Captain's Fury (12 page)

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
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."

"
I
almost didn't recognize you."

"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
," 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."

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."

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
. 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.

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

Arnos was silent for a long minute, his forehead beaded with sweat, and the tension in the room grew. Then the Senator looked away, chin lifted haughtily. "It's senseless to bicker at this point, dear Invidia, when there is so much work to be done."

Arnos arched an eyebrow. "You can't be serious. He's little more than a boy. A good showman for his men, tremendously lucky to be in the right place at the right time, nothing more."

"I'm less concerned with what he
is
than what he might become. Mistakes happen, Arnos, but it's best if he's gone before the Legions march. Can you see to it this time?"