Cursors's Fury

“And you, Scipio,” Cyril said, fixing a speculative stare on Tavi. “You seem to have a talent for finding trouble.”

“I’d prefer to think that it finds me, sir. “

The captain gave him a humorless smile. “Do you understand the wider implications of a relationship between Kalarus and the Canim, and the attempt to prevent Sir Ehren, here, from reaching us?”

“Yes, sir,” Tavi said. “It means that Kalarus probably has further intelligence assets within the Legion, and that they may well take other actions to leave us more vulnerable to the Canim.”

“A distinct possibility,” Cyril said, nodding. “Keep your eyes open. Carry word to Mistress Cymnea that the followers should ready to retreat to the town’s walls, should battle be joined.”

“Sir,” Tavi said, saluting. “Shall I return here for the officers’ meeting?”

“Yes. We’ll begin in twenty minutes.” Cyril paused and glanced from Tavi to Ehren. “Good work, you two.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tavi said, inclining his head to Cyril in acknowledgment of the captain’s deduction. Then he traded a nod with Ehren and ducked out of the tent. He hurried through the lightning-strobed darkness as the camp began to waken from its late-night torpor to the sounds of shouted orders, nervous horses, and clanking armor.

Chapter 29

The Legion followers camp lay farther from the actual Legion camp than was the norm: While the Legions had inhabited the standard-format fortifications built into the town itself, there was not room enough for townsfolk, Legion, and followers alike. The newer portions of the town had been built outside the protection of the walls, and the followers had pitched their tents on the common land surrounding the city, on the downriver side of the town.

It wasn’t a pleasant camp, by any means. The ground was soft and too easily churned into mud by passing feet. Footprints filled with water that oozed into them, which in turn gave birthplaces to uncounted midges, mites, and buzzing annoyances. When the wind blew from the river or the city, it carried a distinct odor in one or more of several unpleasant varieties.

But for all that, the followers’ camp had been set up in roughly the same order as it had been at the training grounds, and Tavi picked out the flutes and drums of Mistress Cymnea’s Pavilion without trouble. He wound his way there through the darkened camp. The sharp smell of amaranthium incense, burned at each fire to ward off insects, made his nose itch and his eyes water slightly.

Tavi glimpsed a shadow ahead of him and came to a stop beneath a single lonely furylamp hung beside the entrance to the Pavilion. Tavi unfastened and removed his helmet and held up a hand in greeting. Bors, lurking near the entrance as always, lifted his chin a fraction of an inch by way of reply, then held up a hand, indicating that Tavi should wait.

He did, and after a moment, a tall, slender shadow replaced Bors, and walked with swaying grace to him.

“Mistress Cymnea,” Tavi said, bowing his head. “I hardly expected to see you up this late.”

Cymnea smiled from within her cloak’s hood, and said, “I’ve been following Legions since I was a little girl, Subtribune. Shouts and signal drums in the middle of the night mean one of two things: fire or battle.”

Tavi nodded. “Canim,” he said, and his voice sounded grim, even to him. “We aren’t sure how many. It would appear to be a major incursion.”

Cymnea drew in a sharp breath. “I see.”

“Captain Cyril’s compliments, Mistress, and he wants the camp followers to be ready to withdraw into the city’s walls should it become necessary.”

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll see to it that the word is spread. “

“Thank you.” Tavi paused. “The captain didn’t say anything about it, Mistress, but if you’re entertaining any Legion personnel…”

She gave him a brief smile. “I know the drill. I’ll get them sober and send them home.”

“Thank you,” Tavi said, with another bow.

“Subtribune, ‘ she said, “I know that you have your duties, but have you seen Gerta this evening?”

“Ah,” Tavi said. “I saw her in town earlier this evening.”

Cymnea frowned. “I worry about slavers, her running off alone in a strange town. She’s such a fragile little thing. And not quite right in the head.”

Tavi worked very hard to hold back both a bark of laughter and a wide smile. “I’ll grant that’s true, but I’m sure she’s all right, Mistress,” he said seriously. “Eli-narch is a law-abiding town, and the captain won’t tolerate any nonsense from the men.”

“No,” Cymnea said. “The best of them never do.”

“You know the trumpet call to flee to the city?”

She nodded and bowed her head to him. “Good luck, Subtribune. And thank you for the warning.”

“Good luck, Mistress,” he said, returning her bow. He nodded to the silent presence of Bors, then headed back to town at a steady if uncomfortable jog.