside her. She was exactly where they’d left her the night before, and so still it was a moment before Winter realized that she was awake. Her eyes tracked Winter, but other than that she didn’t move a muscle. It reminded Winter of a rabbit, paralyzed by the glare of a stalking fox. Winter cleared her throat and spoke in Khandarai.

“It’s all right,” she said. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

The girl seemed to unfreeze a little, but made no reply.

“How do you feel?” Winter indicated her own left arm. “Does it hurt badly?”

“Where am I?” the girl said.

Her speech had an almost musical lilt, and Winter was suddenly painfully aware of the grating inadequacy of her Khandarai pronunciation. She’d picked the language up in bits and pieces from books, once she’d taught herself to read the flowing Khandarai script, and she’d practiced in bars and on the street. Unconsciously, she’d adopted the accent, which meant that she sounded distinctly lower-class to Khandarai ears.

“In our camp,” Winter said. “This is my tent.”

“Camp,” the girl said. “The
raschem
camp.”

Raschem
was “bodies” or “corpses,” Khandarai slang for Vordanai and other pale-skinned foreigners. Winter nodded.

The girl suddenly fixed her with a long stare. Her eyes were the peculiar purple-gray common among the Khandarai, which foreigners often found unsettling.

“Why?” she said. “Why did you bring me here?”

“We found you in . . . the burned camp.” Winter groped for the words. “We did not want to leave you to die. Do you remember?”

“Remember?” The girl raised her broken, splinted arm. “I am not likely to forget. But I do not understand. Your soldiers were killing everyone. Taking the women first, and then—” Her gray skin paled. “Have you brought me to—”

“No,” Winter said hastily. “Nothing like that. I swear.”

“Then why?” The purple eyes were mistrustful.

Winter felt like she couldn’t muster a sufficient explanation in her native language, let alone pick her way through it in Khandarai. She changed the subject.

“My name is Winter,” she said. “Winter-dan-Ihernglass, you would say.” She mustered the politest language she had. “May I know yours?”

“Feor,” the girl said. Catching Winter’s expression—Khandarai invariably went by both given and family names—she added, “Just Feor. I am a mistress of the gods. We give up our other names.” She looked warily around the tent. “May I have some water?”

Winter handed the canteen across wordlessly, and Feor took it in her good hand and drank deeply, letting the last drops fall on her tongue. She licked her lips, catlike, and set it carefully aside.

“I’ll get some more,” Winter said. “And some food. You must be hungry.”

When she started to rise, the girl held up a hand. “Wait.”

Obediently, Winter stopped and sat down again. Feor fixed her with that peculiar gaze.

“I am your prisoner?”

Winter shook her head. “Not a prisoner. Not really. We just wanted to help you.”

“Then I can leave as I please?”

“No!” Winter sighed. “If you go out into the camp, someone really will take you prisoner. Or just kill you, or—”

Realization dawned on the girl’s face. “They don’t know. The others, they don’t know that you’ve brought me here.”

“Only a few. People I trust.” And how had
that
come to be? Winter reflected. She’d known the three corporals for only a few days. Battle worked strange magic sometimes. “We’ll figure something out, I promise. But for now you have to stay here.”

Feor nodded gravely. “As you say.” She put her head on one side. “When you . . . found me, was there a man nearby? A large man, with no hair.”

Her face gave no indication of her feelings on the matter. Winter debated briefly.

“Yes,” she said eventually. “He’s dead.”

“Dead,” Feor repeated. “Dead. That is good.”

Winter stared at her.
A mistress of the gods
, she’d said. A priestess. But a priestess of the old ways—the Redeemer priests were all men, and their faith preached that the leadership of the priestesses of the old temples had been the first step on the path to corruption. Winter had heard them shouting that message on street corners in Ashe-Katarion often enough, before the Redemption had grown into a revolution.

So what was this girl doing in the middle of a Redeemer army?
Winter shook her head.

“I’ll get us something to eat,” she said. Feor gave another grave nod. There was something terribly solemn about her.
Not that she has much reason to smile.

Outside the tent, the camp looked little different from any of the others they’d pitched on the road from Fort Valor. The same rows of blue tents, the same stands of stacked muskets. Only wisps of dark smoke rising to the west gave any hint of what had happened the day before.
That, and the fact that some of these tents are empty.

The sun was already high overhead, and the men were up and about. Some tended their weapons, sharpening bayonets or cleaning the powder and grime from musket barrels, while others diced, played cards, or just sat in circles trading stories of the day before. When they caught sight of Winter, they straightened up and saluted. She waved them back to what they had been doing and went in search of Bobby.

She didn’t have to look far. The young corporal arrived at a run, hurrying down the line of tents, and practically ran into her. Winter took a hurried step back as Bobby stopped, drew up, and gave a crisp salute. The boy’s uniform was clean, and his skin looked freshly scrubbed, though traces of black powder smoke still darkened his sandy hair.

“Good morning, sir!”

“Morning,” Winter said. She leaned close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you think you could find some food and water that I could bring back to my tent?”

“Of course!” Bobby smiled. “Wait here, sir.”

He dashed off, leaving Winter alone in the midst of her company. She became aware, bit by bit, that the men were watching her. She turned in a slow circle, as though inspecting them, but inside she was baffled. They seemed to want something from her, but Winter was damned if she knew what.

“Er,” she said, and a dozen conversations suddenly died. More distant sounds cut through the sudden silence. Shouts, the whinny of horses, wagons creaking. An army camp was never truly quiet, but it seemed as though a great sucking void had sprung up, centered on her. Winter felt the muscles of her throat trying to close in panic. She coughed.

“Hell of a job, yesterday,” she said. “All of you. Well done.”

A shout rose from a dozen throats at once, any words lost in the roar. All the rest quickly joined in, and for a minute the cheering drowned out all other sound. Winter raised her hands, and it gradually died. Her cheeks were pink.

“Thanks,” she said. The cheers immediately resumed. She was rescued by the appearance of Bobby, carrying a pair of canteens and a sack. The corporal was grinning broadly. Winter took him by the shoulder and marched him at an undignified pace back toward her tent.

When the cheers had once again died away, Winter leaned close.

“Did you put them up to that?”

The boy shook his head. “No need, sir. They’re not stupid. They know what happened yesterday.”

“And they’re
cheering
?” Winter didn’t feel much like cheering herself. A little under a third of the men under her command had not come back from their first assignment.

“They’re alive, aren’t they?” Bobby flashed his grin at her. “If we’d followed d’Vries when he ran, we’d all be dead by now. You were the one who got them to make a stand.” He coughed delicately. “I think it helps that d’Vries got what was coming to him. Not that you heard me say so, sir.”

Contempt dripped from Bobby’s voice at this last. It was true, Winter reflected. Soldiers had odd feelings toward their officers. A man could be a bully, like Davis, or a drunkard, like Captain Roston of the Fourth, or a tantrum-throwing martinet, and retain the affection of at least some of those who served under him. But the one thing that no soldier could abide was cowardice. Even Winter, who was an odd sort of soldier at best, found she felt only a cold disregard for the lieutenant who had fled at the first sight of the enemy.

“I didn’t . . .” Her voice trailed off. “It was only what needed to be done. Anyone could have seen that.”

“But you did.” Bobby shrugged, then lowered his voice. “How’s our patient?”

“Awake and talking,” Winter said. “I’ve been trying to explain the situation to her.”

“What exactly
is
the situation, sir?”

Winter grimaced. “Damned if I know.”

•   •   •

Feor tore into the bread and cheese hungrily, only slightly impaired by having only one arm to work with. Bobby watched her intently, until Winter gave him a sidelong glance.

“You’ve never seen a Khandarai up close, have you?”

“No, sir. Except for yesterday, of course.” He hesitated. “Can she understand us?”

“I don’t think so.” Winter switched to Khandarai. “Feor?”

The girl looked up, mouth full of bread.

“Do you speak Vordanai at all? Our language?”

She shook her head, and went back to eating. Winter passed that along to Bobby.

“You’re pretty good with their language,” the corporal said.

“I’ve been here for two years,” Winter said.

It wasn’t really an explanation—many of the Old Colonials had picked up no more of Khandarai than they needed to order in a tavern or a brothel, but Winter had tried hard to learn the language as she explored the city. Under the current circumstances, though, she thought that her—hobby, call it—might seem vaguely disloyal.

Feor finished the last of the bread, drank from the canteen, and gave a little sigh. Then, as though seeing Bobby for the first time, she sat up a little straighter and resumed her austere expression.

“Thank you,” she said.

Winter translated, then said to Feor, “He doesn’t speak your language.”

She nodded, eyes a little distant, as though pondering something.

“Listen—,” Winter began, but the girl raised a hand.

“Let me have a moment, if you would,” she said, and took a deep breath. “I am not a fool, Winter-dan-Ihernglass. Or at least I like to think not. I understand what you have done for me. I do not”—her mouth quirked—“I do not
quite
understand why, but my ignorance of your reasons does not diminish the fact that you saved my life, and apparently not to simply make me your slave or your whore.” She bowed, first to Winter and then to Bobby, so deep that her forehead nearly touched the ground. “I thank you, both of you.”

Winter nodded awkwardly. “She’s grateful,” she said in response to Bobby’s questioning look.

“And as you have given me this gift,” the girl went on, “I will not throw it away. Tell me what you need me to do, and I will do it. I trust that, if you meant me harm, you have already had ample opportunity to accomplish it.”

Winter gave another nod. She felt a small knot of worry dissolve. If the girl had been stupid, or obstinate, the chances would have been high that she’d not only get herself discovered but that Winter and the others might be punished in the bargain.

“I’m still figuring this out myself,” Winter said. “I hope that we can find somewhere safe and let you go, but it may take some time.”

Feor inclined her head. “If that is the gods’ will.”

“If you don’t mind, may I ask you a question?”

The girl nodded.

“What were you doing with that army?” Winter shifted awkwardly. “You do not seem like one of”—she fumbled for the Khandarai words—“the men of the Redemption.”

Feor laughed. It was the first expression of humor that Winter had seen out of her, and it transformed the severe angles of her face. Her eyes sparkled.

“No,” the girl said. “I am not. I was there as a prisoner of Yatchik-dan-Rahksa.”

“The . . .” Winter’s lips moved silently. “The angel of vengeance?”

“The—” She said another couple of words that Winter didn’t know. Seeing the incomprehension, Feor went on. “The high priests of the Redeemers take the names of angels. This one was the leader of the army of the Faithful.”