Cursor's Fury, Page 41

  Tavi stopped ten feet from Nasaug, and said, “I am Rufus Scipio, Captain of the First Aleran.”

  The Cane watched him with dark and bloody eyes. “Battlemaster Nasaug.”

  Tavi wasn’t sure who moved first, and he didn’t remember consciously deciding to make the gesture, but both of them tilted their heads very slightly to one side in greeting.

  “Speak,” Tavi said.

  The Cane’s lips peeled back from his fangs, a gesture that could indicate either amusement or a subtle threat. “The situation prevented me from recovering my fallen within the time limit you granted me,” he said. “I wish your permission to recover them now.”

  Tavi felt his eyebrows lift. “Given how matters transpired before, my men may be nervous about yours so near the walls.”

  “They will approach unarmed,” Nasaug replied. “And I will remain here, within range of your Knights Flora, as a pledge of their conduct.”

  Tavi stared at Nasaug for a long moment and thought he saw a certain amount of smug amusement in the Cane’s eyes. Tavi smiled, a baring of his own teeth, and said, “Do you play ludus, Nasaug?”

  The Cane lifted his helmet from his head, ears twitching and flicking as they came out from beneath the steel. “At times.”

  “Allow me to call out a messenger to send word to my men while you send for your own. Your men, unarmed, may approach until the sun is set. I will remain here with you until that time, in order to help avoid any unfortunate misunderstandings.”

  A burbling growl came from Nasaug’s throat—quite possibly the most threatening chuckle Tavi had ever heard in his life. “Very well.”

  And so, in the next five minutes Tavi faced Nasaug across a traveling ludus set, a case whose legs unfolded to support it as a small, portable table. Plain discs of stone were carved on one side with piece designations, rather than being the full miniature statuettes of a conventional board. Tavi and Nasaug began playing, while eighty Canim, armored but unarmed, trooped forward, digging through the carnage at the base of the walls to locate the black-armored corpses of their fallen brothers in arms. None of them passed within a twenty-foot circle of the two commanders.

  Tavi watched the Cane as the game began, and he opened with what seemed to be a reckless attack.

  Nasaug, for his part, narrowed his eyes in thought as the game progressed. “Nothing wrong with your courage,” he said, several moves in. “But it does not secure a victory alone.”

  A few moves later, Tavi replied, “Your defense isn’t as strong as it might be. Pushing it hard enough might shatter it.”

  Nasaug began to move in earnest then, exchanging the first few pieces, while more moved into position, gathering for the cascade of exchanges that would follow. Tavi lost a piece to the Cane, then another, as his attack began to slow.

  Footsteps suddenly approached, and a Cane in the accoutrements of one of Sari’s acolytes stalked up to them. He bared his teeth at Tavi, then turned to Nasaug and snarled, “Hrrrshk naghr lak trrrng kasrrrash.”

  Tavi understood it: You were ordered to attack. Why have you not done so?

  Nasaug did not respond.

  The acolyte snarled and stepped up to Nasaug, put a hand on the Battlemaster’s shoulder, and began to repeat the question.

  Nasaug turned his head to one side, jaws flashing, and in a single, vicious snap tore the hand from the end of the acolyte’s arm, following it with a vicious kick that sent the other Cane sprawling, screaming in pain.

  Nasaug reached up and took the acolyte’s severed hand from his mouth and idly threw it at him without looking up from the board. “Do not interrupt your betters,” he growled, also in Canish. Tavi could make out most of it. “You may tell Sari that had he wished an immediate attack, he should have given me time to recover my fallen from the Alerans. Tell him that I will attack when and where it suits me.” The Battlemaster glanced at the acolyte, and snarled, “Move. Before you bleed to death.”

  The wounded Cane clutched the bleeding stump of his arm to his belly and retreated, making high-pitched whimpering noises in his throat.

  “Apologies,” Nasaug then said to Tavi. “For the distraction.”

  “No offense was given,” Tavi replied, his tone thoughtful. “You have little love for the ritualists.”

  “Your eyes can see the sun at midday, Captain,” Nasaug replied. He studied the board a moment later, and said, “Your strategy was sound. You know much of us.”

  “Some,” Tavi replied.

  “It took courage and intelligence to attempt it. For this, you have earned respect.” Nasaug looked up at Tavi for the first time since the game began. “But however much I may despise Sari and those like him, my duty is clear. Sari and his ritualists are few, but they have the faith of the maker caste.” He tilted an ear in a vague gesture at the enormous number of raiders. “They may be fools to believe in the ritualists, but I will not turn upon the makers or desert them. I have studied your forces. You cannot stop us.”

  “Perhaps,” Tavi said. “Perhaps not.”

  Nasaug bared his teeth again. “Your men are half-trained. Your officers were slain, your Knights far weaker than they should be. There is little help to be had from the Alerans of the city.” He pushed a ludus Lord forward, beginning his own attack. “You have not seen our caste in battle, but for the probe this morning. You will not repulse us again, Aleran. Before tomorrow’s sunset, it will be over.”

  Tavi frowned. Nasaug wasn’t posturing. There was neither threat nor anger nor enjoyment in the tone of his voice. He was simply stating a fact, attaching no emotion to it, no menace. It was far more disturbing than anything else he could have said.

  But Nasaug was a warrior Cane. If he was anything like Varg, his words were like blood—never loosed unless necessary. And then as little as possible. “I wonder why you bother to speak of it.”

  “To offer you an alternative. Retreat and leave the bridge sound. Take your warriors, your people, your young. I will give you two days to travel, in which I will make sure no forces are sent after you.”

  Tavi regarded the board for a silent moment and altered the position of a single piece. “Generous. Why offer it?”

  “I do not say we will destroy you without loss, Captain. It will save lives of my warriors and your own.”

  “Until we fight again another day?”

  “Yes.”

  Tavi shook his head. “I cannot give you the bridge. It is my duty to hold it or destroy it.”

  Nasaug nodded once. “Your gesture to allow us to take back our fallen was a generous one. Especially given how Sari dealt with you. For that, I offered you what I could.” The Cane began moving his pieces in earnest, and the rapid exchange began. It took him only three moves to see what Tavi had done, and he stopped, staring at the board.

  Tavi’s reckless assault had been nothing of the kind. He had spent a great deal of time thinking about Ambassador Varg’s stratagem in their last game together, and he had adapted it to his own strengths as a player. The sacrifice of some of his lesser pieces earlier in the game had given the greater pieces a far more dominant position, and within the next two moves he would control the skyboard completely and have the positioning and power he would need to strike down Nasaug’s First Lord. His pieces would take terrible losses to do it, but Nasaug had seen the trap a bare move too late, and he could not possibly escape it.

  “Things,” Tavi said quietly, “are not always as they seem.”

  The last of the fallen Canim had been found and borne back to the Canim camp by their unarmed fellows. A grizzled Cane nodded to Nasaug in passing.

  Nasaug stared at Tavi, then tilted his head very slightly to one side in acknowledgment of the defeat. “No. Which is why my warriors will not be the first to enter the town.”

  Tavi’s heart all but stopped in his chest.

  Nasaug had figured out the trap. He might not yet know the details, but he knew it was there. Tavi kept all expression from his face and stared impassively at the B
attlemaster.

  Nasaug let out another rumbling chuckle and nodded at the board. “Where did you learn that strategy?”

  Tavi regarded the Cane, then shrugged. “Varg.”

  Nasaug froze.

  His ears came to quivering attention, pricked forward at Tavi.

  “Varg,” he growled, very low. “Varg lives?”

  “Yes,” Tavi replied. “Prisoner in Alera Imperia.”

  Nasaug narrowed his eyes, his ears twitching. Then he lifted a hand and beckoned.

  The grizzled Cane returned, bearing a cloth bundle held upon his upraised palms. At a nod from Nasaug, the Cane set the bundle down on the ludus board and unfolded it. Tavi’s gladius, the one he had cast aside that morning, lay within.

  “You are dangerous, Aleran,” Nasaug said.

  Instinct told Tavi that the words were a high compliment. He kept his eyes steady, and said, “I thank you.”

  “Respect changes nothing. I will destroy you.”

  “Duty,” Tavi said.

  “Duty.” The Battlemaster gestured at the sword. “This is yours.”

  “It is,” Tavi replied. “You have my thanks.”

  “Die well, Aleran.”

  “Die well, Cane.”

  Nasaug and Tavi fractionally bared their throats to each other once more. Then Nasaug backed away several paces before turning and striding back toward his army. Tavi folded up the ludus board back into its case, recovered both of his blades, and made his own way back to the city. He slipped in through the gates just as deep drums began to rumble and Canim war horns began to blare.

  Tavi spotted Valiar Marcus and called to him. “First Spear, get the men into position! This is it!”

  Chapter 42

  “Very well,” Lady Aquitaine said. She nodded to Odiana, and said, “Time we got into costume.”

  Odiana promptly opened a backpack and handed Amara her disguise.

  Amara stared down at the scarlet silk in her hands, and said, “Where is the rest of it?”

  Aldrick stood at the hostel’s window, watching the street outside. The big swordsman glanced back at Amara, made a choking sound in his throat, and turned away.

  Odiana exercised no such restraint. The lovely water witch threw back her head and let out a peal of laughter, a sound too loud for the room they had rented from a surly Kalaran innkeeper. “Oh, oh, my lord. She’s blushing. Isn’t she fetching?”

  To her horror, Amara realized that Odiana was right. Her cheeks felt as though she could have heated water on them, and she had absolutely no idea what to do about it. It was not the sort of situation she had been trained to handle. She turned away from Lady Aquitaine and her retainers and held up her disguise.

  It consisted of a simple sheath of red silk, held up by a pair of tiny silk straps. Neckline, such as it was, was alarmingly low—and in back, the garment would leave her naked almost to the waist. The little shift’s hem would fall to the tops of her thighs if she was lucky.

  “Now, now,” Lady Aquitaine chided Odiana. “Show her the rest of it.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Odiana said with a little curtsey. Then she drew out a pair of light sandals with straps that would wrap the leg to the knee, a pair of slender silver armbands wrought in the shapes of ivy vines, a beaded headdress that faintly resembled a chain coif and a plain, smooth metal band.

  A discipline collar.

  It was a slaver’s device, furywrought to give control of whoever wore it to the slaver. It could incapacitate its wearer with pain—and, more insidiously, it could, at the slaver’s option, provide the inverse of that sensation, and just as intensely. Discipline collars were sometimes used to restrain particularly dangerous furycrafters being held for trial in the legal system, though such cases were historically rare.

  But in the past century or so, their manufacture and use had become far more widespread, as the institution of slavery deepened and darkened. Prolonged exposure to the collars could shatter the mind and will. Continually forced through agonies of torment and euphoria, victims were compelled to obey the slaver and forced to experience pleasure as they did so. Over time, often years, many such slaves were reduced to little more than animals, their humanity torn from them and replaced with the simple, irresistible compulsion of the collar. Chillingly, they were often deliriously happy to be that way.

  More independent-minded individuals could often resist the extremes of dehumanization others faced—for a time, at least. But none of them survived it unscathed. Most went hopelessly mad.

  “Blushing,” Odiana singsonged, and spun on her toes in a little dance step. Her silk dress changed colors, shifting from pale blue to pink. “Just this color, Cursor.”

  “I’m not wearing a collar,” Amara said quietly.

  Lady Aquitaine arched an eyebrow. “Why on earth not?”

  “I’m aware of how dangerous they can be, Your Grace,” Amara said. “And I have certain reservations about the notion of closing one around my neck.”

  Odiana covered a titter with one hand, dark eyes shining as she stared at Amara. “You needn’t be so afraid, Countess,” she murmured. “Honestly. Once the collar is on, it’s quite difficult to imagine living without it.” She shivered, and licked her lips. “You scream all the time, but it’s the inside kind. You scream and scream, but you can only hear it when you’re asleep. Otherwise it’s quite lovely.” She gave Aldrick a somewhat petulant look. “My lord won’t collar me. No matter how naughty I am.”

  “Peace, love,” Aldrick rumbled. “It isn’t good for you.” He glanced at Amara and said, “the collars aren’t genuine, Countess. I made them out of table knives this morning.”

  “It isn’t the sort of pretend I like to play,” Odiana sniffed. “He never lets me have my favorites.” She turned away from Aldrick, passing a second costume like Amara’s to Lady Aquitaine, and took a third for herself.

  Lady Aquitaine regarded Amara thoughtfully, and said, “I’ve some cosmetics that should make your eyes look lovely, dear.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Amara said stiffly.

  “Yes it will, Countess,” Rook said quietly. The plain-looking young woman sat in a chair in the corner farthest from Aldrick and Odiana. Her eyes were sunken, strained, and worry lines crisscrossed her brow. “The pleasure slaves Kalarus imports for his retainers and personal guard in the citadel are a common sight. Kalarus’s favored slave traders are always in competition with one another and spare no expense. The clothing, the cosmetics, the perfume. To do anything else will draw unwanted attention.”

  “Speaking of perfume,” Lady Aquitaine murmured, “where is the good count Calderon? We all smell like folk who have been traveling for days.”

  A beat later, the room’s door opened, and Bernard came in. “Bath’s ready,” he said quietly. “Other side of the hall, two doors down. There’s only two tubs.”

  “I suppose it was too much to hope for a proper bath,” Lady Aquitaine said. “We’ll just have to go in turn. Amara, Rook, by all means go first.”

  Rook rose, gathering up her clothing—the same dark colors she’d been wearing when Amara had captured her. Amara pressed her lips into a firm line as she took her own costume and turned to the door.

  Bernard leaned casually against the door and held up a hand. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I don’t want you alone with her.”

  Amara arched a brow at him. “Why not?”

  “Regardless of what she might or might not have to lose, she’s the master assassin for a rebel High Lord. I’d prefer it if you weren’t alone in the bath with her.”

  “Or perhaps,” Odiana offered, “he wants to see what Mistress Bloodcrow looks like beneath her clothes.”

  Bernard’s nostrils flared, and he glared at Odiana. But instead of speaking he turned the look on Aldrick.

  The big swordsman did nothing for several seconds. Then he exhaled slowly and said, to Odiana, “Love, hush now. Let them work this out in peace.”

  “I only want to help,”
Odiana said piously, moving to stand beside Aldrick. “It is hardly my fault if he is so—”

  Aldrick slid an arm around Odiana, and placed one broad, scarred hand over her mouth, pulling her gently against him. The water witch subsided immediately, and Amara thought that there was something smug and self-satisfied in her eyes.

  “I think,” Amara said to Bernard, “that it would be wise to have a pair of eyes watching the hall in any case. Wait outside the door?”

  “Thank you, Countess,” Lady Aquitaine said. “Thank goodness someone in this room can be reasonable.”

  “I’ll go first, Countess,” Rook said quietly. She walked to the door, eyes lowered, and waited until Bernard grudgingly moved aside. “Thank you.”

  Amara slipped out after her, and Bernard followed close behind her. Rook went into the bathing room, and Amara began to follow her, when she felt Bernard’s hand on her shoulder.

  She stopped and glanced back at him.

  “Crows take it, woman,” he said quietly. “Is it so wrong for me to want to protect you?”

  “Of course not,” Amara said, though she couldn’t keep a small smile off her face.

  Bernard frowned down at her for a moment, then glanced back at the hotel room and rolled his eyes. “Bloody crows.” He sighed. “You got me out of that room to protect me.”

  Amara patted his cheek with one hand, and said, “At least one person in that room is mad, Bernard. One has already run you through once. The other could kill you, have the body gone, and make up any tale she wanted by the time I got back from the bath.”

  Bernard scowled and shook his head. “Aldrick wouldn’t do it. And he wouldn’t hurt you.”

  Amara tilted her head, frowning. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I won’t shoot him in the back or hurt Odiana.”

  “Talked about this, have the two of you?”

  “Don’t need to,” Bernard said.

  Amara shook her head. Then she lowered her voice, and said quietly, “You’re too noble for this kind of work, Bernard. Too romantic. Aldrick is a professional killer, and he’s loyal to the Aquitaines. If she pointed her finger, he’d kill you. Don’t let yourself believe otherwise.”