by Jim Butcher
“Lord Riva thinks that a ring-shaped causeway circling about forty miles out from the old capital could be completed in three to five years—the hub of a wagon wheel, as it were.”
Tavi nodded. “It will take us that long to clear all the croach around there in any case. What did he say about a more efficient map of new causeway routes?”
“Twenty-five years, minimum,” Ehren said. “You don’t want to know the cost estimate.”
Tavi grunted. “Well. Nothing’s ever easy, is it? Ask him to draft a more complete proposal, and we’ll see if we can’t start the groundwork while we’re laying out this new hub.”
“Very well, sire,” Ehren said. “I’d like to suggest that the next time you watercraft to the Realm, you mention the need for those Citizens still in croach-covered territory to continue killing spiders whenever possible. In fact, I’d suggest that you place a bounty on them.”
Tavi frowned. “Interesting. Why?”
“The spiders are responsible for the rapid spread of the croach, sire. The croach seems to generate enough spiders to support it, spontaneously, and the more of them we kill, the harder the croach has to work to replace them, and the slower it grows. The spiders are relatively weak, and should prove a capable testing ground for our younger Citizens—and for our Romanic scholars to test whatever new devices they create.”
“You’ve been reading Varg’s books again,” Tavi commented.
Ehren shrugged and smiled faintly.
“What’s happened to us, Ehren?” Tavi asked, bemused. “Last year we were marching with Legions and saving the Realm. Now we’re negotiating treaties, planning roads, and implementing policies. What we’re doing now isn’t really fighting a war. We’re just pioneering our way back to places we’ve already been.”
Ehren rose and neatened the sheaf of papers in his hand by rapping them gently on the desk. “We’ve passed through the interesting parts of history, sire. May we never see them again. I’m completely in favor of a nice, long, boring stretch.”
“Seconded,” Tavi said fervently.
Ehren inclined his head. “Oh. Congratulations, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Tavi said, smiling. “You’ll join us for dinner sometime soon, I hope.”
“Of course, Tavi. My best to Kitai.” Ehren departed as quietly and efficiently as he’d entered, and Tavi stretched out in his chair for a moment with his eyes closed. Outside, sleet mixed with early snow clicked and whispered against the windows, though it was only midautumn. This winter looked like it would be a bad one. He’d been spending most of his focus—and money—on making sure the Realm was ready to face a long, cold season.
Actually, it had come more easily than he’d expected. It was much like managing a Legion, save that in the Legion there was an absence of dissension. (Though upon thinking about it, Tavi decided that one little fact made for quite an astounding difference.) Still, the basic principles applied—recruit reliable subordinates and delegate authority in accordance with their talents. Help them when they needed it and stay out of their way when they didn’t. Make absolutely clear what you expect from the people working for you and make sure rewards or discipline were consistent and fair.
So far, he thought, things could have been worse.
There was a knock at his chamber door, which opened a breath later. “Sire?” asked his valet’s quiet voice. “Are you ready?”
“As I can be, I suppose.” Tavi rose and checked his appearance in the mirror. His hair was short and newly trimmed, his beard likewise. The cloth-of-gold tunic was heavy, and all the gems didn’t make it feel any lighter. Still, it didn’t weigh as much as armor.
Fidelias, still wearing Valiar Marcus’s face, entered the chamber and shut the door behind him.
“Sire,” he said. “The guests have all arrived. No one has attempted to gut anyone. Today.”
Tavi glanced over at him and showed his teeth. “Well. We didn’t expect forging the Alliance to be simple.”
“Naturally not,” Fidelias said, setting down a tray that doubtless had a collection of light snacks on it. Tavi had been insisting on avoiding it for weeks, and it had become a kind of game for the sentenced man to provide Tavi with appetizing temptations. Tavi ignored them. Almost always. “What has most of the Citizens upset is how you handled the land grant for the Canim.”
Tavi shrugged. “They’re welcome to Parcia if they can take it for themselves. It’s the city deepest in vord-held territory. It’s our premier seaport, and the Canim have forgotten more about shipbuilding than our own shipwrights know.” He shrugged. “Besides, if we didn’t give them someplace to call their own, they’d take it anyway—and they wouldn’t be inclined to be terribly friendly afterward. They’ll be taking Free Alera with them, I’m certain—and any holders there who don’t want to operate under Canim rule are free to seek another steadholt under a different lord.”
“High Lord Varg.” Fidelias sighed. “You know why they’re truly upset about it, don’t you?”
“Because someone without furycraft has been made a High Lord,” Tavi replied. “My heart bleeds for the poor lambs.” He took the cover off the tray and found it stacked with small meat pastries. They smelled heavenly. He gave Fidelias a murderous look. “Mark my words. The day is coming when anyone who wishes Citizenship will be able to work for it and get it. When brains will get you further than any fury ever could. And when we overempowered engines of destruction will be a quaint reminder of the past, not masters of the future.” He put the lid back down with a sharp clang. “Someone should write that down. They can quote me later, the way they do all the other First Lords.”
“I believe they’ll save that for your words upon being dragged away to be locked in a tower as a raving madman,” Fidelias replied.
Tavi burst out into a quick belly laugh. “No, I’m not quite mad yet. How are the plans for the new program coming along?”
“Covert plans for the covert training of covert operatives? If I told you, I’d have to kill you, sire.”
Tavi grinned at him. “I’ll take that to mean ‘well enough.’ ”
Fidelias nodded. “Sha has been most helpful. I enjoy working with him. Though his ideas of teaching methods are rather different than mine.” He cleared his throat, and asked, “Sire? Do you really intend to wait before taking the battle to the vord in Canea? Senator Valerius—”
Tavi threw up his hands. “Augh. I am sick of hearing that man’s name. He wants me to lead an expedition to Canea to find the last queen, does he?”
“Exactly.”
“Thus getting rid of me, which should make his campaign to frustrate everything I’m trying to build somewhat simpler.” Tavi shook his head. “If we have taken all of Alera back in ten years, we’ll be doing well. And that’s vital. We absolutely cannot leave the vord supply caches lying all over the place. And I don’t like our chances in Canea anytime in the next thirty years or so. It’s huge over there. We don’t have enough bodies to get the job done.”
“But you do acknowledge that it must happen.”
“Probably,” Tavi said. “Eventually. But for now . . . the vord in Canea are just too bloody useful.”
Fidelias frowned. “Sire?”
“Right now we’ve got something the world has never seen before: a working alliance among the Canim, the Marat, the Icemen, and Alera. Over the past century or three, how many Alerans have been killed fighting them, hmm?”
“Using the vord to hold the Alliance together. Risky.”
Tavi spread his hands. “The fact of the matter is that none of us can stand up to the vord on our own. The only way we have a chance is together. And the only way we’ll ever be able to take the battle to them in Canea is to live in peace with one another now and build something capable of defeating them.”
“Build something. Like this universal Academy you’ve been talking about.”
“That’s one element, yes,” Tavi said. “Our peoples have a lot to teach each other. The Academy
is an excellent way to do that.”
“I don’t see what we can teach the Canim or the Marat, Captain. It’s not as though we can give them lessons in furycraft.”
Tavi suppressed his own grin. “Well. You never know when some furyless freak is going to develop talent. Do you.”
Fidelias eyed him for a moment, then sighed. “You aren’t going to explain, are you.”
“It’s a First Lord’s sacred right. I get to be cryptic whenever I want. So there.”
Fidelias huffed out a short laugh. “All right. That’s an argument I’m not going to win.” His face sobered. “But . . . sire. Given my sentence . . . I thought you’d have settled my account by now.”
“Haven’t I?” Tavi asked him. “Fidelias ex Cursori is dead. His name is black and ruined. He betrayed a dead First Lord for the sake of a High Lord and Lady who are also dead. All that he wrought for either patron has been destroyed. The labor of a lifetime, gone.”
The man who wore Valiar Marcus’s face looked down. There was bitterness in his eyes.
“I sentence Fidelias ex Cursori to death,” Tavi continued quietly. “You will die in service to me, laboring under another name, a name that will be heaped with well-deserved honor and praise. I sentence you to go to your grave knowing how things might have been had you never strayed from my grandfather’s service. I sentence you to die knowing that the First Lord who should have crucified you six months ago is instead granting you trust, a staff, and an expense account that a fictional man deserves far more than you do.” He leaned forward. “You have too much talent to throw away. I need you. You’re mine. And you’re going to help me build the Alliance.”
Fidelias grunted. Then he asked, very quietly, “How do you know I won’t betray you?”
“The question is,” Tavi replied, “how do you know I won’t betray you?”
Fidelias looked a bit taken aback by that logic.
“I’m arrogant sometimes, but I’m not a fool. Don’t think that I’m not watching you very carefully. I’m simply willing to invest in the paranoia it takes to make sure I get full use out of you. The Realm needs it.” He lowered his voice. “The Realm needs heroes. The Realm needs you, Marcus. And I have no intention of letting you go to waste.”
The other man blinked his eyes once, and nodded. “Crows,” he said quietly. “If only Sextus had your courage.”
“Courage? He was no coward,” Tavi said.
“Not physically, no,” Marcus answered. “But . . . the courage to look at the truth and admit to himself what it was. The courage to strive for something that was right even if it seemed impossible. He never walked out of the bounds set for him by his father’s fathers. Never even considered that our future might be different than our past.”
Tavi smiled slightly. “Well. He didn’t have the benefit of my fine education and upbringing.”
“True.”
Marcus squared his shoulders and faced him. “For what it’s worth, I’m yours, Captain. Until death takes me.”
“That’s been true since the Elinarch,” Tavi replied quietly. “Please return to the party below and tell them that I’ll be down in a moment.”
Marcus saluted Legion style, despite his lack of uniform, and departed quietly.
Tavi sat down on a chair and closed his eyes for a moment. Now that the day was upon him, this entire notion of marriage seemed a great deal more . . . permanent than it had before. He took some slow breaths.
There was a ripple of water in the little pool in the room, and a ghostly voice whispered, “Young Gaius?”
Tavi rose and hurried to the pool. It was the only way Alera could still appear to him. Over the six months since Third Calderon, she had continued fading away, appearing less frequently and for less time. Tavi leaned over and smiled down at the water, where the ghostly reflection of Alera’s face had appeared.
“You are to be wed,” Alera said. “That is a significant moment. You have my warmest regards upon this day.”
“Thank you,” Tavi answered quietly.
She smiled at him, the expression kindly, and somehow satisfied. “We shall not speak like this again.”
A little pang went through Tavi’s chest at the words—but he had known that the day was coming. “I will miss speaking with you.”
“I cannot say the same,” Alera responded. “For which I find myself . . . somewhat grateful. It would be awkward.” She inhaled slowly, then nodded. “Are you sure you wish to continue on the path you have begun?”
“Well. You say I introduced you to Kitai, without realizing it, because of our bond. That’s why you can speak to her.”
“Indeed.”
“Then you should trust me. Interaction with the other Marat will be just as rewarding, on some level. As it will with the Canim. And the Icemen are already watercrafting, whether they realize it or not. It’s hardly any change at all.”
“I somehow do not think that the lords of your ancestral line would agree. Nor would they agree with the concept of . . . how did you phrase it?”
“Merit-based furycraft,” Tavi said. “Those who want more of it should be able to work to get it. It’s only fair. We’re losing the contribution of talented minds in every generation simply because they were not born with enough furycraft for their ideas to be respected. If that doesn’t change, we won’t survive.”
“I quite agree,” Alera replied. “And I’m willing to implement your plan before the end. I’m just . . . surprised to find the attitude in a mortal.”
“I’ve had everything,” Tavi said, gesturing at the room. “And I’ve had nothing. And I’ve made my peace with being in either place. That’s not something many of my ancestors can say.”
“Your people will look at this year, in the future, and they will call it a great marvel. They will call it the day your kind stepped from darkness into light.”
“Provided such ridiculously arrogant know-it-alls actually survive to do so, I will be content,” Tavi replied.
“You have a century and a half, by my estimation. Perhaps two. And then the Canean vord queen will come for you.”
Tavi nodded. “Then I’ll make us ready. Or get us part of the way there, at least.”
“Strange,” Alera said. “I feel a certain empathy for you, knowing that great events are to come, but that I will not be there to see them. I feel more like a mortal now than at any time I have existed in this form.”
“That’s to be expected. You are, after all, dying.”
Alera smiled, the expression warm. “True,” she whispered. “And not true. Some part of me, young Gaius, will always be with you, and your children after you.”
“What do you mean?” Tavi asked.
But the reflection in the water was his own.
He stared down at the pool for a few moments more, just to be sure. Then he rose and firmly watercrafted the tears from his eyes and marched off toward his fate.
Tavi met Kitai outside the Rivan amphitheater, where the Senate, the Citizenry, and anyone else who could squeeze into the building were waiting. The young Marat woman was wearing a white gown that left one shoulder bare and draped across her rather fetchingly. Trimmed in gold and studded with pearls and gems, her gown was easily a match for his own tunic. Granted, the Horse Clan hair-style she wore would have scandalized the Realm, even if she hadn’t dyed her pale hair in brilliant colors. He’d pointed it out gently to her a few days back, and she’d responded that her mane was dyed in the royal colors of vibrant red and blue, and so what did anyone have to be scandalized about?
Isana and Araris were there as well, both dressed in the green and browns of Lord Calderon’s House, standing next to Bernard himself. Isana embraced Tavi when he appeared, and said, “What happened to your collar? It looks . . . stretched.”
“I stretched it, in the interests of breathing,” Tavi replied.
His mother smiled at him, her eyes wrinkling at the corners. “Well. It will do, I suppose. You’ve always looked too thin, the past
few years.”
Tavi turned to Araris and offered his hand. The swordsman took it, his sun-browned skin rough and warm, then embraced him in a brief, tight hug. “Your father would be proud of you, Tavi.”
Tavi grinned at him. “Thank you, Count and Countess Rillwater.”
“For goodness’ sake, Tavi,” Isana said. “You didn’t have to appoint us to the Citizenry.”
“I’m the First Lord,” Tavi told her, smiling. “That’s what you get for having a quiet, private ceremony when I’m busy fighting vord. Suffer.”
Bernard let out a rumbling laugh and embraced Tavi hard enough to make his ribs creak. “Watch it, boy. There are enough folk around who remember how to let the air out of your head if it swells too much.”
Tavi returned the embrace, grinning. “Look how much good it did me when I was young, eh?”
Bernard snorted and put a hand on Tavi’s shoulder. He looked him up and down and nodded. “You’ve done well, boy.”
“Thank you,” Tavi said quietly, “Uncle.”
“Lord Uncle,” corrected Amara, her gold-brown eyes sparkling as she appeared from behind her husband. She held a bundled infant over her swelling belly. “You both look wonderful,” she said to Tavi and Kitai. “Congratulations.”
“Hah,” Kitai said, staring at Amara. “You are as big as a house. How did you hide behind him?”
Amara flushed and laughed, clearly both embarrassed and pleased. “Endless practice.”
“When are you due?” Kitai asked.
“Another three months or so,” Amara said. She glanced over her shoulder, evidently an instinctive movement, and said, a bit plaintively, “Bernard.”
Tavi’s uncle glanced over to a nearby fountain, where a young girl was apparently leading two even younger boys on an expedition walking around its narrow rim. “Masha,” Bernard called, and started walking toward them. “Masha, stop trying to get your brothers to fall in.”
“Brothers?” Kitai asked.
“Adopted,” Amara said. She looked down again, her expression both pleased and demure. “There were so many children in need of a home, after Third Calderon. We weren’t expecting me to . . . to be expecting. Isana says it was the Blessing of Night that repaired the damage the Blight did to me.”
