by Jim Butcher
Tavi sat quietly. It was worse, this calm delivery of fact, than any of Arnos's previous sneers and glowers. He bowed his head before it, the way a man might when faced with the inevitable cold of winter's first wind.
"You are already dead," Arnos said. "Dead enough to be of no more use to your patron. Dead enough to be no more threat to me." He glanced away from Tavi as if he was suddenly no longer significant enough to notice. "You're dead, Scipio. It is over."
The wind coach tilted as it began to descend, back to the Guard-occupied walls of Othos.
"From here," Arnos said, "we can proceed in an agreeable, civilized manner-or we can do it the hard way. May I take it that you will cooperate? It will make things much easier upon your men."
Tavi didn't look up. He simply said, "Very well."
"You see, Navaris?" Arnos murmured. "He can be reasoned with."
Tavi sat quietly and left his head bowed.
It made it easier to conceal the smile.
The coach landed in the Othos town square, now standing empty of anyone but legionares of the Guard. As Tavi watched, a full century of legionares rushed out to form up in ranks facing the coach-a personal retinue, like his own perennially proximate gang of Marat riders, if somewhat more numerous. The legionares snapped to attention as a valet hurried out to open the door of the wind coach.
Tavi and the two large singulares exited first. The two men stood on either side of him. At one point in his life, he mused, the presence of such large men so obviously skilled in the arts of violence would have intimidated him quite effectively. Given, however, that the taller of the pair still came half a hand short of Tavi's height, and given both his training and his more recent but mounting knowledge of furycraft, the most that they managed to do was elevate themselves in his thinking to the first targets he would need to deal with, should the situation devolve.
When Arnos emerged from the coach, flanked by his other singulares, Tavi fell into pace beside him. His escorts were taken off guard by the confident motion, and wound up trailing him by a step, more like attendants than anything else.
"Senator," Tavi murmured, nodding with a polite smile to the centurion of Arnos's personal guard. "It occurs to me that a certain amount of reciprocity might be called for."
Arnos glared up at him for a moment, and Tavi imagined the man torn between continuing the amicable facade and ordering his singulares to beat him senseless. "You're in no position to demand anything."
"Nor do I make any demands," Tavi replied. "I simply wish to point out that you are quite correct. I'm beaten and politically dead."
Arnos stared at him as they mounted the stairs to the house he'd claimed, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You have some point?"
"The people of Othos," Tavi replied, arching a brow at Arnos. "You have what you want. There's no need to carry through with the executions now."
"Oh, I don't know," Arnos said, his tone conversational. "Setting an early example might well smooth things down the road. I should think the fate of Othos would do a great deal to inspire the folk of other villages to be more active in their resistance of the enemy."
"Or inspire them to turn their hands against you."
Arnos shrugged. "Freemen out here have little in the way of capability to do our forces any harm. They are virtually without furycraft." Arnos gave Tavi a chill little smile. "Imagine what that would be like. Scipio."
Tavi regarded the man steadily for a long moment. Tavi's assignment to the First Aleran as a Cursor and spy for the Crown had never been intended to go on for so long. A lot of people had seen his face in the capital, and sooner or later someone must have twigged to the identical facial features of Rufus Scipio and Tavi of Calderon.
Arnos was Lady Aquitaine's creature. Offhand, he couldn't think of anyone else with both enough intelligence resources to obtain the information, and motivation to share that fact with Arnos. It was an educated guess, but Tavi felt fairly confident of it.
For the immediate future, though, it hardly mattered where Arnos had gotten the information-it only mattered that he did have it, and therefore knew that he could strike at Tavi's patron by visiting harm on Tavi. "You've gotten what you wanted. Those people have done you no harm, Senator."
"Nor given any help. I owe them nothing."
"And that's reason enough for you to murder them?"
Arnos shook his head once. "This is a war. The innocent die. They are killed by battles, caught in fires, they starve, they grow sick. It is unavoidable. No commander worth the rank lets his mind be distracted by such things."
"Ah," Tavi murmured. "Quite distracting, humanity."
Arnos let out a bark of laughter. "Please. Your heart bleeds no more than mine does. How many tears did you shed for the officers over you who died when you took command, hmm? How many men did you order to their deaths? How many bodies of the innocent have you seen during your stay here-and how long has it been since the sight of them made your gorge rise?"
Sudden, red rage flashed through Tavi at Arnos's words, but he suppressed it savagely. It was a near thing. Two years in the field had killed hundreds of the men he commanded and exposed him to depths of suffering he could never have imagined only a few years before.
"You are the same sort of creature I am, Scipio, or Tavi of Calderon, or whoever you imagine yourself to be. You simply serve a different master."
Tavi frowned at the man steadily. Amos was unruffled and, unless Tavi was mistaken, he was entirely sincere.
How could any sane person be so callous? The lives Arnos directly destroyed would not be the only blood on his hands. The repercussions would be shattering. Disease would run rampant. Children would be orphaned. Stead-holts would be decimated, their harvests stifled for lack of labor. The shortage of food would drive men into brigandage and murder. Other men would kill for vengeance, while the women and children, as in all wars, suffered the most. The furies in the area, thrown out of balance by all the deaths of those wielding them, would devolve and go feral, causing even more problems and endangering anyone who crossed their paths.
Tavi had seen it on a much smaller scale around towns and villages engulfed by the war. It was a nightmare. If Arnos continued this way, the first snows of winter would fall upon a land of death and decay presided over by fat, croaking crows.
How could the man even conceive such a thing?
Tavi blinked. The answer was simple.
He didn't know.
Arnos simply didn't know.
Though he was one of the most respected men in the Collegia Tactica, Arnos had never actually served on a campaign. He had watched the morning's assault from his air coach high above, looking down upon the tiny figures running about far below him-the same viewpoint he would have enjoyed at a ludus board, or on a sand table.
He had been too far away to see the blood or hear the screams, or to smell the stench of death. Bloody crows, the man was directing Legions on a campaign against an implacable foe, yet he didn't even wear armor. Tavi was well aware how quickly the tides of battle could shift-his own dented armor bore testimony enough for it.
It wasn't real to Arnos, Tavi thought. Or rather, what was real and what was going on in the Senator's mind were two different things entirely. He was used to talking about war in abstract, comfortably distanced terms. He hadn't been there on the ground, and while he might have had an intellectual appreciation of the loss of human life that would ensue, he didn't know. He hadn't experienced it himself.
Tavi shook his head. "I take it back," he said quietly. "You aren't going to do anyone any good."
Arnos crooked a finger at Navaris. "I'm sure this house has a cellar or basement or storage closet of some kind. Lock him in it."
"Arnos, please," Tavi said. "Rescind the order. Those people don't deserve to die, and you know it."
Arnos ignored him. "After that, take the servant and throw him in with the prisoners. He's obviously in collusion with the local rebels."
Tavi ground hi
s teeth in sheer frustration, his hands balling into fists.
Navaris's snake eyes flicked to him, and her sword slid three inches out of its sheath.
Tavi heard it then, before anyone else seemed to. In the years since forming the strange bond with Kitai, his senses had grown steadily more aware. Not acute, precisely, so much as they seemed to be losing distinction in their respective acuity. Scents had grown steadily more available, familiar, and recognizable, until they distinguished places and objects in his memory almost as readily as familiar faces distinguished different people. Sounds, too, had changed. They hadn't become any louder, really, so much as they had become increasingly more distinct, until he could frequently sort out who was moving around him, and which steed they were mounted on, based on little more than the unique sounds of their breathing.
This was a very low sound, one that most people would not notice until it grew more prominent.
Horses.
Hundreds of them, gathering speed.
Crows. This was not what Tavi needed right now.
Navaris roughly seized his arm with her left hand, and only then did she notice the sound. She froze, turning her head toward the northern gates of the city. There was an enormous, thundering crash, and then the low growl of hoofbeats turned into a staccato roar, as a tide of hundreds of hooves struck upon the cobblestones of Othos.
Bloody crows. This was definitely something none of them needed right now.
Unless…
A column of cavalry from the First Aleran surged into the square from the far side, with Antillar Maximus leading them. The column immediately began splitting apart, falling into ranks with parade-ground precision. He'd brought all four alae of cavalry, and they broke into two units-the original Aleran alae and the second unit of Marat riders. As Tavi watched, he saw the Battlecrows bringing up the rear. They dismounted and formed up in a battle square between the cavalry units.
The First Aleran's veterans had moved with tremendous speed, and they were in position and ready before the Guard could react to their appearance. Trumpets blared in dozens of conflicting calls, drums rolled, and the Guard began assembling into ranks, facing the First Aleran. They were disorganized and confused, but what they lacked in coordination they made up in numbers.
Antillar Maximus, armor and helmet shining in the afternoon sun, turned his horse toward the house the Senator had appropriated and trotted toward him, somehow imparting an arrogant swagger to his mount's gait. He stopped ten feet in front of the first rank of opposing legionares and gave Tavi a casual nod. "Captain." He spoke loudly enough to let the entire square hear, smiling amiably.
"Good afternoon, Tribune," Tavi said, also loudly. "What do you think you're doing here?"
"There's a situation back at our camp that requires your attention, sir," Max said. "I took the liberty of bringing a spare horse for you." He turned the amiable smile to Arnos. "I'll have my captain back, Senator."
Arnos glared at Max and drew himself up, lifting his chin. Given his silk robes, and the fact that the Senator was shorter than most women, it looked somewhat ridiculous. The increasing numbers of Guard legionares arriving moment by moment, however, did not.
"Tribune," Arnos barked. "You and these men will disperse, return to camp, and await my orders."
"You heard the man, Captain," Max drawled. "Get on the horse, and we'll get back to camp."
"Disperse, Tribune!" Arnos snarled. "Now!"
From the north side of the town, drums rumbled. The sound of the legionares of the First Aleran singing a quick-step marching song drifted through the air.
Arnos turned to Tavi. "Order them to stand down."
"I'd like to, Senator," Tavi said, "but I've been relieved of command."
"I'll kill them," Arnos said. "One and all."
"That's up to you, of course," Tavi agreed. "But you might give a thought to the consequences to your campaign. You can kill them, but it won't be easy. You'll take heavy losses. And when the dust settles, you'll have less than a third of our current numbers."
Arnos narrowed his eyes.
"We're already outnumbered at least three or four to one, sir." Tavi felt his voice harden. "Do the math. And then tell me if you think you can carry this campaign to completion."
Arnos looked from Tavi to Max, to the legionares in the square. The marching song of the First Aleran grew louder.
Finally, he hissed through his teeth, and growled, "If I must, I will fall back and gather reinforcements for next year. You aren't getting your command back."
"I don't need it," Tavi said. "Furthermore, I can guarantee that not only will the First Aleran stand down, but that it will willingly march beside you in the rest of the campaign. We both know you're going to need them."
Arnos frowned, suspicious eyes flickering over Tavi's face. "What do you want?"
"Two things," Tavi said. "First, the people of Othos. Rescind the order."
Arnos snorted. "And?"
"Turn me over to Captain Nalus and remand me to the stockade at the Eli-narch until my trial," Tavi replied.
"Why?" Arnos demanded.
Tavi glanced at Navaris. "I'd rather not wake up one day and find that I've somehow sliced open my wrists in my sleep."
Arnos looked back out at the square, which by that time had become a veritable sea of gleaming armor, banners, weapons, and helmets. On the square opposite the First Aleran forces, the banner of Captain Nalus appeared, and began marching through the ranks toward Arnos's command.
"Done," Arnos said.
Tavi nodded once, and turned to Max. "Tribune?"
"Sir."
"Stand down and return to camp."
Max blinked and stared at Tavi. "Sir?"
"That is an order, Tribune," Tavi said.
Max's horse danced nervously in place, and the big Antillan shook his head. "No, sir. I'm not leaving here without you, sir."
"The Senator has found cause to bring treason charges against me. I am confident that I will have an opportunity"-he placed a very slight emphasis on the word-"to clear up the matter in a trial. For the time being the regulations must be observed."
Max arched an eyebrow, took a deep breath, and then reluctantly saluted. "Yes, sir."
"Thank you, Tribune," Tavi said.
Max turned and rode back over to the First Aleran, casting a glance over his shoulder as he went. A moment later, the formations began to break up, turning to depart the city the way they'd come. A collective sigh of relief from seemingly every man in the square sounded like a wind blowing through tall, thick grass.
Tavi felt his own legs sag with relief. A disastrous clash with the Guard had been averted, and the people of Othos were spared-one problem neatly solving another.
The easy part was over.
From here on out things were going to be a lot more difficult.
Chapter 18
Marcus approached the command tent and nodded to the guard outside. "My name is Marcus. Captain Nalus sent for me."
The guard, a young legionare, came to immediate attention and snapped a precise salute. "Valiar Marcus, sir, he's expecting you. He said to go in, and he'll be along in a moment, sir."
"Don't call me sir, sonny," Marcus said. "We're all infantry here."
The young legionare grinned and banged out a more natural salute, then swung open the tent's flap.
Marcus returned the salute, if more casually than was strictly proper, and stepped inside the tent. It was a bit larger than necessary and was set up around a central table, rather than having tables line the walls, leaving the center open. That was typical of Nalus. He liked his men facing one another as they worked-talking, communicating. He was a great one for talking, Nalus.
Marcus tended to prefer the other arrangement. It meant that you always knew the man who was working behind your back.
The cot at one side of the room was double-sized, and a stool and a large harp rested at its foot. Marcus walked over to the harp and ran a calloused hand along its wo
oden frame.
The tent flap opened, and Captain Nalus walked in. Marcus turned to him and gave him a sharp salute. "Captain."
Nalus nodded back. "Centurion." He closed the tent flap behind him.
Marcus offered the man a grin and his hand. "Been a while."
Nalus took his hand and smiled in return. "Marcus. Thank you for coming."
"Well, you're a high-and-mighty captain now. How could a mere centurion refuse?"
Nalus snorted. "It's not much like when we were serving High Lord Antil-lus," he said, his tone wry. "Is it?"
"Not much," Marcus replied.
"Great furies know," Nalus said quietly, "there would never have been any of that business about executing civilians." He was quiet for a moment. "Made me sick, Marcus."
"On the Shieldwall," Marcus said quietly, "you always knew who the enemy was."
Nalus frowned at him for a moment, then grimaced and shook his head. "You've got me all wrong. Crows take the politicians, Marcus, and the politics with them. That isn't what I signed up for. I'm just a soldier."
Marcus grunted. "You joined the wrong outfit if you wanted to avoid getting involved."
Nalus shook his head, crossed to a cabinet in the corner of the tent, and took out a dark bottle. He took a long pull from it, and then offered it to Marcus. "This isn't about choosing sides, Marcus."
Marcus looked at the bottle for a moment. He made no move toward it. "Then what is it about?"
Nalus took another drink. "A lot of years ago, you taught a young subtri-bune a lot about being a soldier. And a spoiled brat a lot about growing up."
Marcus snorted. "They didn't come much greener than you. That's for sure."
"You were my teacher. You gave me good advice then. I'm asking for your advice now."
Marcus stared at Nalus for a moment. Then he shook his head and reached out for the bottle. He took a swig, and the almost-flavorless hard root-liquor favored in the frozen north of the Realm burned down his throat. "Faugh," he muttered. "You can get any kind of liquor here, and you stick with this?"
"Grew on me," Nalus said.
Marcus grunted, and said, "Absent friends."