The Thousand Names Part 6

"Corporal Forester?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You may relax a little, if it would make you more comfortable."

"Sir, yes, sir!" The boy shot her a grin over his shoulder. "In that case, sir, please feel free to call me Bobby. Everyone else does."

They arrived at a tent, identical to all the rest in its factory-fresh neatness, whose flap was pinned back to reveal the interior. There was only one bedroll, Winter was glad to see, along with a knee-high portable writing desk and a regulation knapsack. In the Ashe-Katarion days, Winter had gotten out of sharing a tent by buying an extra with her own money. Since the retreat, she'd been sleeping beside two soldiers of Davis' company, which clearly made them as unhappy as it made her uncomfortable. She'd been dreading a similar arrangement in her new unit, but apparently a sergeant rated a tent to himself. Maybe there's something to being promoted after all.

Winter went inside with the others. She and Bobby barely had to bow their heads, but Corporal Folsom, a tall, broad-shouldered man with blond hair and a drooping mustache, had to bend practically double, and once inside he squatted on his haunches to avoid brus.h.i.+ng the ceiling. Winter sat down on the bedroll and let out a long breath. There was another awkward silence.

"Would the sergeant like me to send someone to fetch his baggage?" Bobby suggested.

"Ah, no," Winter said. "I haven't got any, actually. Had to leave everything else behind in the retreat. In fact, I'd be grateful if you could have someone run down to army stores. I'm going to need more s.h.i.+rts, trousers"-she looked down at herself-"practically everything, really."

Bobby straightened to attention even further, if that was possible. "Sir, yes, sir! I'll attend to it at once!"

"And a sewing kit," Winter added. She'd grown practiced at making certain surrept.i.tious alterations to her s.h.i.+rts to help conceal the shape underneath, although in that respect it helped that she didn't have that much to conceal.

Bobby saluted, drillbook-perfect, and hurried out of the tent as though his life depended on it. Winter looked from one corporal to the other in the embarra.s.sed silence that followed.

"Corporal . . . Graff, was it?" she said.

"Yessir," Graff said. "I have to apologize for Bobby, sir. He's a good lad, but . . . keen, you know? I imagine he'll grow out of it."

"I imagine so," Winter said. "Are you three the only corporals in the company?"

"Yessir. Should be three more, but we didn't have any others who'd admit to meeting the requirements."

"Requirements?"

"Reading and writing, sir. And there's a test on regulations. Bobby volunteered, I was a corp'ral already, and we talked Jim here into it." He shrugged. "Now that we're in the field, maybe the lieutenant will tap some more men for the job."

Winter nodded. "What's the lieutenant like?"

"Couldn't say, sir," Graff said. "Haven't met the man."

"But-"

"He only joined the comp'ny just before we set sail," the corporal explained. "Officers were on a separate s.h.i.+p, of course. And he hasn't stopped by yet."

"I see," Winter said. "And how many men have we got?"

Graff looked suddenly worried. "A hundred and twenty, sir," he said slowly, as though explaining to an idiot. "That's a company's worth."

Winter thought about telling him that none of the old companies in the Colonials had more than eighty, and some many fewer, but decided against it. Instead she turned to the third corporal, who hadn't yet spoken.

"You're Corporal Folsom, then?"

The big man nodded.

"Have you been with the army long?"

He shook his head. Winter, in the face of such implacable silence, looked to Graff for support. He shrugged.

"Jim doesn't talk much," he said.

"I can see that."

Bobby returned, ducking through the open flap with a leather portfolio under one arm. He straightened up and saluted, again, then presented the portfolio to Winter with the air of someone offering a sacrament. Winter regarded him blankly.

"Reports, sir," the corporal said. "Daily sick lists, equipment, and infractions. I've been keeping them since we left the depot."

"Ah." Winter tried to smile as she took the portfolio. "I'll be sure to look through them carefully."

"Yes, sir! And once you've signed your approval, I'll forward them to the lieutenant, sir!"

"I've got to sign them all? Why?"

"Daily reports are only provisional until approved by a senior sergeant, sir. There's also the company accounts in there, sir. They've got to be tallied and brought up to date with the reports."

"You can't do that, either?"

Bobby looked shocked. "Corporals are not permitted to view the company accounts, sir!"

Winter regarded the folder in her hand as though it were some new and particularly poisonous species of scorpion. The Colonials, as far as she knew, had managed without the formality of paper accounts. Admittedly, they'd managed rather badly, all things considered, with equipment constantly in short supply and pay so far in arrears that the men joked that if they'd been allowed to collect interest they'd own the kingdom by now. Apparently things were to be different from now on. She allowed herself a moment of pleasure at the thought of Davis, a pencil between his fat fingers, trying to puzzle his way through a book of accounts.

"All right," Winter said. "I'll take care of it."

"Thank you, sir! And I've forwarded your request to the quartermasters, sir!"

"Right."

The three men looked at her. Winter stared back. After a moment Graff cleared his throat.

"Is there anything else you need from us at this time, sir?"

"What?" Winter shook her head. "Ah. No. No, that will be all, Corporal. Corporals. Thank you." She felt, vaguely, that something more was expected of her. "I look forward to working with all of you."

Bobby saluted again, his whole body vibrating with attentiveness. Graff gave a nod, and Folsom said nothing.

13th of May, 1208 YHG. One hundred thirteen present, six sick, one suspended. Ranker Gabriel Sims a.s.sessed 1b 6p for loss of cap (blown overboard). Ranker Arcturo d'Venn judged in violation of Regulations Ch. 6 Part III Para 2b, Behavior Likely to Incite Disorder. Sentence: Confinement, 2 days. Ranker Falrad Inker judged in violation of Regulations Ch. 6 Part II Para 3a, Excessive Drunkenness. Sentence: Hard Labor in service of Captain Belson, 1 day.

14th of May, 1208 YHG. On hundred fourteen present, four sick, two suspended. Ranker George Tanner a.s.sessed 4p for damage to civilian property (s.h.i.+p's rope). Ranker- Winter closed her eyes and ma.s.saged her temples, which had started to throb alarmingly. Bobby's handwriting was not helping-it had the careful precision of someone who'd practiced under a tutor's switch, but he wrote so small the words all ran together. No doubt the corporal had been motivated by a sincere desire not to consume too much of the king's paper.

She leaned back from the miniature desk, hearing something pop in her back, and looked at the discouragingly large stack that remained. Fatigue settled on her like a heavy blanket, payment for the keyed-up nervousness she'd been feeling ever since her interview with the captain. She crawled over to the bedroll and flopped onto it facedown.

This could almost work. She s.h.i.+ed away from the thought, as though even to contemplate it invited disaster. I could live with this.

So far, her secret seemed safe. And being a sergeant had definite advantages: the privacy of her own tent, and a certain automatic distance from the rankers. If a stack of account books was the worst she had to deal with, then it was undeniable that Captain d'Ivoire had done her a favor.

The remaining unknown was the company lieutenant-she'd already forgotten the man's name-and what his att.i.tude might be. Even there, though, signs were encouraging. The less time he spent with the men, the better, as far as Winter was concerned.

For the first time in weeks she allowed herself to contemplate the future with something other than a sense of dread. The fleet had been dispatched weeks ago, in response to reports of rebel strength that were themselves weeks out of date. Even rankers like Buck and Peg could see that it was fruitless to remain here now that the Redeemers had taken the capital. "Fort" Valor was a joke, a death trap. It might be a few days until the new colonel resigned himself to the situation, but soon enough they'd all be packed aboard s.h.i.+p and set a course for home.

The voyage itself loomed large in Winter's apprehensions, but that was only a discomfort to be endured, like so many others. And then . . .

The Colonials will get some awful posting. They were more or less a penal regiment, after all. Far away from the city, maybe up north, keeping the king's sheep safe from Murnskai raiders. Either way, they would be a long way from Mrs. Wilmore's, and anyone who might connect a boyish sergeant with the ragged girl who'd made her escape from that inst.i.tution.

Winter closed her eyes. Honestly, I'm sure they've forgotten all about me.

a a a "Sergeant?"

Winter surfaced from a dream of cavernous, echoing halls and a pair of haunting green eyes. For one confused moment, she was convinced she was back at Mrs. Wilmore's Prison for Young Ladies, and that Khandar and everything that had come after that was the dream.

"Sergeant? Sergeant Iherngla.s.s?"

Winter opened her eyes.

Bobby stood by the open tent flap, looking embarra.s.sed. Beyond him was the gray darkness of early evening, broken by the flickering, reflected light of campfires. Winter slowly sat up, feeling her cheeks redden. She coughed.

"Y-yes? What is it, Corporal?"

"Sorry, sir," Bobby said. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's all right." Winter yawned. "It's been a long day, that's all."

"Yes, sir. For all of us, sir." The boy hesitated. "Dinner's on outside, sir. Would you care to join us?"

Winter felt a sudden complaint from her stomach-she hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast. But she shook her head.

"I'm not sure that would be . . . appropriate."

"Then I'll bring you something, sir, as soon as it's ready," Bobby said.

"Thank you, Corporal," Winter said, with real grat.i.tude. "In the meantime I suppose I'd better get back to this paperwork."

The corporal saluted and left, letting the tent flap fall closed behind him. Winter rubbed her cheeks, trying to ma.s.sage some life into them, and then her temples, to discourage the headache she still felt looming.

From outside, there came the low buzz of voices in conversation, punctuated by the sound of laughter. She wondered, idly, how much of it was at her expense. Nothing new there, of course.

She pulled herself over to the desk and tried to focus on the accounts ledger, but the figures swam across her vision. Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms, she caught a sudden flash of green. A pair of green eyes, and a half smile.

Her fingers curled through her hair. Why now, Jane? Three years . . . Fingernails tightened on her scalp, to the point of pain, hands tightening to claws. What more do you want from me?

With some difficulty, Winter forced her hands into her lap and sat back. Her heart thumped a fast tattoo, matched by answering pulses in her temples.

Red hair, dark and slick as oil, slipping through my fingers . . .

Can you be haunted by someone who isn't dead?

There was a rap at the tent pole. Winter opened her eyes and took a long, shaky breath.

"It's me, sir. Bobby."

"Come in."

The corporal entered cautiously, obviously determined not to embarra.s.s his sergeant again. He carried a platter with a steaming tin bowl, which filled the tent with the smell of spiced mutton, and a couple of hardtack crackers. Winter took it from him, set it on the desk on top of the accounts, and attacked it with genuine enthusiasm. The retreat had wreaked havoc with the army's supply trains, and the quality of food had seriously declined since their Ashe-Katarion days. The new officers had obviously put things back in order. The mutton was in a sort of soup, not quite a proper stew, and the hardtack absorbed the juices and softened to something approaching an edible consistency.

It wasn't until she was mostly finished that she noticed the folded slip of paper on the platter beside the food. Catching her expression, Bobby gave a polite cough.

"It's a message for you, sir. We had a courier just now from the lieutenant." He paused, torn between curiosity and propriety. He obviously hadn't risked a peek.

Winter nodded and picked up the paper, breaking the blobby wax seal. The contents were short and to the point, although the scribbled signature was illegible. Winter read the note again, just in case she'd gotten something badly wrong.

"Sir?" Bobby prompted, watching her face.

Winter cleared her throat. "We're ordered to strike tents at first light tomorrow, and be ready to march by ten o'clock. Can you inform the men?"

"Yessir!" Bobby said, saluting. He turned, obviously pleased with this responsibility, and left the tent.

Ready to march? Winter gratefully let this new worry banish both the account book and her memories. Where? Down to the fleet? That was possible, of course, although she'd have thought the s.h.i.+ps would need longer to replenish their supplies. But if not there, then where? Against the Redeemers? She allowed herself a smile. She couldn't believe even a colonel would be mad enough to try that.

MARCUS.

Marcus awoke to the groans and curses of the First Battalion soldiers as their lieutenants rousted them from their tents. He dressed hurriedly, had a brief conference with Fitz, then went in search of Ja.n.u.s.

He found the colonel waiting by the gate, watching the men break camp. Aside from his horse, which stood quietly with all the well-bred dignity befitting Vordan's finest, he was alone. All around the courtyard, tents were coming down and stacked arms were being reclaimed by their owners. The First Battalion, ent.i.tled to the place of honor at the head of the march, was already starting to form up.

The regiment, Marcus thought, resembled a snake. At rest it was coiled tightly around itself, forming a more-or-less orderly camp with lines of tents, horses, and artillery parks. The work of picking up all the accoutrements would go on for some time, even as the head of the column started out. Each battalion had its a.s.signed tasks in making or breaking camp, depending on its place in the order. The First would march out, dragging the Second after it, and so on, until the snake was fully extended and crawling down the road.

It was the tail that worried him. The Preacher's guns could keep up, more or less, but on the retreat the ox-drawn supply carts had ended up strung out over miles of rough track, straggling in well after dark. Now, Marcus looked at the route ahead and imagined every rock hiding a Desoltai scout, and every defile a gang of Redeemer fanatics.

The sound of hooves from behind him took a moment to penetrate his gloom. Ja.n.u.s glanced back and said, "Ah. I believe this is our chief of cavalry. Captain, would you be so kind as to provide an introduction?"

"Of course, sir." Marcus waited while the horseman dismounted, spurs jingling. "Colonel, may I present Captain Henry Stokes? Captain, this is Count Colonel Ja.n.u.s bet Vhalnich Mieran."

"Sir!" The captain saluted, with his usual ferocity. Henry-that was what Marcus called him to his face, although he was more commonly known to officers and men alike by the nickname "Give-Em-h.e.l.l"-was a short, bandy-legged man with a pigeon chest and a peac.o.c.k's disposition. His weapons were always brightly polished, and Marcus didn't doubt that he'd given them an extra rubdown today. He wore an expression of fierce concentration.

A major contributor to Henry's inferiority complex, in addition to his height, was that the Colonials hardly had any cavalry. Members of that branch of the service were generally wealthier and better connected than those in the infantry, and thus less p.r.o.ne to-or at least more able to get out of-the kind of official disapproval that got a man sent to Khandar. To add insult to injury, the great Vordanai stallions and geldings so beloved of the hors.e.m.e.n fared poorly in the arid climate, so by now most of the captain's hundred or so troopers were mounted on smaller, st.u.r.dier Khandarai breeds.

"Captain," Ja.n.u.s said. "I regret that we have not had the chance to meet before now. Matters have, unfortunately, been busy."

"Sir!" Henry was practically vibrating with excitement. "Think nothing of it, sir! Just glad to be on the march again, sir!"

"Indeed. I'm afraid there is a great deal of hard work ahead for you and your men."

"Sir!" The cavalryman's chest was so puffed up he looked in danger of leaving the ground. "Just point the way, sir, and we'll give 'em h.e.l.l!"