The Thousand Names (5 page)

In the rear of the column, far below, a lonely figure struggled after the last of the marching companies under the burden of two heavy valises. He wore a long dark robe, which made him look a bit like a penny-opera version of a Priest of the Black. But since the Obsidian Order—perennial of cheap dramas and bogeymen of children’s stories—had been extinct for more than a century, Marcus guessed this poor bastard was just a manservant hauling his master’s kit up the mountain. One of the sinister inquisitors of old would hardly carry his own bags, anyway. He wondered idly what was so important that it couldn’t be brought up in the oxcarts with the rest of the baggage.

His eyes scanned idly over the fleet, waiting for the colonel himself to emerge with his escort. He would be a nobleman, of course. The price of a colonel’s commission was high, but there was more to it than money. While the Ministry of War might have been forced to concede over the past hundred years that there were commoners who could site guns and file papers as well as any peer, it had quietly but firmly drawn the line at having anyone of low birth in actual
command
. Leading a regiment was the ancient prerogative of the nobility, and so it would remain.

Even Ben Warus had been nobility of a sort, a younger son of an old family that had stashed him in the army as a sinecure. That he’d been a decent fellow for all that had been nothing short of a miracle. Going purely by the odds, this new colonel was more likely to be akin to the ones Marcus had known at the War College: ignorant, arrogant, and contemptuous of advice from those beneath him. He only hoped the man wasn’t
too
abrasive, or else someone was likely to take a swing at him and be court-martialed for his trouble. The Colonials had grown slack and informal under Ben’s indulgent command.

The servant with the bags had reached the last switchback, but there was still no flurry of activity from the ships that would indicate the emergence of an officer of rank. More boats were landing, but they carried only supplies and baggage, and the laboring men down at the dock were beginning to load the carts with crates of hardtack, boxes of cartridges, and empty water barrels. Marcus glanced at Fitz.

“The colonel did say he was coming up, didn’t he?”

“That was the message from the fleet,” the lieutenant said. “Perhaps he’s been delayed?”

“I’m not going to stand out here all day waiting,” Marcus growled. Even in the shade, he was sweating freely.

He waited for the porter in black to approach, only to see him stop twenty yards away, set down both valises, and squat on his heels at the edge of the dusty path. Before Marcus could wonder at this, the man leaned forward and gave an excited cry.

Balls of the Beast, he’s stepped on something horrible.
Khandar was home to a wide variety of things that crawled, slithered, or buzzed. Nearly all of them were vicious, and most were poisonous. It would be a poor start to a professional relationship if Marcus had to report to the colonel that his manservant had died of a snakebite. He hurried down the path, Fitz trailing behind him. The man in black popped back to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, one arm extended, holding something yellow and green that writhed furiously. Marcus pulled up short.

“A genuine Branded Whiptail,” the man said, apparently to himself. He was young, probably younger than Marcus, with a thin face and high cheekbones. “You know, I’d seen Cognest’s illustrations, but I never really believed what he said about the colors. The specimens he sent back were so
drab
, but this—well, look at it!”

He stepped forward and thrust the thing in Marcus’ face. Only years of army discipline prevented Marcus from leaping backward. The little scorpion was smaller than his palm, but brilliantly colored, irregular stripes of bright green crisscrossing its dun yellow carapace. The man held it by the tail with thumb and forefinger, just below the stinger, and despite the animal’s frantic efforts it was unable to pull itself up far enough to get its claws into his flesh. It twisted and snapped at the air in impotent rage.

It dawned on Marcus that some response was expected of him.

“It’s very nice,” he said cautiously. “But I would put it down, if I were you. It might be dangerous.” Truth be told, Marcus couldn’t have distinguished a Branded Whiptail from horse droppings unless it bit him on the ankle, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t give both a wide berth.

“Oh, it’s absolutely deadly,” the man said, wiggling his fingers so the little thing shook. “A grain or two of venom will put a man into nervous shock in less than a minute.” He watched Marcus’ carefully neutral expression and added, “Of course, this must all be old hat to you by now. I’m sorry to get so worked up right off the bat. What must you think of me?”

“It’s nothing,” Marcus said. “Listen, I’m Captain d’Ivoire, and I got a message—”

“Of course you are!” the man said. “Senior Captain Marcus d’Ivoire, of the First Battalion. I’m honored.” He extended his hand for Marcus to shake. “I’m Janus. Most pleased to meet you.”

There was a long pause. The extended hand still held the frantically struggling scorpion, which left Marcus at something of a loss. Finally Janus followed his gaze down, laughed, and spun on his heel. He walked to the edge of the path and dropped the little thing amidst the stones. Then, wiping his hand on his black robe, he returned to Marcus.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “Let me try again.” He re-offered his hand. “Janus.”

“Marcus,” Marcus said, shaking.

“If you could conduct me to the fortress, I would be most grateful,” Janus said. “I just have a few things I need to get stowed away.”

“Actually,” Marcus said, “I was hoping you could tell me where the colonel might be. He sent a message.” Marcus looked over his shoulder at Fitz for support.

Janus appeared perplexed. Then, looking down at himself, inspiration appeared to dawn. He gave a polite cough.

“I suppose I should have been clearer,” he said. “Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran, at your service.”

•   •   •

There was a long, strained silence. It felt like the moment just after you’d done something monumentally stupid—bashing your thumb with a hammer, for example—and just before the pain came flooding in. A quiet moment, in which there seemed to be all the time in the world to contemplate the destruction you’d wrought.

Marcus decided to take the bull by the horns. He stepped smartly back, coming to stiff attention, and ripped off a salute that would have made his instructors at the War College proud. His voice rose to a parade-ground bark.

“Sir! My apologies, sir!”

“No apology necessary, Captain,” Janus said mildly. “You couldn’t have known.”

“Sir! Thank you, sir!”

They matched stares for another long moment.

“We had better get the formalities over with,” Janus said. He fished in his breast pocket and produced a crisply folded page, which he handed to Marcus. “Senior Captain d’Ivoire, as ordered by the Ministry of War in the name of horses and all, I am hereby assuming command of the First Colonial Infantry Regiment.”

Marcus unbent sufficiently to take the note. It said, with the usual Ministry circumlocutions, that Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran was directed to assume command of the First Colonial Regiment and employ it, “as far as practicable,” to suppress the rebellion and protect the interests of the Kingdom of Vordan and her citizens. At the bottom was affixed the seal of the Ministry, sky blue wax impressed with the image of a diving eagle. He handed it stiffly back to Janus.

“Sir,” he said. “You have the command!”

Another salute, which the colonel returned. And that was it—with those few words command of the Colonials and all the attendant responsibilities were removed from Marcus’ shoulders. He took what felt like the first breath of air he’d had in the weeks since the rebellion.

“And with that done,” Janus said, tucking the paper away, “I hope you’ll do me the favor of relaxing a little. That stiff posture is bad for the spine.”

The parade-ground rigidity was already producing an ache across Marcus’ shoulders. He gratefully complied.

“Thank you, sir. Welcome to the Colonials.” He waved Fitz forward. “This is Lieutenant Fitzhugh Warus, my aide.”

Fitz saluted smartly, as comfortable with strict military decorum as Marcus was awkward with it. Janus nodded acknowledgment.

“Lieutenant,” he said. “You’re the younger brother of the late Colonel Warus, are you not?”

“Yes, sir,” Fitz said.

“My condolences on your loss, then. Your brother was a brave man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

That was fair enough, Marcus thought. Maybe not terribly bright, or honest, but
brave
, certainly. He was surprised Janus knew anything about him, though. For all the attention the Colonials had received from the Ministry of War before the rebellion, Khandar might as well have been on the moon.
Perhaps he’s just being polite.

“If you’ll wait a moment, sir, I’ll have someone carry your things,” Marcus said. “We have rooms prepared for you inside.”

“I’ll carry them myself, if it’s all the same to you,” the colonel said. “Just show me the way.”

“As you wish. Shall I order some food brought in as well? You must be tired.”

“No need,” Janus said. “My man is accompanying the rest of my baggage, and he can handle all the arrangements of that nature. Besides, it seems incumbent on me to pay a call on His Grace as soon as possible, don’t you think?”

“His Grace?” Marcus was puzzled for a moment. “You mean the prince?” It had been so long since he’d given the exiled ruler any serious thought that he’d almost forgotten the man was with them.

“Of course. It’s for his sake I’m here, after all.”

Marcus quashed a frown. Janus was likely to be disappointed when he came face-to-face with the ruler of Khandar, but that was not for him to worry about it.
All I need to do now,
he reminded himself,
is obey orders.

“Yes, sir. I’ll get someone to show you to his chambers.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d accompany me, Captain.” Janus flashed a smile. “I may need your expertise.”

If so, we’re in it pretty damned deep.
Nevertheless, Marcus saluted. “Certainly, sir!”

•   •   •

Once they were under the shade of the fortress walls, the colonel doffed his flowing black robe, which turned out to be a thin silk affair sheer enough to be folded up like a pocket handkerchief. Marcus hurriedly summoned a nearby soldier to collect it and instructed him to take it to the colonel’s quarters. The astonished man was too startled to salute properly, but Janus acknowledged him with a cheerful nod.

Under the robe, the colonel wore an ordinary uniform. It was as crisp and unfaded as Marcus’ dress blues, but without any of the gilt or ornamentation Marcus might have expected from a senior officer. Only a pair of Vordanai eagles on his shoulders, silver with flashing jade eyes, marked his rank.

Janus himself was mostly unremarkable, aside from his relative youth and his striking eyes, which were a luminous gray color and somehow a size too large for his face. His dark hair was cut and combed in precise military style, which made Marcus uncomfortably aware that his own was getting out of control.

The prince’s apartments were on the other side of the fortress. His entourage had insisted that they have one of the corner towers to themselves, so Marcus had given them the northwest tower, which faced the ocean and was unlikely to be needed for any defense. The huge silk banner that the prince had hauled all the way from Ashe-Katarion snapped from an upper story: a gray eagle on a white field, half concealed behind a rearing red scorpion.

The tower itself was protected by the Heavenly Guard, but Marcus had placed his own sentries at a polite distance, reliable men from the First Battalion. The last thing he needed was an altercation, and he also wanted to discourage any covert investigation of the prince’s things. A dozen sealed wagons had accompanied the royal court on the retreat, and camp rumor said they’d been filled with as much of the Vermillion Throne’s relics and treasury as the prince had been able to lay hands on.

Marcus’ sentries saluted and stepped aside at his approach, but the pair of Khandarai flanking the door were more obstinate. Marcus had to bite his lip to keep from smiling at their earnest scowls. No doubt the Heavenly Guard had once been a fearsome fighting force, but that time was long past. More-recent princes had filled the ranks with aging sycophants, and these two presented a typical example. Both were gray-haired, and the one on the left had rolls of fat threatening to burst around the edges of his gilded breastplate. The spears they bore were elaborately worked with gold and silver wire.

One of them banged the butt of his weapon on the flagstones as the two officers approached and barked a challenge in Khandarai. Marcus turned to Janus and translated. “He wants to know who we are.”

A smile flickered across the colonel’s face, there for an instant and gone again, like heat lightning.

“Tell him the new colonel begs an audience with the Chosen of Heaven,” he said.

Marcus made a sour face, but translated dutifully. His Khandarai was rough and ready, and his accent was atrocious, but the guard understood him well enough. He and his companion stepped apart and gestured the two Vordanai through the doorway.