Princeps' fury (38 page)

The room became deadly silent.

“They aren’t going to stop with Canea,” Tavi said. The quiet words fell like lead weights, simple and heavy. “We must stand together—or die separately.”

The silence stretched.

Lararl turned his head to Varg.

The black-furred Cane stared at the sand table for a moment. Then he looked up at Lararl. “It would be an interesting fight, would it not?”

The golden-furred Cane turned his gaze to Tavi, his eyes narrowed. “He is truly
gadara
to you?”

“And you must understand that we’re going to have to trust one another,” Tavi said. “Information has to be limited. If I’m wrong about the queens, or if there are other Vord who can see into minds, they could counter us easily. We’ve got to have the initiative, or none of us are going to live out the week.”

Lararl glanced at Varg, who flattened his ears in a gesture that was roughly the equivalent of an Aleran shrug. “Aleran sorcery is far more useful than that of the ritualists, in my experience. They do more than kill with it.”

Lararl grunted, then gestured at the sand map of Shuar. “If I divert enough warriors to crush the queen in our interior and safeguard my people, the Vord at the fortifications will surely overwhelm the defenses.”

Tavi nodded. “My people here, and yours, together with any Hunters you can find, are going to hunt and kill the queen. Once that is done, and the Vord lose cohesion, all the civilians in Shuar”—Tavi turned to stare hard at Lararl—“every one of them,” he said with emphasis, “should have a fighting chance to reach the coast.”

Lararl returned Tavi’s stare. Then he tilted his head fractionally to one side. “Yes. All of them.”

Varg looked back and forth between the other two, and growled thoughtfully. “The queen is in the midst of her horde, Tavar. She will be difficult to reach.”

CHAPTER 26

The First Spear strode into the command tent and found Magnus glaring silently at Sir Carleus, the youngest, gangliest, largest-eared of the Knights Aeris in service to the First Aleran. Marcus nodded to the elderly Cursor and returned the young Knight’s immediate salute.

Magnus grimaced. “Bloody crows, I don’t want to have to explain it at
all
, but . . .”

Just then the tent flap opened and admitted a tall, gangly man; Perennius, the senior Tribune and acting captain of the Free Legion. He saluted the room generally. “Marcus, sir Knight, Maestro. I came as quickly as I could.” He paused, then added, mildly, “Why?”

“Please, Captain,” Magnus said. “If you will be patient for a moment more, I will explain.”

Perennius glanced at the First Spear, who shrugged.

A moment later, there was something of an anticommotion outside; the sudden absence of the camp’s usual background noises. Marcus went to the tent flap and peered out, only to see a dozen heavily armored warrior Canim striding through the First Aleran’s camp, their paw-hands resting upon their weapons.
Legionares
stood out of the path of the group of Canim, but every one of them kept a hand on his own weapon, as well.

From the markings on their armor—though Marcus was hardly an expert on the intricate customs that infused the Canim practice—it would appear that the soldiers were among the best in the horde that had returned from Alera, their black armor heavily decorated in bands and whorls of scarlet.

Leading them was Nasaug, his own armor nearly solid red across its entire surface. Beside him walked Gradash, the grizzled Cane that Marcus had come to think of as his opposite number among the Canim.

With no discernible signal whatsoever, the escort of Canim warriors came to a halt on the same stride, perhaps thirty feet from the command tent. Nasaug and Gradash continued on, Nasaug tipping an Aleran-style nod to Marcus.

Perennius threw Nasaug a smart salute as he entered, and Nasaug returned the gesture with a slight tilt of his head. “Ah!” the Free Legion’s captain said. “Now I see. Word from the expedition inland.”

“Gentlemen, please,” the old Maestro said. “Wait for the Knight to secure the conversation, if you would.”

Sir Carleus sighed, frowned in concentration, then lifted his hand. Marcus recognized the signs of a man strained almost beyond his crafting limits. The young Knight was exhausted—but the windcrafting that snapped up around them and put a brief pressure on his ears was solid enough, and should serve to completely silence the conversation to the world outside the tent.

“Thank you,” Magnus told the Knight. He turned to the others and held up a letter, written on the overlarge pages of Canim vellum. “This letter bears the signature and seal of both the Princeps and of Warmaster Varg. According to its text, I was to summon the current company to the tent, ward it from observation, and turn the briefing over to Sir Carleus. Tribune Foss has already worked a truthfinding on Sir Carleus, and found no reason to doubt his claim. Can we agree that the signatures and seals are genuine?”

He passed the letter over, and Marcus scanned over them, finding what he knew the Cursor had already learned. The letter was in Octavian’s handwriting, and both seal and signature looked genuine. Granted, the average soldier wouldn’t have known the signs of a forgery, so Marcus—perhaps he hadn’t completely forgotten intrigue craft, after all—replied, “It seems to be the Princeps’ hand to me.”

Nasaug took the letter. His ears quivered as he read the Canim script aloud to Gradash. “The tavar is clever. Heed him. Varg.”

Magnus winced at the words and muttered something less than gracious beneath his breath. “. . . begotten jackass, thinks that, of course, anyone who disagrees with him must be a drooling old moron—”

The First Spear cleared his throat pointedly.

Magnus flipped his hand at him in an irritated wave, and said, “Sir Knight, your report, please.”

Carleus bobbed his head toward the group in general in a brief bow. “My lo . . . uh, sirs. The Princeps wishes you to know that the province of Shuar is the last Canim range that has not been overrun by the Vord. He further advises you that it cannot remain standing for much longer. He and the Shuaran command estimate that the Vord will have engulfed the range entirely within the next three weeks.”

The tent was deathly silent. Marcus glanced at the two Canim but could read nothing in their body language.

“His Highness warns you that Vord queens are operating in the area. Their operating patterns and their success thus far suggest that they may be gathering intelligence directly from the minds of their opponents.”

Perennius let out a low whistle. “They can do that?”

“Yes, yes,” Magnus said, waving a hand at the Free Legion’s acting captain in a suppressing gesture. “It was in the documents sent to you at the beginning of the trip.”

“Ah,” Perennius said, smiling at Magnus rather wolfishly. “Must have missed that detail. I did find something useful to do with the paper, though.”

“Perennius,” Nasaug rumbled, the faintest hint of a rebuke in his tone.

Carleus coughed quietly. “In an effort to conceal his intentions from the enemy, the Princeps has issued written orders for each of you. The orders are sealed closed, and it is his command that you open them one at a time, in sequence. Instructions for opening the second order will be found within the first, and so on.”

Marcus pursed his lips and mused on that. Clever. A spy that can lift information directly from the enemy’s thoughts was a dream or a nightmare come true, depending upon whom the spy was working for: But a man could not give away information he did not possess in the first place, no matter how talented the spy might be. It was a simple, clever counter to the Vord’s abilities.

In theory, at any rate. Conditions in the field were never static. Whoever was following Octavian’s orders would effectively be blindfolded, bound to the chain of orders, and unable to operate upon his own initiative. That was a recipe for disaster. Octavian had a natural talent for that kind of thing, but not even a scion of the House of Gaius could see the future with the necessary accuracy. Every passing hour would make it more likely that his planning and his orders would become hopelessly irrelevant.

“As the Princeps is well aware,” Magnus said, “the environment of a military theater is neither static nor entirely foreseeable.”

“Yes, sir,” Carleus said, nodding. He unslung a heavy courier’s pouch from the strap over his shoulder and dropped it on a table with a weighty-sounding thud. “He has done his best to outline the most probable courses of events.” Carleus flushed slightly. “It means he’s built a number of options into each set of orders, and into each of those options and so on, including the possibility that you might need to act outside his outline. It was quite a bit of writing.”

Marcus grunted. “That’s something, at any rate,” he said. He glanced over at Nasaug. “And you? Are you willing to follow these orders?”

“For now,” Nasaug said. “I trust my sire’s judgment.”

The old Cursor shook his head. “He’s going to clever us all into a bloody grave.” He extended his hand to Carleus. “If it’s going to happen, I’d rather not wait around for it. My orders, please.”

The young Knight passed a packet of folded, sealed orders to each of them. Marcus examined his own stack of papers. Each individual order was clearly, simply numbered, and written on an individual, overlarge page of Canim parchment. He found one labeled “Order Number One,” and opened it.

Hello, Marcus.

I need you to take every
legionare
along with Nasaug’s troops and the Free Legion, and march directly west at the earliest possible moment. Do not attempt to conceal your movements. Coordinate with Nasaug and Perennius.

Leave your engineers and the entire contingent of Knights behind, along with those of the Free Legion. Maestro Magnus will set them to their tasks.

Take whatever supplies you can. Open the next set of orders when you have marched at least twenty miles.

Octavian

Marcus read it again, just to be sure, then shook his head. “Well. That’s cryptic.” He glanced up at the old Cursor. “Yours?”

Maestro Magnus glowered at his orders, his face twisted up as if he’d been sipping vinegar. “They are brief and irrational,” he said.

Nasaug snorted and refolded his own orders. “The Princeps has flaws that can be exploited,” the Cane said. “Predictability is not one of them. Nor is stupidity.”

Perennius said nothing, but his eyes were narrowed, the set of his jaw stubborn. For a long moment, no one spoke.