Cursors's Fury

Max snorted. “True enough.” He gave Tavi and oblique glance. “How much did she have?”

“About a years worth of my pay.”

Max pursed his lips. “Quite a windfall. You have any plans for what’s left?”

Tavi grunted and heaved the last sack into the wagon. His leg twinged, but the pain was hardly noticeable. “I’m not loaning you money, Max.”

Max sighed. “Bah. That everything?”

Tavi slammed the wagon’s gate closed. “That should do it.”

“Got enough to feed the Legion for a month there.”

Tavi grunted. “This is enough for the mounts of one alae. For a week.”

Max whistled quietly. “I never did any work in logistics,” he said.

“Obviously.”

Max snorted. “How much money is left?”

Tavi reached into a pocket and tossed the silk purse to Max. Max caught it and shook it soundlessly. “Not much,” Tavi said in a dry tone. “Not many Antillan-made crowns are floating around the Legion, so I’ve been getting rid of them a little at a time.”

He walked back through the dark to the steadholt’s large barn and traded grips with a gregarious Steadholder who had agreed to sell his surplus grain to the Legion-especially since Tavi was offering twenty percent over standard Legion rates, courtesy of Lady Antillus’s purse. He paid the man their agreed-upon price, and returned to the wagon. Max held up the silk purse and gave it a last, forlorn little shake before tossing it back to Tavi. Tavi caught the purse.

And something clicked against his breastplate.

Tavi threw up a hand, frowning, and Max froze in place. “What?”

“I think there was something else in the purse,” Tavi said. “I heard it hit my armor. Give me some light?”

Max shrugged and tore a bit of cloth from a knotted-closed sack in the wagon. He rubbed the cloth between his fingers a few times, and a low flame licked its way to life. Seemingly impervious to the heat, he lowered the burning cloth and held it a few feet over the ground.

Tavi bent over, squinting, and saw a reflection of the improvised candle’s light shine off of a smooth surface. He picked up a small stone, about the size of a child’s smallest fingernail, and held it closer to the light. Though it was not faceted, the stone was translucent, like a gem, and was such a brilliant color of red that it almost seemed to be wet. It reminded Tavi of a large, fresh-shed droplet of blood.

“Ruby?” Max asked, peering, bringing the flame closer.

“No,” Tavi said, frowning.

“Incarnadine?”

“No, Max,” Tavi said, frowning at the stone. “Your shirt is on fire,” he said absently.

Max blinked, then scowled at the fire, which had spread from the strip of sackcloth to his shirt. He flicked his wrist in irritation, and the flame abruptly died. Tavi could smell the curls of smoke coming up from the cloth in the sudden darkness.

“Have you ever seen a gem like that, Max? Maybe your stepmother crafts them.’

“Not that I know of,” Max said. “That’s new to me.”

“I’ve got the feeling I’ve seen this before,” Tavi murmured. “But crows take me if I can remember where.”

“Maybe it’s worth something,” Max said.

“Maybe,” Tavi agreed. He slipped the scarlet stone back into the silk purse and tied it firmly shut. “Let’s go.”

Max clambered up onto the wagon, took the reins, and brought the team into motion. Tavi swung up beside him, and the slow-moving cart began its ten-mile trek back to the First Aleran’s camp at Elinarch.

The march had taken them seven long, strenuous days from the training camp to the bridge over the vast, slow-moving Tiber River. Foss, once honestly bribed, had kept Tavi “under observation” while his leg healed. Lady Antillus clearly hadn’t liked the idea, but since she’d dumped the responsibility into his hands, she could hardly take it away again without displaying her animosity for Tavi in an unacceptably flagrant lack of the impartiality expected in a Legion officer.

Even so, Foss had kept Tavi busy. Bardis, the wounded Knight who had been saved by Lady Antillus, required constant attention and care. Twice, during the march, Bardis had simply stopped breathing. Foss had saved the young Knight, but only because Tavi had noticed what was happening. The young Knight hadn’t regained more than vague consciousness during the march, and had to be fed, cleaned, and watered like a baby.

As he first sat beside the wounded Bardis, Tavi was struck by how young the Knight looked. Surely, an Aleran Knight should have been taller, thicker in the shoulders and chest and neck, with a heavier growth of beard and more muscle than the wounded Knight possessed. Bardis looked like… an injured, not yet fully grown child. And it inspired an immediate and unexpected surge of pro-tectiveness in the young Cursor. To his own surprise, he set about the task of tending Bardis without complaint or regret.