Cursors's Fury

Isana glanced aside at Amara, and the Countess avoided her eyes. Amara’s cheeks flushed with color, and her usual reserved expression changed, becoming something young and girlish and delighted. She fidgeted in place, and she and Bernard’s hands found one another without either of them seeming to be aware of it before she became still again.

“Well,” Isana said to her brother. “Shall I order a bottle of something special?”

“Why would you ask that?” Bernard said, his tone smug.

“Because she’s not stupid,” growled Giraldi. The old centurion, grizzled and stalwart despite his limp, stepped around Bernard to bow politely to Isana. She laughed and gave him a fond embrace. Giraldi smiled, evidently pleased, and said, “But don’t buy any special drink on my account. Just something that will make me think the food tastes good if I drink enough of it.”

“Then you’ll need almost nothing,” Amara said. “The food here is wonderful-though the gourmands from my own home city disdain it. They hate it when any cook makes them eat too much by daring to exceed their expectations, I think.”

Giraldi grunted and looked around. “I don’t know. Awful lot of upper crust in this place.” He nodded at a table above their own. “High Lady Parcia, there, having dinner with High Lady Attica’s daughter. Couple of Senators, over there. And that’s Lord Mandus, from Rhodes. He’s the Fleet Tribune in their navy. They aren’t the sort of folk that eat decent food.”

Amara laughed. “If the meal isn’t to your liking, centurion, I’ll pay someone to fetch you a steak and a pitcher of ale.”

Giraldi grinned and subsided. “Well, then.”

Isana paused to regard Amara. There was a warmth in her voice and manner she had never sensed there before. Isana already respected Amara, but to see her and Bernard together and so clearly happy, made it very difficult for her not to share some portion of her brother’s affection for the young woman. She was wearing a dress, too, which was unusual in Isana’s experience. Isana did not miss the fact that the Cursor wore a gown in the rich green and brown Bernard had chosen for his colors, and not the somber, muted tones of red and blue generally favored for formal wear by the Cursors and other servants of the Crown.

Isana had always maintained a certain distance from the Cursor, the young woman who owed her personal loyalty to Gaius Sextus. Isana’s harsh feelings toward the First Lord had spilled over onto Amara. She knew, on some level, that it was unfair of her to hold the sins of the liege against the Cursor who served him, and yet she had never been able to bring herself to give Amara a chance to prove herself in her own right.

Perhaps it was time for that to change. Bernard clearly adored the young Countess, and she had obviously brought Isana’s little brother a great deal of happiness. If what Isana suspected was true, Amara might be around for a very long while. That was reason enough to force Isana to face the fact that she owed it to her brother to attempt at least to make peace with the Cursor.

Isana bowed her head to the Countess, and said, “You look lovely tonight, Amara.”

The Cursor’s cheeks flushed again, and she met Isana’s eyes for a moment before smiling. “Thank you.”

Isana smiled and turned to sit down as Giraldi drew out her seat for her. “Why thank you, centurion.”

“Ma’am,” the old soldier said. He waited for Amara to be seated, then lowered himself into his own chair, leaning on his cane and briefly grimacing in discomfort.

“The leg never healed any better?” Isana asked.

“Not that I noticed.”

Isana frowned. “Would you like me to take a look at it?”

“Count brought in some big healer from Riva. It’s been poked enough. Problem isn’t the wound. The leg is getting old,” Giraldi said, a small smile on his lips. “It had a good run, Isana. And I can still march. I’ll finish this hitch. So don’t you worry about it.”

Isana felt the little spike of disappointment and regret in Giraldi’s voice, but it was a small thing beside his resolve and his pride-or perhaps more accurately, his self-satisfaction, a form of inner peace. Giraldi had been badly wounded in battle against the vord at the Battle of Aricholt, but he had never faltered in his duty, never failed to fight in defense of the Realm. He had spent a lifetime in the Legions and in service to the Realm, and made a difference by doing so. That knowledge formed a bedrock for the old soldier, Isana reasoned.

“How have your presentations gone?” she asked, looking at Giraldi, then Bernard.

Bernard grunted. “Well enough.”

“Well enough with soldiers,” Giraldi corrected. “The Senators are all certain that we poor countryfolk have been bamboozled by the Marat, and that the vord aren’t really anything to worry about.”

Isana frowned. “That hardly sounds encouraging.”

Bernard shook his head. “The Senators won’t be doing the fighting. The Legions do that.”

To Isana, he sounded like a man trying to convince himself of something. “But doesn’t the Senate administer the Crown’s military budget?”