THE THOUSAND NAMES.

The Shadow Campaigns.

DJANGO WEXLER.

For Rachel and Stanley, who believed.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

I have a lot of people to thank, so let me get right to it, in roughly chronological order.

This is not, in any sense, a historical novel. At best it was inspired by history, in the loosest Hollywood sense of the word. But it began with my interest in history, and the inspiration for that is almost entirely traceable to a series of late-night conversations with Neal Altman and Konstantin Koptev (among others) after sessions of CMU's Vermillion Anime Club.

Neal's impromptu mini-lectures sparked an interest that has turned into a lifelong hobby. Later, he got me into historical waragaming and introduced me to the equally knowledgeable Jim Naughton. The two of them happily lent me stacks of reading material, and from that (as usual) everything else followed. So many thanks to Neal, Jim, and everyone else who pushed lead in Jim's bas.e.m.e.nt. Keep rolling sixes, guys.

I read many wonderful histories, but a few stand out as particularly inspiring. David G. Chandler's The Campaigns of Napoleon probably led in as straight a line to The Thousand Names as anything did. He manages to make real events as thrilling to read about as anything in fiction, and it leaves me in awe. When I started working on the larger context of the series, Simon Schama's Citizens provided a similar service. Those two, and all the other hardworking historians who don't get to just make this stuff up like I do, have my everlasting grat.i.tude.

In more recent history, I have been a.s.sisted at every turn by any number of talented and sympathetic individuals: Dr. John Baer helped me through a very difficult time, and without him I'm not sure this book would ever have reached its first draft.

Elisabeth Fracalossi did yeoman's work as the alpha reader, getting the chapters hot off the presses and helping me through the rough patches. Knowing that at least one person is waiting for you to finish is invaluable.

My awesome beta readers provided wonderful feedback at every stage. In no particular order, thanks to Prentice Clark, Janelle Stanley, Carl Meister, Amanda Davis, Dan Blandford, and Lu Huan.

I never used to understand why, in their acknowledgments, authors always sound so pathetically grateful to their agents. Now I understand: they have magical powers. Seth Fishman's wizardry is particularly strong, and it's increasingly clear that signing on with him is probably the best single decision I ever made.

Alongside Seth was the great team at the Gernert Company-Rebecca Gardner, Will Roberts, and Andy Kifer-and Caspian Dennis at Abner Stein in the UK. My deepest thanks to all.

Last chronologically, but in no other sense, there are my editors, Jessica Wade at Roc and Michael Rowley at Del Rey UK. Their help made this book immeasurably better, and they managed the difficult trick of coediting wonderfully. My thanks as well to the talented teams at both publishers, who don't get to put their names on the book but who make sure that every little bit of it shines.

Finally, to the ghost of a certain pet.i.t caporal, I can only offer my sincere apologies.

The Thousand Names.

Prologue.

JAFFA.

The new supreme rulers of Khandar met in the old common room of the Justices, the cudgel-bearing peacekeepers and constabulary who were now the closest thing the city of Ashe-Katarion had to a civil authority. It was a gloomy s.p.a.ce, buried deep in the city's ancient gatehouse. Jaffa-dan-Iln, as Grand Justice, was the nominal host of the gathering, and he'd done his best to straighten up, removing decades of acc.u.mulated rubbish, packs of cards, dice, and misplaced papers. There was no way to hide the marks and patches on the carpets, though, or the plain sandstone walls, devoid of decoration except where some bored Justice had carved them with a belt knife. The table was cheap wood layered with stains, and the chairs were a mismatched set dragged from every room of the gatehouse. Jaffa had rearranged the bookcases and other furniture to at least conceal the more obscene bits of graffiti.

The chime of a bell on the stairs heralded the arrival of the first visitor. General Khtoba entered the room cautiously, as though advancing on an enemy position. He wore his uniform-dun trousers and jacket over a white undershirt, the jacket fringed with gold at the shoulders as befitted his rank. A crimson triangle, open on top like a squat V, had been hastily sewn over his heart to represent the fires of the Redemption. At his side was a sword so filigreed with gold and silver that it sparkled as he moved. Behind him came two other officers of the Auxiliaries, similarly uniformed but less impressively accoutred.

The general looked over the room with barely concealed distaste, selected the least tatty chair, and sat, offering Jaffa only a grunt of recognition. His officers took seats flanking him, as though they expected trouble.

"Welcome, General," Jaffa said. "Would you care for any refreshment?"

The general scowled. He had a face made for scowls, with bushy eyebrows and lips shadowed by a broad, drooping mustache. When he spoke, gold gleamed on his teeth.

"No," he said. "I would care to get this over with. Where are the d.a.m.ned priests?"

The bell downstairs rang again, as if to answer this minor blasphemy. There was the sound of a considerable party on the steps, and then the priests of the Seraphic Council entered, all in a gaggle.

Jaffa had grown up knowing what a priest looked like-either an old man, bearded and fat, in gaudy green and purple robes, or else a woman demurely shrouded in silks. This new kind, these hard-eyed young men in spare black wraps, made him uncomfortable. There were no women among their number, demure or otherwise. Their leader was a younger man with close-cropped hair and a scar under one eye who took a seat at the table opposite the general. His flock remained standing behind him.

"I am Yatchik-dan-Rahksa," he said. "Appointed by the Divine Hand to lead the Swords of Heaven and oversee the final cleansing of foreign taint from our land."

The name meant "Angel of Victory," which Jaffa supposed was appropriate enough. The Divine Hand himself had started the fashion for taking the names of angels when he'd called himself Vale-dan-Rahksa, the Angel of Vengeance. At the rate the Council was expanding, there would soon be a serious shortage of angels. Jaffa wondered what would happen when they ran out of manly, intimidating names and were reduced to naming themselves after the Angel of Sisterly Affection or the Angel of Small Crafts.

Khtoba bristled. "That cleansing should have begun weeks ago. The cursed Vordanai were like a fruit in our hands, ripe for the plucking, but they were permitted to escape. Now the task of evicting them will cost many of the faithful their lives."

"The truly faithful are always prepared to lay down their lives for the Redemption," the priest said. "But I think you overestimate the difficulty, General."

"Overestimate?" Khtoba frowned. "Perhaps you'd like to try scaling the walls of Sarhatep without the help of my guns, then."

Yatchik smiled beatifically. "Walls are no obstacle to the will of Heaven."

"So the servants of Heaven have discovered how to fly?"

"Sirs," Jaffa said. "Before we begin, I should remind you that our council is not yet complete."

"Oh, of course," the general drawled. "Let us wait to see what a bunch of boy-f.u.c.king horse thieves have to say."

"The G.o.ds value all their children," Yatchik said. "And glory comes to all who serve the Redemption."

The bell rang a third time before Khtoba could respond. The last member of the council made no noise on the stairs, and entered the chamber with only the slightest whisper of silk. He was dressed in black from head to foot, loose-fitting robes cinched at the waist, wrists, and ankles in the Desoltai style, with a black silk scarf wound around his head. His face was invisible behind his famous mask, a simple oval of brushed steel with two square holes for eyes.

This was Malik-dan-Belial, the Steel Ghost, chieftain of the desert tribes. He had risen to prominence long before the beginning of the Redemption. The Ghost's Desoltai raiders had been a thorn in the side of the prince and the Vordanai for years, and the Ghost himself was the hero of a hundred stories told in hushed whispers. It was said that he had no face, only an inky void behind the steel mask, and that he'd traded his very ident.i.ty to a demon for the ability to see the future.

No one rose as he entered, so it fell to Jaffa to greet him. He got up from his seat and bowed.

"Malik," Jaffa said. The Ghost had never claimed another name or t.i.tle. "Welcome. Please, take your seat."

"Yes, welcome," said Yatchik. "We were discussing plans for the final destruction of the Vordanai. Perhaps you might care to add your opinion?"

"It is too late," said the Ghost. His voice rasped like silk over steel, harsh with the heavy accent of the desert. "The raschem fleet has arrived, with transports and ships of war."

"I've heard nothing of this," Khtoba said. "Where did you get this information?"

The Ghost fixed the general with his blank, faceless gaze. "The ships came into sight yesterday evening."

Khtoba sat tight-lipped. The Steel Ghost had always displayed a remarkable ability to know more than he should. It was just possible that a man on a fast horse, with a string of remounts, could have covered the hundred miles between Sarhatep and the city along the coast road, but Khtoba's own men had undoubtedly been watching that road and presumably they'd seen nothing. That meant either that some Desoltai messenger had accomplished the same feat cross-country, over the scrubland and desert of the Lesser Desol, or that the Steel Ghost really did have some magic at his command.

"We'll need to confirm that," the general said. "If what you say is true, my couriers should bring the news by tomorrow."

"Even still," Yatchik said, "we know nothing of their intentions. They may mean to take the prudent course and return to their own lands."

Khtoba bared his teeth. "In which case we've lost our chance for vengeance on the foreigners and their Exopterai dogs."

"That the Redemption is accomplished is enough," said the priest. "We need spill no more blood than necessary."

Jaffa had seen the charnel pits in the great square in front of the Palace. Presumably, Yatchik would say that those deaths had been necessary.

"They will not leave our sh.o.r.es," the Ghost said. General and holy man both turned to look at him. "The transports are unloading. Men, guns, stores in great quant.i.ty."

"How many men?" Khtoba snapped, his earlier reluctance to accept the Desoltai's information forgotten.

"Three thousand, perhaps four."

The general snorted. "What can they hope to accomplish with so small a force? Can they be mad enough to believe they will defeat the Redemption? My Auxiliaries alone outnumber them."

The Ghost shrugged.

"Perhaps they mean to simply hold Sarhatep," Yatchik said. "If so, they are welcome to it. There is nothing of value so far down the coast."

"They cannot be allowed to retain a foothold," Khtoba said. "We must soak the sand in Vordanai blood and pack a ship full of their heads to send back to their king. He must understand the folly of sending armies against us."

"Then," Yatchik said, soft as a snake, "will you march against them?"

Khtoba froze. Jaffa saw the trap. The general was more afraid of the priests than of the foreigners. If he marched his strength away from the city and weakened himself in battle, there was no guarantee he would find a friendly welcome on his return.

"My friends," Jaffa said, "the city is restless. Not all have accepted the Redemption. It may be that the raschem will simply wait, and if they do, I suggest that we do the same."

"Yes," said Khtoba. "My men are needed to keep order."

In truth, the drunken soldiers of the Auxiliaries were more of a detriment to public order than a help in keeping the peace, but Jaffa knew better than to say so. Yatchik smiled.

"In that case, General, you are in accord with my own views."

Khtoba grunted, conceding the point. Jaffa turned to the Ghost.

"Can we rely on you to keep us informed as to the foreigners' movements?"

Malik-dan-Belial inclined his masked head slightly. "However," he said, "I do not believe they will stay at Sarhatep."

"Why?" said the general, anxious to be done with this council.

"Among the thousands, there is one who possesses true power. An abh-naathem. Such people do not cross the oceans to no purpose."

Khtoba snorted. "So the Vordanai have sent us a wizard, then? We'll see if his spells make him proof against cannonb.a.l.l.s."

"The power of the G.o.ds will overcome any raschem magic," Yatchik said. "Those who trust in the Redemption need have no fear of spells or demons."

The Ghost only shrugged again.

a a a Stripped of his painted cloak and staff of office, the Grand Justice pa.s.sed into the slums of Ashe-Katarion as the sun sank toward the horizon. He wore the garb of a common trader, a plain brown wrap belted with a rope, and a heavy cudgel swung from his hip.

There were parts of the city to which the writ of the prince's Justices had never extended, except in name, and this was one of them. Once there had been an informal accord between those who enforced the law and those who flouted it. The criminals kept their operations quiet and orderly, and made certain that the bodies found floating down the river never belonged to anyone wealthy or important. In return, the Justices turned a blind eye to their activities.

That peace had gone by the board with the coming of the Redemption, along with all the other unwritten rules that made the ancient city work. Some of the slums had practically emptied as the desperate poor flocked to the Redeemers' banners. Others had become armed camps, with raids and counterraids leaving corpses that lay in the street for days to be torn by packs of feral dogs.

Jaffa therefore kept one hand on his cudgel, and shot hard looks at the unwashed children who watched him from doors and alleyways. The few adults he saw were hurrying along, eyes down, intent on their own errands. This slum, known for reasons understood only by historians as the Hanging Garden, was one of those that had seen the greatest concentration of Redeemer fervor. The dwellings of those who had left to follow the holy flame had been rapidly colonized by the city's enormous population of vagrant youths, always in search of someplace to sleep where they wouldn't be bothered by thieves, pimps, or Justices.

Along with the squatters had come others who wished to hide from Ashe-Katarion's new rulers. Jaffa turned off the main street, a hard-packed dirt road pocked with occasional half-buried paving stones, and into a narrow alley. This ran on for some time, twisting and turning, and eventually opened out into an irregular courtyard.

Here, some of Ashe-Katarion's ancient architecture had survived the attentions of the years and the insatiable demand for cut stone. A broad fountain stood in the center, dusty dry now, watched over by a weathered stone G.o.d with arms spread in an att.i.tude of benediction. Erosion had blurred his features until he was unrecognizable. Uneven flagstones still floored the rest of the yard, with hard, wiry gra.s.s pushing up through the cracks between them.

It was here, in this hidden yard, that the last true servants of the G.o.ds waited. Jaffa approached the wicker chair set beside the fountain and fell to his knees, head lowered.

"Welcome, child." The figure in the chair was cloaked and hooded, despite the spring heat, and her hands were swathed in white bandages. Her voice was desiccated, cracked and dry, like the very voice of the desert.

"Holy Mother," Jaffa said, keeping his eyes on the broken flagstones, "I have news from the council."

"You bring more than news, it seems." There was a dusty sound from the cloaked woman that might have been a laugh. "Onvidaer, bring me our guest."

There was a startled squeak from behind Jaffa, and the shuffling of sandals. The Grand Justice remained in his att.i.tude of obeisance, sweat beading on his face. "I am sorry beyond words, Mother. I did not think-"

"Rise, child," the cloaked woman said. "No harm has been done. Now let us see what fish our net has caught."

Jaffa got to his feet and turned, weak with relief. Standing behind him was a young woman of fifteen or sixteen, scrawny and stick-limbed. Her skin was smudged with the filth of the slums, and she wore only torn trousers and a dirty vest. Her hair hung in thick, greasy clumps.

Onvidaer had one hand on the girl's upper arm, holding her still without apparent effort. He was a young man, only a few years older than his prisoner, but lean and well muscled, with the copper-gray skin of the Desoltai. He wore nothing but a loincloth, showing broad shoulders and a muscular chest to good effect, and his face was round, almost cherubic. His other hand held a thin-bladed dagger.

"She followed Jaffa," he announced. "For some time before he came here. But she has reported to no one."

"Such a ragged little alley cat," rasped the woman in the chair. "But what house does she belong to, I wonder?"

"No one," the girl said. Her eyes were full of defiance. "I've done nothing, I swear it. I never followed him."

"Now, now," the woman said. "Cool your anger. Were I in your position, I might do better to beg for mercy."

"I don't know who you are, or . . . or anything!"

"We will find out the truth of that soon enough." The hood turned. "Summon Akataer."

A huge shadow detached itself from the wall behind the old woman, resolving into an enormous, hairless man in leather breeches and straps. He gave an a.s.senting grunt and wandered out through the rear of the square, where empty doorways gaped into long-deserted apartments.

"Now, child," the old woman said. "Who sent you here?"