Cursor's Fury, Page 7

  Tavi shook his head, and it was an effort to keep the smile from his face. “No point in lashes yet, centurion. We won’t have anything to build up to, later.” He leaned over and peered at the larger, unconscious legionare. The man was breathing, but his nose was swelling and obviously broken. Both of his eyes had already been ringed with magnificent, dark purple bruises. He turned to the man Max had left conscious. “Legionare Nonus, is it? When your relief arrives, take your friend to the physician. When he wakes up, remind him what happened, hmmm? And suggest to him that at least while on sentry duty, greeting arriving officers with proper decorum should perhaps be considered of somewhat more importance than taunting puppies raised in rose gardens. All right?”

  Max jabbed the baton into Nonus again. The legionare nodded frantically.

  “Good man,” Tavi said, then clucked to his horse, riding on without so much as looking over his shoulder.

  He only got to hear Magnus descend from his own mount, fuss for a moment over the state of his saddlebags, then present his papers to the prostrate sentry. He cleared his throat, and sniffed. “Magnus. Senior valet to the captain and his staff. I cant abide the state of your uniform. My bloody crows, this fabric is simply ridiculous. Does it always smell so bad? Or is that just you? And these stains. How on earth did you manage to . . . no, no, don’t tell me. I simply don’t want to know.”

  Max burst out into his familiar roar of laughter, and a moment later he and Magnus caught up to Tavi. The pair of them rode through row after row of white canvas tents. Some of them looked Legion-perfect. Others sagged and drooped, doubtless the quarters of fresh recruits still finding their way.

  Tavi was surprised at how loud the place was. Men’s voices shouted to be heard over the din. A grimy, blind beggar woman sat beside the camp’s main lane, playing a reed flute for tiny coins from passersby. Work teams dug ditches and hauled wood, singing as they did. Tavi could hear a blacksmith’s hammers ringing steadily nearby. A grizzled old veteran drilled a full cohort—four centuries of eighty recruits each—at the basic sword strokes Tavi had learned so recently, facing one another in a pair of long lines and going through drilled movements by numbers barked by the veteran, shouting in response as they swung. The strokes were slow and hesitant, incorrect movements aborted in midmotion to follow the instructor. Even as he watched, Tavi saw a rudius slip from the hands of a recruit and slam into the kneecap of the man beside him. The stricken recruit howled, hopping on one leg, and blundered into the man on his other side, knocking half a dozen recruits to the ground.

  “Ah,” Tavi said. “Fish.”

  “Fish,” Max agreed. “It should be safe to talk here,” he added. “There’s enough noise to make listening in difficult.”

  “I could have handled those two, Max,” Tavi said quietly.

  “But an officer wouldn’t,” Max said. “Centurions are the ones who break heads when legionares get out of line. Especially troublemakers like Nonus and Bortus.”

  “You know them,” Tavi said.

  “Mmmm. Served with them, the slives. Lazy, loud, greedy, drunken, brawling apes, the both of them.”

  “They didn’t seem happy to see you.”

  “We once had a discussion about the proper way to treat a lady in camp.”

  “How did that turn out?” Tavi asked.

  “Like today, but with more teeth on the ground,” Max said.

  Tavi shook his head. “And men like that are given status as veterans. They draw higher pay.”

  “Outside a battle line they aren’t worth the cloth it would stain to clean their blood off a knife.” Max shook his head and glanced back at them. “But they’re fighters. They know their work, and they’ve been in the middle of some bad business without folding. That’s why they got out under voluntary departure rather than forced discharge for conduct unbecoming a legionare.”

  “And it also explains why they’re here,” Magnus added. “According to the records, they’re honorable veterans willing to start with a fresh Legion—and that kind of experience is priceless for training recruits and steadying their lines in battle. They know they’ll have seniority, that they won’t have to do the worst of the work, and that they’ll get better pay.”

  Max snorted. “And don’t forget, this Legion is working up in the bloody Amaranth Vale. Plenty of freemen would kill to live down here.” Max gestured around them. “No snow, or not to speak of. No rough weather. No wild, rogue furies. Lots of food, and they probably think this is a token Legion that will never see real action.”

  Tavi shook his head. “Aren’t men like that going to be bad for the Legion as a whole?”

  Magnus smiled a little and shook his head. “Not under Captain Cyril. He lets his centurions maintain discipline in whatever way they see fit.”

  Max twirled his baton with a sunny smile.

  Tavi pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Will all the veterans be like them?”

  Max shrugged. “I suspect that most of the High Lords will do everything in their power to keep their most experienced men close to home. No Legion has too many veterans, but they all have too many slives like Nonus and Bortus.”

  “So you’re saying the only men in this Legion will be incompetent fish—”

  “Of which you are one,” Max said. “Technically speaking, sir.”

  “Of which I am one,” Tavi allowed. “And malcontents.”

  “And spies,” the Maestro added. “Anyone competent and friendly is likely a spy.”

  Max grunted. “They can’t all be rotten. And if Valiar Marcus is here, I suspect we’ll find some other solid centurions where he came from. We’ll slap the scum around enough to keep them in line, and work the fish until they shape up. Every Legion has this kind of problem when it forms.”

  The Maestro shook his head. “Not to such a dramatic degree.”

  Max shrugged a shoulder without disagreeing. “It’ll come together. Just takes time.”

  Tavi nodded ahead of them, to a tent three or four times the size of any others, though it was made of the same plain canvas as all the rest. Two sides of the tent were rolled up, leaving the interior open to anyone passing by. Several men were inside. “That’s the captain’s tent?”

  Max frowned. “It’s in the right place. But they’re usually bigger. Fancier.”

  Magnus let out a chuckle. “That’s Cyril’s style.”

  Tavi drew his mount to a halt and glanced around him. A slim gentleman of middle age appeared, dressed in a plain grey tunic. The eagle sigil of the crown had been stitched into the tunic over his heart, divided down the middle into blue and red halves. “Let me take those for you, gentlemen.” He glanced at each of them and then abruptly smiled at the Maestro. “Magnus, I take it?”

  “My fame precedes me,” the Maestro said. He pushed the heels of his hands against the small of his back and winced, stretching. “You have the advantage of me.”

  The man saluted, fist to heart, Legion fashion. “Lorico, sir. Valet. I’ll be working for you.” He waved, and a young page came over to take the horses.

  Magnus nodded and traded grips with the man, forearm to forearm. “Pleased to meet you. This is Subtribune Scipio Rufus. Centurion Antillar Maximus.”

  Lorico saluted them as well. “The captain is having his first general staff meeting, sirs, if you’d care to go inside.”

  Max nodded to them. “Lorico, could you direct me to my billet?”

  “Begging your pardon, centurion, but the captain asked that you attend as well.”

  Max lifted his eyebrows and gestured to Tavi. “Sir.”

  Tavi nodded and entered the tent, glancing around the place. A plain legionare’s bedroll sat neatly atop a battered old standard-issue travel chest. They were the only evidence of anyone residing in the tent. Several writing tables stood against the walls of the tent, though their three-legged camp stools had been drawn to the tent’s middle, and were occupied by one woman and half a dozen men. There were another score or so of armored men cr
owded into the space the tent provided, all of them arranged in a loose half circle around an unremarkable-looking bald man in armor worn over a grey tunic. Captain Cyril.

  Legion armor always made a man’s shoulders look wide, but Cyril’s looked almost deformed beneath the pauldrons. His forearms were bare, scarred, the skin stretched tight over cords of muscle. His armor bore the same red-and-blue eagle insignia Tavi had seen on Lorico’s tunic, somehow embedded into the steel.

  Tavi stepped aside to let Magnus and Max enter, and the three of them came to attention while Lorico announced them. “Subtribune Scipio, Astoris Magnus, and Antillar Maximus, sir.”

  Cyril looked up from the paper he held in his hand and nodded to them. “Good timing, gentlemen. Welcome.” He gestured for them to join the circle around him. “Please.”

  “My name is Ritius Cyril,” he continued, after they had joined the circle. “Many of you know me. For those who don’t, I was born in Placida, but my home is here, in the Legions. I have served terms as a legionare in Phrygia, Riva, and Antillus, and as a marine in Parcia. I served as a Knight Ferrous in Antillus, as a Tribune Auxiliarus, Tribune Tactica, and Knight Tribune, as well as Legion Subtribune. I have seen action against the Icemen, the Canim, and the Marat. This is my first Legion command.” He paused to look around the room steadily, then said, “Gentlemen, we find ourselves in the unenviable position of pioneers. No Legion like this one has ever existed. Some of you may be expecting to serve in a token fighting force—a political symbol, where the work will be light and the business of war will seldom cross paths with us.

  “If so, you are mistaken,” he said, and his voice turned slightly crisp. “Make no mistake. I intend to train this Legion to be the equal of any in the Realm. There is a great deal of work ahead of us, but I will ask nothing more from any of you than I do of myself.

  “Further, I am as aware as any of you of the various agendas of the lords and Senators who supported the founding of this Legion. Lest there be any misunderstandings, you should all know now that I have no patience for politics and little tolerance for fools. This is a Legion. Our business is war, the defense of the Realm. I will not allow anyone’s games to interfere with business. If you are here with your own agenda, or if you have no stomach for hard work, I expect you to resign, here and now, and be gone after breakfast tomorrow.” His gaze swept the room again. “Are there any takers?”

  Tavi arched a brow at the man, impressed. Few would dare to speak so plainly to the Citizenry, of which most of the officers of every Legion were members. Tavi glanced around the gathering of listeners. None of them moved or spoke, though Tavi saw uncomfortable expressions on several faces. Evidently, they were no more used to being spoken to in no uncertain terms than Tavi was to hearing them so addressed.

  Cyril waited for a moment more, then said, “No? Then I will expect you all to do everything in your power to fulfill your duties. Just as I will do all in my power to aid and support you. That said, introductions are in order.”

  Cyril went around the room and delivered terse introductions of each person there. Tavi took particular note of a beefy-looking man named Gracchus, Tribune Logistica and Tavi’s immediate commander. Another man, a weathered-looking veteran whose face had never been pretty even before all the scars, was identified as Valiar Marcus, the First Spear, the most senior centurion of the Legion. When Cyril reached the end of the introductions, he said, “And we have been the beneficiaries of some unanticipated good fortune,” Cyril said. “Gentlemen, some of you know her already, but may I present to you Antillus Dorotea, the High Lady Antillus.”

  A woman rose from where she sat on the stool in a grey dress that bore the First Aleran’s red-and-blue eagle over the heart. She was slim, of medium height, and her long, fine, straight dark hair clung to her head and shone as if wet. Her features were narrow and vaguely familiar to Tavi.

  Beside him, Max sucked in a startled breath.

  Captain Cyril bowed politely to Lady Antillus, and she gave him a grave inclination of her head in response. “Her Grace has offered her services as a watercrafter and healer for the duration of our first deployment,” Cyril continued. “You all know that this is not her first term of service with the Legions as a Tribune Medica.”

  Tavi arched an eyebrow. A High Lady, here in the camp? That was anything but ordinary for a Legion, despite anything the captain might have said to the contrary. The high blood of Alera wielded an enormous amount of power by virtue of their incredible talent of furycrafting. A single High Lord, Tavi had been told, had the strength of an entire century of Knights, and Antillus, one of the two cities that defended the great northern Shieldwall, was renowned for its skill and tenacity in battle.

  “I know it isn’t traditional, but I’ll be meeting with each of you separately to take your oaths. I’ll send for each of you over the next day or two. Meanwhile, Lorico has your duty assignments and will show you to your billets. I would be pleased if you all would join me at my table for evening meals. Dismissed.”

  Those seated on stools rose, and the men parted politely to let Lady Antillus leave first. There were a few murmurs as they left, each taking a leather message tube from Lorico.

  “Go on, lads,” Magnus murmured to them without even opening his leather tube. “I’ll get started here. Good luck to you both.” He smiled and stepped back into the captain’s tent.

  Tavi walked away with Max and read his orders. Simple enough. He was to report to Tribune Gracchus and assist with the management of the Legion’s stores and inventory. “He was different than I expected,” Tavi said.

  “Hmmm?” Max asked.

  “The captain,” Tavi said. “I thought he’d be more like Count Gram. Or perhaps Sir Miles.”

  Max grunted, and Tavi frowned at his friend. The big Antillan’s face was pale, and his brow was beaded with sweat. That was hardly new to Tavi, who had nursed Max out of hangovers more than once. But now he saw something different in his friend’s face, behind the distraction in his expression. Fear.

  Max was afraid.

  “Max?” Tavi asked, keeping his voice low. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Max said, the word quiet and clipped.

  “Lady Antillus?” Tavi asked. “Is she your . . .”

  “Stepmother,” Max said.

  “Is that why she’s here? Because of you?”

  Max’s eyes shifted left and right. “Partially. But if she’s come all this way, it’s because my brother is here. It’s the only reason she’d come.”

  Tavi frowned. “You’re scared.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Max said, though there was no heat in the tone. “No, I’m not.”

  “But—”

  Something vicious came into Max’s voice. “Leave off, Calderon, or I’ll break your neck.”

  Tavi stopped in his tracks and blinked at his friend.

  Max froze a few steps later. He turned his head a bit to one side, and Tavi could see his friend’s broken-nosed profile. “Sorry. Scipio, sir.”

  Tavi nodded once. “Can I help?”

  Max shook his head. “I’m going to go find a drink. A lot of drinks.”

  “Is that wise?” Tavi asked him.

  “Heh,” Max said. “Who wants to live forever?”

  “If I can—”

  “You can’t help,” Max said. “Nobody can.” Then he stalked away without looking back.

  Tavi frowned after his friend, frustrated and worried for him. But he could not force Max to tell him anything if his friend didn’t want to do so. He could do nothing but wait for Max to talk about it.

  He wished Kitai was here to talk to.

  But for now, he had a job to do. Tavi read his orders again, recalled the camp layout Max and the Maestro had made him memorize, and went to work.

  Chapter 5

  Isana awoke to a sensation of emptiness in the rough, straw mattress beside her. Her hack felt cold. Her senses were a confused blur of shouts and odd lights, and it took her a moment
to push away the sleepy disorientation enough to recognize the sounds around her.

  Boots raced on hard earth, the steps of many men. Grizzled centurions bellowed orders. Metal scraped on metal, armored legionares walking together, brushing one another in small collisions of pauldrons, greaves, swords, shields, steel armor bands. Children were crying. Somewhere, not far away, a war-trained horse let out a frantic, ferocious scream of panic and eagerness. She could hear its handler trying to speak to it in low, even tones.

  A breath later, the tension pressed in on her watercrafter’s senses, a tidal flood of emotion more powerful than anything she had sensed in the dozen or so years since she and Rill, her water-fury, had found one another. Foremost in that vicious surge was fear. The men around her were terrified for their lives—the Crown Legion, the most experienced, well-trained force in Alera, was drowning in fear. Other emotions rushed with it. Primarily excitement, then determination and anger. Beneath them ran darker currents of what she could only describe as lust—and of another emotion, one so quiet that she might not have noticed it at all but for its steady and growing presence; resignation.

  Though she did not know what was happening, she knew the men of the Legion around her were preparing to die.

  She stumbled up off the mattress, dressed in nothing but her skin, and managed to find her blouse, dress, and tunic. She twisted her hair into a knot, though it made her shoulders and back ache abominably to do it. She took up her plain woolen cloak and bit her lip, wondering what she should do next.

  “Guard?” she called, her voice tentative.

  A man entered the large tent immediately, dressed in armor identical to that worn by the rest of the legionares, save perhaps for sporting an inordinate number of dents and scratches. His presence was a steady mix of perfect confidence, steely calm, and controlled, rational fear. He stripped his helmet off with one hand, and Isana recognized Araris Valerian, personal armsman to the Princeps.