Princeps’ Fury

time, in sequence. Instructions for opening the second order will be found within the first, and so on.”

Marcus pursed his lips and mused on that. Clever. A spy that can lift information directly from the enemy’s thoughts was a dream or a nightmare come true, depending upon whom the spy was working for: But a man could not give away information he did not possess in the first place, no matter how talented the spy might be. It was a simple, clever counter to the Vord’s abilities.

In theory, at any rate. Conditions in the field were never static. Whoever was following Octavian’s orders would effectively be blindfolded, bound to the chain of orders, and unable to operate upon his own initiative. That was a recipe for disaster. Octavian had a natural talent for that kind of thing, but not even a scion of the House of Gaius could see the future with the necessary accuracy. Every passing hour would make it more likely that his planning and his orders would become hopelessly irrelevant.

“As the Princeps is well aware,” Magnus said, “the environment of a military theater is neither static nor entirely foreseeable.”

“Yes, sir,” Carleus said, nodding. He unslung a heavy courier’s pouch from the strap over his shoulder and dropped it on a table with a weighty-sounding thud. “He has done his best to outline the most probable courses of events.” Carleus flushed slightly. “It means he’s built a number of options into each set of orders, and into each of those options and so on, including the possibility that you might need to act outside his outline. It was quite a bit of writing.”

Marcus grunted. “That’s something, at any rate,” he said. He glanced over at Nasaug. “And you? Are you willing to follow these orders?”

“For now,” Nasaug said. “I trust my sire’s judgment.”

The old Cursor shook his head. “He’s going to clever us all into a bloody grave.” He extended his hand to Carleus. “If it’s going to happen, I’d rather not wait around for it. My orders, please.”

The young Knight passed a packet of folded, sealed orders to each of them. Marcus examined his own stack of papers. Each individual order was clearly, simply numbered, and written on an individual, overlarge page of Canim parchment. He found one labeled “Order Number One,” and opened it.

Hello, Marcus. I need you to take every legionare along with Nasaug’s troops and the Free Legion, and march directly west at the earliest possible moment. Do not attempt to conceal your movements. Coordinate with Nasaug and Perennius. Leave your engineers and the entire contingent of Knights behind, along with those of the Free Legion. Maestro Magnus will set them to their tasks. Take whatever supplies you can. Open the next set of orders when you have marched at least twenty miles.

Octavian

Marcus read it again, just to be sure, then shook his head. “Well. That’s cryptic.” He glanced up at the old Cursor. “Yours?”

Maestro Magnus glowered at his orders, his face twisted up as if he’d been sipping vinegar. “They are brief and irrational,” he said.

Nasaug snorted and refolded his own orders. “The Princeps has flaws that can be exploited,” the Cane said. “Predictability is not one of them. Nor is stupidity.”

Perennius said nothing, but his eyes were narrowed, the set of his jaw stubborn. For a long moment, no one spoke.

“The question,” Marcus said, “is now before us. What will we do?”

He could all but feel the weight of their intent gazes upon his face. He looked slowly around the tent. Nasaug nodded once at him. Perennius followed the Cane’s lead. Magnus sighed, and nodded to the First Spear as well.

“Well, then,” Marcus said, nodding. “The Princeps has made his will known to us. Let’s get to work.”

CHAPTER 27

Amara and Bernard took their next major risk about an hour before sundown.

They had been drawn to what had been a small but obviously prosperous steadholt by the presence of several of the lizard-shaped Vord who loitered outside the place, instead of rushing about on the hunt, as had all the creatures they had seen thus far. Amara and Bernard had slipped past the guards and into the steadholt, to find that the Vord had overrun the place and set it up as some kind of base of operations.

A vordknight crouched at the peak of the steadholt’s main hall, as motionless as any statue. The croach had spread over most of the ground and was growing up the walls of every building. The steadholt’s well was completely blocked off by the waxy substance. One of the doors to the barn had been torn from its hinges and lay on the ground, already buried in the wax.

Pale wax spiders glided busily back and forth, tending the croach as bees might their honeycomb. All of them that Amara could see emerged from the shadowy interior of the barn and returned to it once their tasks were complete.

Bernard drew close enough to her side to touch her and pressed his fingers lightly against one of her ankles. She tapped his forearm with her fingertips twice, lightly, to acknowledge his signal. Then, one at a time, they slipped on the broadened shoes that they had made specifically for walking on the croach. The waxy substance served the Vord as sustenance and as a kind of sentinel. The weight of an adult human would break the resinous surface, spilling out the faintly luminous liquid within like blood and immediately drawing the attention of the wax spiders who stood watch over it.

Bernard and Octavian, in one of their regular written planning sessions, had between them come up with an idea for broad-bottomed shoes that would spread out the weight of an adult onto a larger surface, reducing the stress upon the croach. With them, the two should be able to walk, carefully, on the croach without breaking its surface or summoning a swarm of its guardians.

In theory.

In practice, the shoes were bloody difficult to use, and Amara suddenly felt very glad that she had insisted that Bernard have a swift-release mechanism built into the pads of leather and still-flexible wood. If they didn’t work the way that they had hoped, Amara wanted to be able to get the ungainly things off her feet as rapidly as possible.

With their stealth-craftings still wrapped securely about them, they walked-waddled, really, Amara thought-along the inner wall of the overrun steadholt toward the cavernous barn, until they finally stepped onto the croach itself. Amara moved as carefully as she ever had in her life, stepping forward with the awkward motion the shoes demanded, an unusually high lift of the knee, then the first foot forward onto the glowing surface, then the whole of her weight brought slowly to bear upon the forward foot, so that the broad pads of the shoes spread her weight. She supposed that were she a character in a dramatic tale, she’d have one hand on her sword and one eye upon the nearest of the spiders-but that was perfect nonsense. She was a great deal more interested in making sure that she kept her balance and that the edges of the shoes didn’t come down at too sharp an angle, tearing the croach and revealing their presence to foes who were, in all likelihood, too numerous to fight successfully in any case.

Amara took one step, then another. No whistling, warbling outcry went up around her. She paused to look back as Bernard stepped onto the croach. Her husband was a great deal larger than she was, and heavier, and his shoes proportionately wider-and therefore more clumsy. Even from barely more than an arm’s length away, Amara could hardly see more than his outline, but she saw him move with the same steady patience with which her husband did everything else as he stepped onto the croach behind her.

No cry went up. The shoes were working. So far.

Amara turned her focus back to her own movements, leading the way, and tried to tell herself that she was walking like a graceful, long-legged heron, and not like a waddling duck, in the broad shoes. It wasn’t far to the door of the barn-twenty feet, or a little more. Even so, it seemed to take at least an hour to walk the distance.