Princeps Fury

and in all probability, they had left a trail.

Bernard took the lead. He would find them.

* * *

It took the best part of two days of almost unceasing, agonizingly cautious movement to catch up to the traitors who had tortured the scouts. Their trail led back to Ceres.

The Vord had taken the city.

Croach was growing within the walls. As the sun set, it threw up a sullen green light upon the grey-white stones of the city, making them look eerily translucent, like jade illuminated from within. From outside the walls, the city was eerily still and silent. No watchmen called. No bells tolled. No clip-clop of horses’ hooves rattled from the stones. There were no voices, no singing from the wine houses, no mothers calling their children in as the sky settled from twilight to night.

One could hear, very faintly, the murmuring of the city’s fountains, still flowing despite the Vord presence. And, every so often, the eerie, warbling call of one of the Vord echoed up from one of the streets or rooftops within.

Amara shivered.

She got close enough to Bernard to be seen clearly and signed to him. Quarry. Where?

Bernard pointed at what had been the High Lord’s citadel in the middle of the city and added the sign Maybe.

Amara grimaced. She’d been thinking the same thing herself. The citadel would be the most secure place in Ceres. If she were an Aleran among a horde of Vord, she would want the thickest walls and strongest defenses around her when she slept. Agreed. Proceed?

Bernard signaled agreement. Begin where?

A good point. They could do without walking in through the front gates, relying purely upon their furycrafted veils to protect them from detection. Amara, like most Cursors, knew about a dozen different ways to enter all of the High Lords’ cities unobtrusively. It was a far easier matter in a large city than in smaller towns, really.

She signaled Bernard to follow her and started for the slavers’ tunnels that ran under the west wall of the city.

* * *

The tunnels had been sealed prior to the Vord attack, of course, but as she had fully expected, they had been opened by panicked inhabitants of the city as they fled. The tunnel entries all showed the rough, outward-flung ripples of stone moved aside in haste by earthcrafters of mediocre talent, and were wide enough, just barely, for an adult carrying a heavy pack to slip through. Best of all, none of the three entrances within easy reach showed any sign of the Vord, either upon the ground outside or within the tunnels themselves. The only marks were the tracks of booted feet.

It was a good sign. The bulk of the Vord forces had pursued the First Lord and the Legions as they fled to the north. It meant that the city was probably only lightly occupied, rather than being a seething hive. They might be able to move with more speed once they were within.

Amara slipped into the dark mouth of the nearest tunnel. Furylamps were still burning inside, though they were of poor quality and spaced widely.

She drew close to her husband, once within, and crafted a globe of still air about their heads and shoulders that would not allow their words to escape into the close confines of the tunnels. “Lucky,” she breathed, her voice a whisper, harsh from disuse. “We still have light enough to move by.”

Her husband drew her a little closer to his chest and made a low rumble in his throat. “I’d think it was too convenient if I hadn’t lived the past week.”

“They can’t be strong everywhere,” Amara replied. “If there were that many of them, they wouldn’t have needed to pursue the First Lord so closely.”

Bernard frowned at that and nodded slowly. “He’s still a threat to them.” He glanced around at the tunnel, his eyes wary but more confident. “What is this place?”

“The slavers in Ceres had a problem,” Amara said. “A ready market, opposed by organizations of fanatic abolitionists, who would attempt to disrupt shipments of slaves and murder slavers as creatively as possible. The slavers created these tunnels as secure means in and out of the city.”

“Somehow,” Bernard said, a hint of a smile on his lips, “I think that whatever happens, that problem has been permanently solved.”

Amara found herself tittering on the edge of a half-hysterical giggle. “Yes, I suppose so.”

Bernard nodded down the tunnel. “Smells foul, though. Where does it lead?”

“The auction house, in the western city square. It’s less than five hundred yards from the citadel.”

“Excellent,” Bernard said. His eyes went back to hers. “How are you?”

Amara thought it was the simple humanity of the question, in the face of the horror they had seen, that made her chest pang so sharply. She was tired. She ached in every limb and every joint. She was hungry, shaky, and terrified on such a steadily ongoing basis that it had begun to lose its bite and fade into numb indifference. The reminder of a kinder, gentler world, of the times they had shared speaking quietly, or sleeping beside one another, or making love, flared up in a hideously bright, dangerous fire inside her.

She looked away from him and spoke with a shaking voice. “I… I can’t. Not yet. We still have work to do.”

His hands rose to her upper arms and squeezed gently. His voice came out warm, quiet, steady. “It’s all right, love. Let’s be about it. We need to consider-get down!”

She froze in surprise for an instant, even as her husband’s arms drove her to her knees. She lost her balance and would have toppled to one side had he not caught her.

At his curt gesture, she dropped the interdicting windcrafting and they were immediately assaulted by the sounds they would have heard had she not been holding it in place.

Voices echoed in the tunnel. Feet thudded in a careless clatter. Someone-perhaps even their quarry-was in the tunnels with them, and they were crouching in a narrow corridor like perfect fools. No amount of concealing furycraft would do them any good if one of the Vord sympathizers physically blundered into them.

The volume of the voices rose. The tunnels rendered them completely unintelligible, but their tone was clear: an argument. Then a pair of shadowy forms backlit by a dingy furylamp emerged from a cross tunnel ahead of them and turned to proceed farther into the stinking depths of the tunnel that led toward the auction house, away from Amara and Bernard.

She traded a look with her husband. Then the pair of them rose to their feet and began stalking after the retreating figures.

The tunnel widened and became much higher after only a few more yards, its shape far more regular, sloping gently upward as it moved farther into the city. Their footing was good. It was not difficult to move more swiftly than they had in days, their feet, long used to silence, making no more sound on the stones than they had over the soft earth. Amara felt a fierce surge of exaltation spread through her limbs, making weariness vanish, and found her hand upon her sword. She wanted to punish these men, whoever they were, who had turned against their own kind, to butcher them as ruthlessly and efficiently as possible. She wanted to strike back at the horrors who had overrun the Vale and visited so much pain and destruction upon its holders.

But vengeance wouldn’t bring anyone back. Indulging her own need for action would not assist the First Lord in stopping the Vord. No matter that it felt right. She had to be cold, rational, just as Fidelias had always taught her. Or tried to teach her, at any rate. Crows take his treasonous eyes.

She took her hand slowly from her sword. There was still a job to do.

“… and you know what she’s going to say when we get back,” snarled the voice of a man in the group in front of them. They had drawn close enough to the sympathizers for their discussion to be understood. “That you should have brought them all back here to be processed.”

“Crows take the highborn bitch,” snarled another man’s voice. “She said to find out what the Cursors were up to. She never said anything about recruiting them.”

The first man’s voice became plaintive, blending frustration and anxiety in equal amounts. “Can’t you explain it to him? Before we’re all killed for incompetence?”