"Granted," Cyril said. "I simply prefer that we avoid killing them unnecessarily. As a matter of professional principle."

Arnos narrowed his eyes at Sir Cyril.

"I might point out, sir," Tavi added, "that even a temporary cessation of hostilities would provide us with more time to gather intelligence and maneuver to better advantage."

"And more time for the enemy to build attack vessels and become a far more mobile threat. More time for the traitor-slaves to train and equip. More time for them to fortify their positions." Arnos turned a gimlet gaze on Tavi, and said, "There will be no negotiation, Captain."

"Sir," Tavi said, "if you would only give me a little time to contact the First Lord and-"

Arnos's face flushed red, and his voice became harsh, hard. "There will be no no negotiation, Captain!" negotiation, Captain!"

"But-"

"One more word out of your mouth," Arnos spat, "and I will suspend you from duty and have you flogged. Do you understand? Captain?"

Tavi clenched his jaw shut on an utterly unwise answer and gave the Senator a single, sharp nod instead.

Arnos glared at him for a few seconds, and nodded. His voice dropped back into a calmer register, and he rose. "Thank you for your report, Captain," he said, as he went to the front of the room. "That will be all."

Tavi stalked over to take his seat at Sir Cyril's right hand. "Crows take it," he muttered under his breath. Tavi stalked over to take his seat at Sir Cyril's right hand. "Crows take it," he muttered under his breath. "It hardly came as a surprise," Cyril replied. "It hardly came as a surprise," Cyril replied. Tavi growled in his throat. Tavi growled in his throat.

"Easy," Cyril cautioned him. "You've pushed enough for today. I think we might have gotten through to Nalus, at least."

Tavi glanced aside, to the Guard captain. Nalus was frowning thoughtfully at the rough map, as Senator Arnos made a little speech about defending Alera from the Canim scourge.

A shiver ran down Tavi's spine, and he looked past Nalus to find Navaris staring at him with blank eyes. The cutter held his gaze for a moment, then gave him an unsettling smile.

Tavi looked away and suppressed a shudder of discomfort.

"Gentlemen," Arnos was saying, "we have been on the defensive for too long. We've stood upon walls and bridges for too long. It is high time that we went forth to meet this threat, and show them what it means to cross the Legions."

That won a lot of murmurs of approval from the room-again, from everyone except the officers of the First Aleran.

"And so as of right now," Arnos continued, "our offensive has begun." He turned and drew a bold stroke on the slateboard, from the Elinarch straight down to Mastings. "We bring their main body to battle and wipe them out before they can get these ships built. We march at dawn, two days hence. Prepare your men. Dismissed."

The room broke out into noise as the men stood, already talking, and began shuffling toward the exit. Within a moment or two, Tavi and Cyril sat alone.

Cyril stared at the map on the slateboard for a moment, and then rolled his eyes. "Of course. March directly toward the objective in a straight line." He sighed. "How many strong points does Nasaug have to work with along that route?"

"Three, maybe four," Tavi said. "Plus a lot of opportunity to hit our supply lines as we march. And then the city itself."

"Can we force through them?" "Can we force through them?" "Depends," Tavi said. "If Nasaug is willing to take heavy losses, he could stop us cold." "Depends," Tavi said. "If Nasaug is willing to take heavy losses, he could stop us cold." Cyril shook his head. "He won't. He'll hit us as hard as he can while keeping his own losses to a minimum." Cyril shook his head. "He won't. He'll hit us as hard as he can while keeping his own losses to a minimum." Tavi nodded. "Bleed us all the way to Mastings. Then bring the hammer down." Tavi nodded. "Bleed us all the way to Mastings. Then bring the hammer down." "How long will that take?" "How long will that take?"

Tavi shook his head, calculating. Thanks to Ehren's hard work, he'd had detailed maps to work with in his own planning, and he was familiar with the territory they'd be fighting their way through. "Call it ten weeks, unless we get lucky." Tavi squinted at the map. "And I'm not feeling all that lucky."

"A lot can happen in ten weeks," Cyril replied.

"I should talk to him again," Tavi said. "Privately. He might be more receptive to the notion of negotiating if he isn't surrounded by people."

"He's always surrounded by people," Cyril said. "And it won't do any good, Captain."

"But it's so stupid stupid. Nasaug is willing to talk."

"You don't know that," Cyril said. "He's never sent any kind of word suggesting it."

"It isn't their way," Tavi replied. "To a Cane, talk is cheap. Actions are what speak loudest. And Nasaug's actions are clearly stating his intentions. He's willing to work with Alerans, rather than simply slaughter them-and he wants to leave."

"Perhaps," Cyril said. "Perhaps you're right. If I was in charge, I'd give what you're saying some serious thought. You've earned that." He shook his head. "But I'm not, and neither are you. If you bring it up again, he'll have an excuse to replace you. Don't give it to him."

Tavi exhaled through his clenched teeth. "There's got to be a way."

"Then find it," Cyril said, pushing himself up out of his chair. "But do it in your spare time. Keep your focus on the here and now. They might not know it, but a lot of people are depending on you for their lives."

"Yes, sir," Tavi said.

They exchanged a mutual salute, and Cyril limped out, leaning on his cane. A moment later, Maximus leaned his head in the door. "Hey there, Captain. What's the word?"

"We're marching," Tavi replied, rising to walk to the door. "Send Tribune Cymnea to my office, please, so we can start on logistics. Put the men on notice." He looked up and down the hallway, frowning. "Hngh. I would have expected Marcus to be here. Have you seen him?"

"Not today." "Not today." "When you do," Tavi said, "send him to my office, too." "When you do," Tavi said, "send him to my office, too." "Yes, sir," Max said. "Yes, sir," Max said.

Tavi went to the slateboard and swiped a damp cloth over it until the markings had been erased. It was sloppy of Arnos to leave his marching orders- such as they were-displayed for any idiot to wander by and see. "All right, Tribune." He sighed. "Let's get to work."

Chapter 7

Marcus looked around the shabby tent-tavern, one of many that had sprung up in the refugee camp. He hadn't been to this particular establishment before, but he'd seen many like it in his day. Admittedly, few of them had been quite this squalid. The canvas of the tent was sloppily patched with tar rather than being properly repaired. The floors, which could at least have been swept smooth and laid with rushes, were simply mud. The legs of the trestle tables had sunk six inches into it, and their surfaces would have been too low if the benches in front of them hadn't sunk down as well.

Marcus stared at the mug in front of him. The beer had chunks of something floating in it-probably grain from the fermenting pots, but one could never be sure. It didn't smell like beer should. It smelled something like dirty water, only not as pleasant. He'd paid for it with a silver bull, and the copper rams he'd gotten back had been shaved so badly that the horns on the inscribed side were almost entirely gone.

It was intriguing, in a way. The refugee camp had done what hardship always did to people. In some of them, it brought out a greatness of spirit that was almost unbelievable. Fidelias had seen men with next to nothing literally give cold children the cloaks off their backs. He'd seen families with barely enough food to survive take in one more homeless child, find a way to stretch a blanket over one more freezing body. He'd seen legionares legionares of the First Aleran, sickened by the suffering they'd seen while on drill, take their pay directly to market, spend it all on food, and take it to the camp to be given to those who needed it. of the First Aleran, sickened by the suffering they'd seen while on drill, take their pay directly to market, spend it all on food, and take it to the camp to be given to those who needed it.

In others, though, it brought out the worst. He'd led squads that buried the corpses of people who'd been killed for their threadbare cloaks and the rags they'd had wrapped around their feet. He'd seen men demanding things of women in lieu of money, seen those who had what others needed demand degradation and humiliation from them before they would share it. He'd seen the bruises and broken bones that had come as the result of fear and frayed tempers. The sickness brought on by exposure and too little food-even here, in the gentlest lands of the Realm. And all of it, all of that sad, pitiable, loathsome humanity began to clot together somehow, to become a near-visible vapor, a stench in the air that smelled like...

Well. It smelled like this beer.

Marcus pushed his mildewed wooden mug away a little and did his best to ignore the smell. Then he took the little furylamp from his pouch, murmured it to life, set it out on the rough table, and waited.

The washerwoman entered the nameless tavern and paused in the doorway before looking around. It was dark enough inside that his little lamp served as a beacon for her gaze, and she crossed the rough floor to sit down at the table with him.

"Good day," the disguised Lady Aquitaine said. She glanced around the tavern with a sniff. "I always knew you were a secret romantic."

Marcus nudged the mug toward her. "Thirsty?" Marcus nudged the mug toward her. "Thirsty?" She glanced at the mug, turned a shade paler, and gave him a level look. She glanced at the mug, turned a shade paler, and gave him a level look. "Suit yourself," he said. "Suit yourself," he said. "Why here?" she asked him. "Why here?" she asked him. "No one will recognize me here." "No one will recognize me here."

"I almost didn't recognize you." almost didn't recognize you."

Marcus shrugged. "No armor. Different cloak. My hood is up. I look like everyone else." Marcus shrugged. "No armor. Different cloak. My hood is up. I look like everyone else." "We could have met anywhere," she countered. "Why here?" "We could have met anywhere," she countered. "Why here?" Marcus glanced up and met her eyes. "Maybe I wanted you to see it." Marcus glanced up and met her eyes. "Maybe I wanted you to see it." The washerwoman tilted her head slightly to one side. "See what?" The washerwoman tilted her head slightly to one side. "See what?" He moved his hand in an all-encompassing gesture. "The consequences." He moved his hand in an all-encompassing gesture. "The consequences." She lifted both eyebrows sharply. She lifted both eyebrows sharply.

"A lot of times, people who make big choices never have to see what can happen. All of this... and worse than you see here, or what you saw on the way here-it's all the result of choices like that."

She stared at him without expression for a long moment. "This is supposed to horrify me?"

"This? This is nothing nothing," Marcus replied. "This is what happens when there's a polite disagreement, which is more or less what we've had with the Canim so far. This is what happens when everyone has to tighten their belts a little, but there's still enough to go around. It's worse, in the south. Rampant disease. Starvation. Brigands, looting, mercenaries. Men taking more liberties. Men seeking vengeance for the same." He nodded at the tavern. Outside the damp, stinking canvas, someone with a wet cough was wheezing for breath between fits of hacking spasms. "This is sunshine and sweetbread compared to what could happen."

Lady Aquitaine narrowed her eyes. "If my husband and I continue in our designs, you mean." Lady Aquitaine narrowed her eyes. "If my husband and I continue in our designs, you mean." "I'd have to know them all," Marcus replied. "And I'm sure that I don't. So it's for you to say." "I'd have to know them all," Marcus replied. "And I'm sure that I don't. So it's for you to say." "One of the things I have always admired about you is your professionalism. This isn't like you." "One of the things I have always admired about you is your professionalism. This isn't like you."

Marcus shrugged. "It's a secure enough meeting space. I had something to say to you. I said it. What you do with it is up to you."

Lady Aquitaine frowned. She glanced around the shabby tavern for a few seconds. Then she shook her head briskly, took the mug, and emptied its contents onto the floor. She put the mug firmly back on the table. "Keep your focus on the task at hand."

"I would-if he could be bothered to arrive on time." "I would-if he could be bothered to arrive on time." She shrugged. "He's used to being the most important person around. Important people are always late to meetings." She shrugged. "He's used to being the most important person around. Important people are always late to meetings." "Why tolerate it?" Marcus asked. "Why tolerate it?" Marcus asked. "I need him," she said simply. "I need him," she said simply. "What happens when you don't?" "What happens when you don't?" She gave him a little smile. "He'll have the opportunity to learn better working habits." She gave him a little smile. "He'll have the opportunity to learn better working habits."

Just then, the tavern's entrance cloth swung to one side again, and half a dozen people entered, cloaked, all of them obviously together and too well dressed for the neighborhood. Marcus sighed. The worst thing about his departure from the Cursors had been the lack of competent professional associates.

One of the cloaked figures turned to the surly-looking man behind the cheap wooden table that passed for a bar. She lifted her hands to her hood and lowered it, revealing her features. Marcus tensed slightly as he recognized Phrygiar Navaris.

Navaris flung a small leather pouch. It struck the barman in the chest, bounced off, and landed on the grimy bar. She fixed the man with a flat grey stare, and said, "Get out."

Marcus could have made the same threat, the same way-but the man would have counted the money first. Marcus didn't blame the barman for taking the purse and departing without bothering to so much as glance inside.

The shortest of the figures looked around for a moment, then hurried to the table and sat down opposite Lady Aquitaine. He sat on his cloak, pulling the hood tight, and he muttered in irritation, glancing around the tent before he flung it back. "There's discretion," Senator Arnos muttered, "and then there's senseless paranoia. Did we have to meet in this sty?"

"Now, now, be nice, Arnos," Lady Aquitaine said. "It smells just as bad on this side of the table, I assure you."

Marcus watched the Senator's singulares singulares. Navaris remained by the entrance, looking at nothing, and displaying all the emotion of frozen granite. The other four fanned out around the room, dividing their attention between the easily opened canvas walls and the people sitting at the table. Marcus noted the weapons belted at one man's hip, and the bow one of the others bore in a slender hand. Then he focused on Arnos again.

The Senator was, in turn, staring hard at Marcus. The Senator was, in turn, staring hard at Marcus. "Take your hood off," Arnos snapped. "Take your hood off," Arnos snapped. "I think not," Marcus said. "I think not," Marcus said.

Arnos smiled. It reminded Marcus of a snarling jackal. "Take it off now now."

"No."

"Navaris," Arnos said. "If he does not remove his head from the hood, you are to take both from his shoulders."

"Yes, sir," Navaris said. She never moved her feet or looked toward Marcus. But her hand had drifted to the hilt of her sword.

Lady Aquitaine made an impatient sound and flicked a hand. The air suddenly took on the tight, somewhat muffled feeling of a windcrafting meant to prevent any eavesdroppers from listening to a conversation. "Arnos, restrain yourself. His hood stays where it is."

"Why?"

"Because you're a brilliant politician, Senator," Marcus replied. "But you're a novice conspirator. I am currently in a position of extreme value. If you are allowed to know who I am, your incompetence will undoubtedly send the entire plan to the crows."

Arnos's mouth dropped open and hung there for a moment.

Marcus took the opportunity to savor the look on the fool's face.

"Indelicately put," Lady Aquitaine said, giving Marcus an arch glance. "But essentially accurate." She held up a mollifying hand. "You're a politician and strategist, Arnos. Not a spy. If we were all equally skilled at everything, there'd be no need for alliances, would there?"

The Senator's face flushed dark crimson. "And this one? What skills does he he bring to the table?" bring to the table?"

"I know things, Senator."

Arnos lifted his chin. "Such as?"

"That you have a talent for finding capable employees, for one," Marcus said. He nodded at one of the hooded men on guard. "Aresius Flavis. Twice champion of the Wintersend Arms Tournament in Alera Imperia. The man who killed the current High Lord of Rhodes's elder brother in a fair duel on the lawn outside the Grey Tower.

"The young woman watching the door is, I believe, Iris the Hawk. She was quite famous for her archery along the Shieldwall, and happened to slay half a dozen of Lord Kalarus's Immortal assassins while protecting Lady Voria on the Night of the Red Stars. Lady Voria was the only survivor of the attack on her guesthouse."

The cloaked figure by the door turned to stare at Fidelias. Then she nodded briefly. He nodded back to her. "The man at the rear wall is called Tandus. He's a mute. He's served in half a dozen different Legions as both a Knight Ferrous and Knight Terra. He's famous for single-handedly storming the gates of Lord Gardus's stronghold, when Gardus abducted some freeman's daughter. He killed thirty men taking her back."

Lady Aquitaine's gaze never left the Senator's face, but her quiet smile slowly grew.

"And him," Marcus said, nodding to the last man, the one nearest the table. "Rivar Armenius. He's young, a Knight Aeris and Ferrous, and claims to have the fastest sword arm in Alera. He's won eleven duels against established teaching masters, nine of them fatal."

Armenius's cloaked figure turned toward them briefly. Then he drew the hood back from young, handsome features, and said, "Ten. Maestro Piter took a lung fever of his injuries."

Marcus inclined his head slightly. "Ten." He turned his gaze to the last member of the Senator's singulares singulares. "And, of course, Phrygiar Navaris. One of the more dangerous professionals alive. Utterly reliable-provided she does not lose her temper."

Navaris's hand continued slowly stroking the hilt of her blade.

Arnos stared venomously at Marcus. He folded his hands on the table, lips pressed into a thin line. "I'm not moving ahead blind, my Lady. Show me this man's face."

"Or what, Arnos?" Lady Aquitaine asked, her voice almost poisonously reasonable. "You'll walk away?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Perhaps because I know what happened to the first captain appointed to the First Senatorial. His name was Argavus, I believe. So odd that he vanished the night before you marched." Lady Aquitaine's gaze drifted to Navaris. "It would be a shame if someone mentioned the location of the body to the civic legion. An investigation might turn up all sorts of unpleasant facts."

Arnos shrugged, unfazed. "I've endured investigations before. Tiresome, but I manage."

"Yes. It's easier to pass the time when one has so many appetites to indulge." Her eyes shifted back to Arnos, and despite the worn exterior she had adopted, her smile turned sultry, predatory. "I can't help but wonder how often you've endured the wrath of a jealous husband. You do do remember the wreckage at the piers four years ago?" remember the wreckage at the piers four years ago?"

The blood drained from Arnos's face. "You wouldn't."

"It's a card I'll only get to play once. I'd prefer not to use it on you, dear Arnos." Her gaze was unwavering. "You are, of course, welcome to unleash your hounds if you think it might do you any good."

Marcus already had a knife in either hand under his cloak. He'd take the Senator himself, and then Armenius, the cutter standing closest to the table. Whatever Lady Aquitaine did, it would be violent, and best used against the more distant opponents, so he would handle those nearest. He was sure she'd be thinking the same thing.

Granted, he wasn't nearly as quick as he had once been. Arnos wouldn't pose a problem, but the young duelist might well prove more formidable. Marcus was certain that he'd have had little chance against the young cutter in a fair fight. It was the main reason he avoided them wherever possible.