Cursors's Fury

“Right,” Max said. “So the Aleran Legion would be free to wander anywhere there was trouble and pitch in without ruffling anyone’s feathers.”

Tavi shook his head. “Why would Aquitaine support such a thing?”

“Think about it,” Max said. “A whole Legion of folks from all over Alera training near Kalare’s sphere of influence. People always coming and going, messengers and letters from all over the Realm. Do the math.”

“Espionage hotbed,” Tavi said, nodding. “Aquitaine will be able to buy and sell secrets like sweetbread at Wintersend-and since they’ll all be near Kalare and far from Aquitaine, he stands to gain a lot more intelligence on Kalare than he gives away about himself.”

“And Gaius wants to know all about it.”

“Anything more specific?” Tavi asked.

“Nope. The old man has flaws, but suppressing initiative in his subordinates isn’t one of them. This is a spanking new Legion, too. No experience, no battle standard, no combat history, no tradition to uphold. You’ll blend right in with the other green officers.”

Tavi nodded. “What kind of officer am I supposed to be?”

“Third subtribune to the Tribune Logistica.”

Magnus winced.

Tavi arched a brow at the Maestro, and asked Max, “Is that bad?”

Max grinned, and Tavi found the expression ominous. “It’s… well. Let’s just say that you won’t ever run out of things to do.”

“Oh,” Tavi said. “Good.”

“I’m going, too,” Max said. “As myself. Centurion, weapons trainer.” He nodded at Magnus. “So are you, Maestro.”

Magnus arched a brow. “Indeed?”

“Senior valet,” Max said, nodding.

Magnus sighed. “It could be worse, I suppose. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve had to play scullion somewhere.”

Tavi turned and blinked at Magnus in pure shock. “Maestro… I knew you were in the First Lord’s counsel, but… you’re a Cursor?”

Magnus nodded, smiling. “Did you think I made it a point to have wine and ale on hand for passing merchants because I was lonely for company the past twelve years, my boy? Drunken merchants and their guards let out quite a bit more information than anyone realizes.”

“And you never told me?” Tavi asked.

“Didn’t I?” Magnus said, eyes sparkling. “I’m sure I did, at some point.”

“No,” Tavi said.

“No?” Magnus shrugged, still smiling. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Magnus let out a theatric sigh. “I thought I had. Ah, well. They say memory is the first thing to go.” He glanced around him. “Though I’ll miss this place. At first my work here was just a cover story, but crows take me if it hasn’t grown on me.”

Tavi shook his head. “Shouldn’t I know something about soldiering if I’m planning to be an officer there? What if someone puts me in charge of something?”

“You’re only technically an officer,” Max assured him. “Everyone is going to walk on you, so don’t worry about being in command. But yeah, you need the basics. I’m to give them to you on the way there. Enough that you should be able to fake it until you pick it up for real.”

Magnus heaved himself to his feet. “Well then, lads. We’re wasting daylight, and we’d best not wait for more assassins to arrive. Maximus, go catch your horse and see if our visitors left any nearby, if you would. I’ll put together enough food to last us a while. Tavi, pack our things.”

They set about preparing to leave. Tavi focused on the task at hand the whole while-packing saddlebags, satchels, bundling clothes and equipment, inspecting weaponry. The assassins’ three horses became pack animals once Max rounded them up, and shortly after high noon the three of them rode out, the string of spare mounts in tow. Max set a brisk pace.

Tavi tried to keep his mind on his work, but the steady throb from his wounded finger made it difficult to concentrate. Before they crested the rise that would put ruined Appia behind them, he glanced back over his shoulder.

Tavi could still see the dusty dead man sprawled in the ruins.

Chapter 2

Amara hadn’t seen the Count of Calderon for months. When she and her escort of Knights Aeris swept down into the Calderon Valley, and to Bernard’s fortress-town of Garrison, she felt a flutter of excitement low in her belly.

To her surprise, Garrison had grown visibly, even in the weeks since she had last visited. What had begun as a tent town on the Aleran side of the fortress walls had become a collection of semipermanent wooden homes, and she could see that Bernard had found the money to hire enough earthcrafters to begin erecting buildings of stone, which would provide shelter from the deadly furies of this frontier of the Realm.

The really surprising development was what was happening on the outside of the protective walls of the fortress. Tents were spread out over the ground into an open market, and she could see a few hundred people moving about them, doing business as they might on any market day. That wasn’t so terribly unusual. The shocking thing was that most of the people moving around the improvised market were Marat.

The pale barbarians and their beasts had been little but an infrequent and vicious menace from the perspective of Aleran history, and only twenty years or so earlier, an invading horde had massacred the Crown Legion, which was still recovering from heavy losses in a previous campaign. Thousands of legionares and camp followers and holders of the valley had died in a single day, including Princeps Gaius Septimus and all but one of his personal armsmen-Sir Miles, now Captain of the newly re-created Crown Legion.

It had been one of Alera’s bitterest defeats, and though the First Lord and his Legion had scoured the valley of Marat, nothing could bring his son and heir back from the grave. Alerans died. The next First Lord died. There was no shortage of hard feelings between Alerans and their barbarian neighbors.

And yet, there were the peddlers and merchants, doing business with the Marat as they might in any town in the Realm. Many horses grazed lazily over the plain leading deeper into Marat territory, and Amara could see two dozen massive gargants doing the same. A group of perhaps a dozen wolves loitered in the morning sunshine on a mound of weatherworn boulders half a mile away. The Horse and Gargant tribes were, more than any other Marat, allies of the Alerans-or more precisely, allies of Bernard, Count of Calderon, and so their presence was understandable. But the Wolf tribe had struck her as the crudest and most bloodthirsty of the Marat, and had invariably been a foe of the Realm.

Times, it would seem, were changing, perhaps for the better, and she felt a fierce surge of pride that Bernard had been one of the people responsible for that change.

Amara tried to remain relaxed and calm, but despite her efforts, she found herself hundreds of yards ahead of her escort. The sentry over the gate called up a relaxed challenge and waved her in before she’d finished giving her name. After years of visiting the Count of Calderon, most of the legionares regularly stationed there knew her face by now, especially the remaining veterans of Gi-raldi’s century. Those men, cut down to a bare sixty serving legionares, were the only century in the history of the Realm to have twice received the scarlet stripe of the Order of the Lion for valor, and they enjoyed sporting the red blazon on both legs of their uniform trousers with the same casually false disregard other legionares did their weaponry and armor.

Amara swept down into the courtyard, willing her wind fury, Cirrus, to bring her to earth still moving, and stepped with unconscious grace into a smooth trot that carried her across the courtyard and up the stairs that led to the Count’s office and chambers. She went up the stairs two at a time, though she knew it made her look like an overeager girl bound for the arms of her lover-but she couldn’t manage any more than that.