The Thousand Names (6 page)

The first floor of the tower was a single large room. When they’d arrived it had been empty, like the rest of the fortress. Now the floor was strewn with overlapping carpets, and veils of hanging silk obscured the dirty stones. Incense burned in gilded braziers, lest the nose of the Chosen of Heaven detect an odor he did not approve of. A small table was set with silver bowls of water and fruit, in case he should be hungry or thirsty.

Under the attempt at opulence, the seams were showing. The fruit on the table was dried and old-looking, and all the veils couldn’t hide the squat, utilitarian proportions of the chamber. Most damning of all, only a half dozen or so Khandarai danced attendance on the man who had once commanded the attention of thousands. A pair of young women of no obvious function lounged at the bottom of the throne, another pair wielded fans in a vain attempt to move the stifling air about, and a plump-faced man bustled up, all smiles, as Janus and Marcus approached.

The throne itself was not the actual Vermillion Throne. That hallowed seat, a marble-and-gilt monstrosity that would have half filled this room, was back in the Palace at Ashe-Katarion, no doubt being warmed by the holy bottom of some Redeemer. The servants had done their best here with carved wood and red paint, but the result was still more a chair than a throne, and Marcus thought it looked uncomfortable.

On it sat Prince Exopter, the Chosen of Heaven, Supreme Ruler of Khandar and the Two Desols. He cut the traditional figure. His own hair was cropped short beneath an elaborate painted wig that to Marcus’ eyes resembled a gaggle of snakes having an orgy, and his gray-skinned face was slathered in white and red makeup so thick that it was practically a mask. Gems and gold glittered everywhere—on his fingers, at his ears, at his throat—and the purple silk drape he wore was fastened with a diamond brooch, while seed pearls clattered gently on the fringes.

Marcus wondered if the colonel would be overawed.
I doubt it. He’s a count himself, after all.
Technically, a count might not beat a prince in the hierarchy of nobility, but the humblest peer of Vordan considered himself far superior to any Grand Pooh-Bah from abroad, no matter what lofty title the foreigner might affect.

As they entered, Janus glanced around with an expression of polite but distant interest. The round-faced man, sweating freely, bowed low in front of the pair of them.

“Welcome,” he said, in accented but passable Vordanai. “I am Razzan-dan-Xopta, minister to His Grace. The Chosen of Heaven bids you to approach his magnificence.”

The prince, his face unreadable under the caked-on makeup, said something in Khandarai. He sounded bored.

“His Grace welcomes you as well,” the minister translated. “He is most pleased that you have obeyed his summons.”

This was the part that Marcus had been dreading. While he could understand most of the natives, the denizens of the royal court spoke a formal dialect that bordered on a separate language. He couldn’t catch more than one word in four, not even enough to be certain that Razzan was providing an accurate translation.

He leaned close to Janus and whispered, “The prince may be under the impression that the only reason you were sent is because he asked them to—”

Janus held up a hand for silence, thought for a moment, and said, “Give His Grace my greetings. I have the honor to be Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran, commanding the First Colonial Infantry. I believe His Grace already knows Senior Captain d’Ivoire.”

Razzan rendered that, and listened to the response. “His Grace is most gratified that his valued friend Farus the Eighth would send him so worthy an individual.”

Janus bowed again. “I will do my utmost to live up to His Grace’s expectations.”

The prince’s lip twisted, and he rattled off something that sounded unhappy. Razzan hesitated a moment, then said, “His Grace is curious regarding the whereabouts of the rest of his fleet.”

The colonel’s expression never flickered. “The ships are all arrived, and anchored in the bay.”

Exopter spoke again, at some length.

“His Grace wonders if perhaps there has been some error in translation.” Razzan licked his lips. “Only thirteen vessels are currently in the bay, he understands.”

“That is correct.”

“But that is insufficient. His Grace’s summons to his most beneficent ally King Farus the Eighth specifically instructed him to send one hundred thousand men. Thirteen ships could never carry so many.”

Marcus almost choked on a laugh. A hundred thousand men would be most of the Royal Army, and it would take every ship on the coast to carry them. Razzan was feigning incomprehension, but the royal eyes were watchful.

“The ships have brought sufficient replacements to bring the First Colonials to full strength,” Janus said. “Along with ammunition, supplies, and other necessaries.”

Exopter snapped something. Razzan said, “Are these men of the First Colonials demons, then? Does each fight with the strength of ten men? Are they impervious to bullets?”

No hint of a smile crossed Janus’ expression, but Marcus could hear the amusement in his voice. “They are brave and skilled, but I must admit that they are only men.”

“Then His Grace would like to know how you plan to go about regaining his kingdom with a single regiment.” Razzan said it politely, and looked apologetic, but there was a gleam in the prince’s eyes, as though he’d just delivered a killing stroke. “Or, perhaps, you plan no such thing? Perhaps our friend the king has abandoned his sworn duties?”

“His Majesty would never dream of it,” Janus said. “As for regaining your kingdom, you may rest assured that the matter has my full attention.”

The prince drawled a response, and Razzan turned pale. Before he could muster a suitably watered-down translation, Janus rattled off a string of court Khandarai so perfect that the obsequious minister gaped. Even the prince was taken aback, eyes widening under the painted mask. Marcus blinked.

“If that’s all,” Janus continued in Vordanai, “then I will take my leave. Please thank His Grace for his time.”

He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, the pair of Heavenly Guards parting before him. Marcus hurried to keep pace, feeling like a boy running at the heels of an older brother. He waited until they were well clear of the tower to speak.

“I didn’t know you spoke the language, sir.” He tried to keep his tone neutral, but it still felt uncomfortably accusatory.

“I speak seven languages,” Janus said absently. “In addition to the usual Vordanai, Noreldrai, and Hamveltai, I have made a particular study of Borelgai, Murnskai, Vheedai, and Khandarai.” He shrugged. “Though I will admit I needed to brush up on the more formal usages. I found the time aboard ship most conducive to study, as there was so little else to occupy the mind.”

“That’s . . . very impressive.”

Janus shook his head and seemed to come back to himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to boast.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“If we’re to work together, Captain, it is important that we be honest to ourselves and one another about our capacities. I’m sorry if I caught you off guard.”

“It just surprised me, sir.” Marcus hesitated. “What did the prince say to you? I can follow most Khandarai, but not that formal stuff.”

Janus’ lip quirked. “He said that my full attention didn’t amount to much, considering that the king had sent the dregs of his officer corps.”

“Dregs” was a fair description of the Colonials, but that hit a little close to home. Marcus winced. “And what did you say to him?”

“I told him that since he was coming to us as a beggar, dregs were the best that he should expect.” The quick smile again. “I suppose that was not . . . diplomatic of me.”

“After he insulted His Majesty, it’s only understandable,” Marcus said loyally. “But . . .”

Janus noticed the hesitation and cocked his head, birdlike. “What is it? You may always speak freely with me, Captain, provided we are alone.”

He took a deep breath. “Do you really intend to try to recapture Khandar, sir? Most of the men are expecting to get right back aboard the transports and sail home.”

There was a long silence. Janus regarded Marcus thoughtfully, his gray eyes glittering. There was something extraordinary about those eyes, Marcus thought. They seemed to look
through
you, past all the trappings and courtesies and even through flesh and blood until they got at your very essence. If there really was a Beast of Judgment, it would have that sort of stare.

“And what are you expecting, Captain?” Janus said softly.

“I—” Marcus stopped, sensing a trap. “I wouldn’t venture to anticipate your plans, sir.”

“But what would your opinion be?” Janus leaned closer. “What would you do, if the command was yours?”

Turn tail and never look back.
Marcus shook his head slowly. “According to the last reports before we retreated, the Redeemer army at Ashe-Katarion was nearly twenty thousand strong. It will be larger by now. Then there’s General Khtoba”—he wanted to spit at the sound of the name—“and his Auxiliaries, six battalions worth of Vordanai-trained and Vordanai-armed soldiers. And ever since this Steel Ghost whipped up the Desoltai and threw in their lot with the priests . . .” He spread his hands. “If we’re up to full strength, we’ll have nearly four thousand men.”

“A bit more,” Janus interrupted, “with the attached cavalry and artillery.”

“A bit more than four thousand,” Marcus agreed. “Against—call it thirty thousand. Six to one against us, and that’s only counting soldiers in the field. Practically the whole population of Ashe-Katarion wanted to see the back of the prince by the time the Redeemers had gotten them fired up.”

“Six to one,” Janus said. “Those are long odds.”

“Long odds,” Marcus said. “I’m not saying my men aren’t up to a fight, sir. If we had another brigade, a few more guns, maybe a regiment of cuirassiers, I wouldn’t hesitate. But long odds are long odds.”

Janus gave a slow nod. Then, as though reaching a decision, he grinned.

“Would you care to take your dinner with me, Captain? I suppose I owe you an explanation.”

•   •   •

Before dinner there were a few hours of daylight remaining. That meant more paperwork. There was no way around it; the ledgers and files of the Colonials had gotten woefully out of date during Ben Warus’ tenure, in spite of Fitz’ clandestine efforts to clean up his brother’s messes, and Marcus had hardly had time to make a start on the backlog. Now, with upward of two thousand new recruits needing to be added to the rolls and dozens of rank amateurs for sergeants and lieutenants, the ocean of bureaucratic requirements threatened to close over his head.

Marcus was not a man to admit defeat easily, though, and he spent the rest of the day puzzling through arcane forms and adding his signature where required. He barely noticed when Fitz ghosted in and left a steaming cup by his elbow. When he reached out for it and took a sip, though, the taste made him look up.

“Tea?” he said. “Real tea? Have you been holding out on us, Lieutenant?”

The young man smiled. “From the fleet, sir. Compliments of the colonel, as a matter of fact.”

Marcus pursed his lips and blew across the top of the mug, then took a longer swallow. The delicate flavor worked like some sorcerer’s incantation, flinging him across the miles and years to a safer time. For a moment he was back at the War College at Grent, letting a steaming mug cool by his elbow as he worked his way through another dense text on tactical theory and half listened to Adrecht prattle about the latest campus gossip. He closed his eyes.

The Khandarai drank coffee—a rare delicacy in Vordan, but so cheap here that you could buy the raw beans for pennies to the bushel. They liked it dark and sludgy, and heavily spiced. It was a taste Marcus had managed to acquire over the years, and it certainly packed a kick that would keep you up for half the night, but still . . .

He breathed out, feeling at least fractionally more at peace. “Thank you, Fitz.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

Marcus opened his eyes. “Speaking of the colonel . . .”

“Yes, sir?”

“It appears he’ll be requiring my services, at least part of the time. I’ll be relying on you to take care of the First.”

Properly speaking, Marcus should have had at least two more field lieutenants to whom he could delegate command authority in his absence so that his staff lieutenant could concentrate on staff work. As it was, though, Fitz wore all the hats, sometimes simultaneously.

“Of course, sir. No need to worry on that score.” He hesitated. “If I may, sir . . .”

Marcus sipped at the tea and waved a hand. “Hmm?”

“What’s your impression of the colonel?”

“He’s . . .” Marcus paused, thinking. “He’s very clever.”

Fitz frowned. “Clever” was not a good thing in the lexicon of the common soldier. Clever officers came up with elaborate plans that backfired at just the wrong moment and got you killed.

“He’s a count,” Marcus went on, “but he doesn’t stand on privilege. Likable, I suppose, but there’s something”—he thought of those eyes, gray and judging—“something a little
odd
. I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I’ve just met the man myself.”