by Jim Butcher
“No,” she replied tartly. “Though if it cost an Aleran money every time he wanted to kill something, it might have helped make your people’s history much less interesting reading.” She looked down at him for a moment, smiling, then asked, “Do you think the jewels are beautiful, Aleran?”
Tavi touched her cheek. “I’d like to see you in nothing else.”
Her smile widened. “That,” she said, “would be wholly inappropriate, my lord Octavian.” But her hands very slowly rose to the nape of her neck, and the clasp of the gown. Tavi let out another low, growling sound, and felt his hand curling possessively on the line of her waist.
Hoofbeats came rapidly thudding toward the isolated pavilion. The guards, who were stationed in a loose line forty yards down the hill at Magnus’s insistence, against the possibility of further vord infiltrators, began exchanging passwords with the messenger, whose voice was pitched high with excitement.
Tavi groaned and rested his forehead against Kitai’s . . . gown for a moment. “Of course. Something happens now.”
Kitai let out a low, wicked laugh, and said, “We could just keep going, if you like.”
“Bloody crows, no,” Tavi said, flushing again. He rose, lifting her as he did, and set her gently down on her feet. “Do I look all right?”
She leaned up and licked the corner of his mouth, eyes dancing, then wiped it with a napkin. She straightened the lines of his dress tunic slightly, and said, “You look most proper, my lord Octavian.”
He growled beneath his breath, something about remembering not to kill the messenger, and walked to draw aside one of the cloths that veiled the pavilion’s interior. A Legion valet was hurrying up the slope beside a messenger in the armor of an Antillan militiaman. The Antillan strode up the hill in the precisely spaced stride of an experienced legionare, stopped before Tavi, and saluted crisply. “Your Highness.”
Tavi returned the salute. The messenger was a senior centurion of the force defending the city, come out of retirement for the task, and was closer to fifty than forty. “Centurion . . . Ramus, isn’t it?”
The man smiled and nodded. “Aye, sir.”
“Report.”
“Compliments of the Lord Seneschal Vanorius, sir, and there’s been word from Riva.”
Tavi lifted his eyebrows. “A watersending?”
“Yes, si—” The centurion’s eyes had flicked past Tavi to Kitai, and the words choked in his throat. He coughed sharply, then inclined his head and saluted again. “Ah. Please excuse the intrusion, lady Ambassador.”
Tavi checked, just to be sure the gown was still on. It was. But with Kitai, you never really knew. He couldn’t blame Ramus for faltering, though. She looked stunning. “Word from Riva, centurion?” Tavi prompted.
“Yes, sir,” the man said. “Lord Aquitaine reports that the city is under attack.”
Tavi blinked and arched an eyebrow, permitting himself no further sign of surprise. “Really?”
“How?” Kitai demanded sharply.
“The message wasn’t a long one, sir,” the centurion replied. “My lord Vanorius said to tell you that some kind of interference ended it almost before it had begun. Just that Aquitaine appeared, in his visage and voice, having somehow driven through the interdiction the vord have kept on watersendings until, um, recently, Your Highness.”
“Well, then,” Tavi said. He inhaled once, nodded to himself, then glanced sharply over his shoulder at Kitai.
She nodded, already drawing on a dark traveling cloak. “I will speak to her immediately.”
“Thank you,” Tavi said. As Kitai left he said, to Ramus, “Centurion, please give the Lord Seneschal my compliments and inform him that our plans to depart have just been moved up by thirty-six hours. I’ll be moving the troops tonight. The city must be prepared to receive the auxiliaries and refugees a little sooner than we expected.”
“Yes, sir,” Ramus said, but his eyes were hard with suspicion.
Tavi eyed him. Ramus was only one man—but he was the kind of man other legionares listened to. The Antillans and the Canim were about to be left alone with one another in hideously dangerous proximity. This was an opportunity to plant a useful seed, one he’d sown as often as possible over the past days. “Centurion,” Tavi said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d speak your mind.”
“They’re Canim, sir,” the legionare spat. “They’re animals. I fought their raiders in my time in the Legions. I’ve seen what they do to us.”
Tavi considered his answer for a moment before giving it. “I could say that the Legions make use of animals in war on a daily basis, Ramus,” he said, finally. “But the truth of the matter is that they are their own people. They are our enemies, and they make no pretense otherwise.” He smiled, baring his teeth. “But we both have a bigger problem today. I’ve fought with the Canim personally, both against them and beside them, centurion, and I’ve got the scars to prove it. I’ve spent more time in the field against them than any Aleran commander in history. They’re vicious, savage, and merciless. And they keep their word.”
Tavi put a hand on the centurion’s shoulder. “Follow orders, soldier. They’ll follow theirs. And if we’re smart and lucky, maybe we’ll all get to cut one another’s throats next year.”
Ramus frowned. He began to turn, and hesitated. “You . . . you really think that, son? Er, sir?”
“No two ways about it. They’re in the same corner we are. And there’s some of them I’d sooner trust at my back than a lot of Alerans I’ve known.”
Ramus snorted. “Ain’t that the crowbegotten truth.” He squared his shoulders and slammed a fist to his chest. “I’ll take word to my lord Vanorius, sir.”
“Good man,” Tavi said. He drew the dagger from the centurion’s belt, turned, and speared what remained of his roast onto the end of it. Then he passed the knife back to the man. “For the ride back. No sense in letting it go to waste. Good luck to you, centurion.”
Ramus took the dagger back with a small, quick grin. “Thank you, Your High—”
A wind suddenly screamed down out of the north, a wall of cold air thirty degrees colder than the still-chilly northern night. One moment, the night was quiet, and the next the wind threatened to rip the pavilion from the ground.
“Bloody crows,” Ramus cried, lifting a hand to shield his face. Whipped by the wind, the sea below almost seemed to moan protest as its surface was lashed into a fine spray. “What’s this?”
Tavi lifted his own hand and faced north, peering at the sky. Clouds were being swallowed by a grey darkness spreading from north to south. “Well,” he said, baring his teeth in a snarling smile, “it’s about bloody time.”
He put a hand to his mouth and used a couple of fingers to let loose a whistle piercing enough to carry even over the sudden roar of cold wind, a trick his uncle Bernard had taught him while shepherding. He made a quick signal to the line of guards, who gathered in on him with alacrity.
“That’s enough vacation, boys,” he said. “Break out your extra cloaks. It’s time for us to save the Realm.”
CHAPTER 14
Valiar Marcus became aware that he was being stalked before he’d passed the fourth row of Legion tents in the first quadrant of the First Aleran’s camp. At night, the silent rows of bleached, travel-stained canvas were silent except for the occasional snore. Walking among them could be an eerie experience, like walking in a graveyard, the tents falsely aglow with the light reflected from the standard-issue bleached canvas. It was not easy to slip through a Legion’s grid of white tents without presenting a conspicuous dark profile against the fabric—which was by and large the reason every Legion used white canvas in the first place. But it could be done by one patient and skilled enough.
Marcus wasn’t sure what had tipped him off to the presence of his tail. He had long since ceased to question his knowledge of such things. He’d been in the business his entire life, and his mind seemed to assemble dozens of tiny, nearly unconscious cues into a tangible
realization of his surroundings without any particular intent to do so on his part.
Upon reaching his tent, instead of entering he abruptly stopped in his tracks and went completely still. He reached into the earth and sent a portion of his awareness into the ground around him. The beating hearts and deep breathing of a couple of hundred legionares flowed up into him through his boots, tangible sensation that somehow felt like the background noise of waves breaking upon a shore sounded. The hasty stutter step of someone caught moving, somewhere nearby, stood out from that background like the cry of a nearby gull.
Marcus couldn’t pinpoint the exact location of his pursuer, but he did get a good general sense of the direction. He turned to face whoever it was, and said, quietly, “If your intentions are peaceful, show yourself.”
After a moment of silence, Magnus stepped out from between two tents and faced the First Spear.
“We can speak inside your tent,” Magnus murmured.
“The crows we can,” Marcus growled back, as quietly, letting his annoyance show in his voice. “I’m going to my bloody cot. And I don’t like being followed like that. A mistake in judgment on anyone’s part could make things turn ugly.”
Magnus walked closer. The old Cursor looked weary and stiff, and he studied Marcus with watery eyes. “Only if you get spotted by the mark. I’m getting old for this kind of work, First Spear. But I’ve got no one else to do it.”
Marcus tried to sound annoyed. “To spy on me?”
“You don’t add up,” the old Cursor said. “There are some mysteries hanging around you. I don’t like that.”
“There’s no mystery.” Marcus sighed.
“No? There’s some reason you are apparently so skilled in Cursor fieldcraft?” Marcus ground his teeth. One wouldn’t absolutely have had to be a Cursor to notice old Magnus following him—but he hadn’t made any mistakes, and there were few others who would have sensed Magnus’s presence. In the absence of other factors, it wouldn’t be suspicious for a veteran centurion to have done so. But with Magnus’s suspicions aroused, the First Spear had provided him with one more point of confirmation that Valiar Marcus was not who he appeared to be.
“After all we’ve been through,” he said quietly, “do you really think I’m out to harm the captain?”
“I think the captain has too high an opinion of his own cleverness,” Magnus replied. “He’s young. He doesn’t know how the world works. Or how cold-blooded it can be.”
“All right.” Marcus sighed again. “Assume you’re right. I’ve had plenty of chance to do something bad before now. And I haven’t.”
Magnus gave him a brittle smile. “If your intentions are peaceful, show yourself.”
Marcus stared at him, tempted again to confess. But that wouldn’t serve the best interests of the First Aleran or the Princeps. If he revealed himself to Magnus, he would certainly be arrested, assuming he was not executed immediately once his true identity was known. Of course, if Magnus worked things out, that would happen anyway.
But he hadn’t done it yet.
Marcus growled a well-used obscenity beneath his breath. “Good night, Magnus.”
He stalked into his tent and tossed the flap back with unnecessary force. It was as close as he could come to slamming a door. Then he kept his attention on the ground and waited until the old Cursor’s footsteps had retreated.
He reached for the lacings of his armor with a sigh and was startled half out of his wits when a Cane’s basso voice rumbled quietly, from the blackness at the back of his tent, “It is good that you did not let him in. It would have been awkward.”
Marcus turned and muttered his lone little furylamp to life at its weakest intensity. By its dim golden glow, he made out the massive form of a Canim Hunter, crouching on his cot, making the suspended canvas mattress sag with his weight. Marcus’s heart was racing at the surprise, and he stood with one hand on the hilt of his gladius. He faced the Cane for a few seconds, then asked, quietly, “Sha, isn’t it?”
The reddish-furred Cane inclined his head. “The same.”
Marcus grunted. Then he started unlacing his armor again. If Sha had meant to do him harm, it would have happened already. “I take it you aren’t here on a hunt.”
“Indeed,” the Cane said. “There are facts it would be advantageous for Tavar to have.”
“Why not go tell him then? Or write a letter.”
Sha flicked his ears casually to one side, a gesture reminiscent of an Aleran’s shrug. “They are of an internal nature. No Cane of honor could, in good conscience, reveal them to an enemy.” The Hunter’s teeth showed in a sudden flash of white. “And I could not reach the Tavar. He was engaged in a mating ritual and heavily guarded.”
“And you’ve passed sensitive information through me before,” Marcus said.
Sha nodded his head again.
Marcus nodded. “Tell me. I’ll be sure he knows.”
“How much do you know of our bloodspeakers?”
“The ritualists?” Marcus shrugged. “I know I don’t like them much.”
Sha’s ears twitched in amusement. “They are important to our society in that they serve the makers.”
“Makers,” Marcus said. “Your civilians.”
“They make food. Homes. Tools. Weapons. Ships. They are the heart and soul of my people, and the reason that warriors like my lord exist. It is they whom the warriors like my lord truly serve, they whom he is pledged to nurture and protect.”
“A cynical man,” Marcus said, “would make mention of how much serving your people seems to resemble ruling them.”
“And a Cane would call cynicism in this context nothing but a form of cowardice,” Sha replied without rancor, “a decision to think and react without integrity based upon the assumption that others will do the same. When have you seen Varg do anything but strive to protect his people?”
Marcus nodded. “True.”
“The warriors live by a code of conduct. It is how they judge the worth of their lives. When one warrior veers from the code, it is the duty of others to call him to task on it—and, if necessary, to kill him rather than allow him to overstep his authority. Varg honors the code.”
“What relationship do the ritualists have with the makers?” Marcus asked.
Sha showed his fangs again. “For the most part, a cowardly one. They, too, are meant to be the servants of the makers. Their skills are meant to safeguard the makers against disease and injury. To guard our children as they are born. To offer counsel and comfort in times of loss. To mediate disputes fairly and to discover the truth when it is unclear.”
“I’ve only seen them using their skills at war.”
Sha let out a low growl. “The bloodspeakers’ abilities depend upon blood. They are fueled by it. This you know already.”
“Yes,” Marcus said.
“There was a time when it was considered something monstrous for a bloodspeaker to use any blood but his own—just as it is repellent for any warrior to order other warriors into battle without being able and willing to fight himself.”
Marcus frowned. “That would rather sharply limit what a given ritualist could do, I take it?”
“Except in times of great need,” rumbled Sha. “Or when he was willing to die to do what he believed needed to be done. As such, the powers of the bloodspeakers were greatly respected. Their acts and sacrifices were deeply honored, even by their enemies. The depth of commitment and sincerity of a bloodspeaker was unquestionable.” Sha was silent for a moment. Then he spoke in a more detached, businesslike tone. “Some generations ago, the bloodspeakers discovered that they could greatly expand their powers by using the blood of others—the more individuals, the more potent the blood. At first they asked for volunteers—a way for makers to share in the honor and sacrifice of the bloodspeakers’ service. But some of them began to do so in war, taking the blood of their enemies and turning the power gained from it to the service of their own war powers. It was argued that the Can
im had thus outgrown the need for warriors. For many years, the bloodspeakers attempted to control the warriors—to use them to frighten and intimidate others where possible, and to serve as blood gatherers in times of war. In some ranges, the bloodspeakers were successful. In some, they were less so. In some, they were never able to gain power.”
“Why didn’t the warriors simply act against them?”
Sha looked shocked at the very suggestion. “Because they are the servants of the makers, as we are, demon.”
“Apparently not,” Marcus said.
Sha waved a hand. “The code forbids it, unless they are guilty of the grossest excesses. Many bloodspeakers did not embrace the New Way. They remained faithful to their calling, their limits. The followers of the Old Way continued to serve the makers and do great good. They worked to convince their brothers of the integrity of their point of view.”
“I take it that didn’t go well,” Marcus said drily.
“A bloodspeaker remaining faithful to his calling has little time left to spend upon politics, especially in these days,” Sha replied. He leaned forward slightly. “Those who scorn the Old Way have all the time they need to scheme and plot and speak half-truths to the makers to gain their support.”
Marcus narrowed his eyes. “I take it that one of these followers of the New Way is behind the attack on Octavian.”
“Likely,” Sha said. “Two makers were convinced to make the attempt.” His lips peeled away from his fangs in what looked to Marcus like revulsion and anger. “It is an inexcusable offense.”
Marcus shucked out of his armor, stacking the four shell-like pieces of it upon one another and tucking it under his cot. “But Varg cannot act on it?”
“Not while honoring the code,” Sha replied. “There are still followers of the Old Way among the bloodspeakers, worthy of respect. But they are few, and do not have the power necessary to call their own to task—assuming the person in question would stand for what he has done instead of denying it.”
“If this person died, what would result?” asked Marcus.
“If his killer were known, it would cause outrage among the makers, who do not clearly see how he has betrayed them. One of his lickspittles would likely take his place.”
