Araris grimaced, and said, "The horses are ready, my lady. If you would come this w-"
Isana lifted her chin and strode out past the armsman, looking left and right. The camp was in chaos-or at least, the followers in the Legion's camp were. The legionares themselves were moving with haste, with anxiety, but also with precision and discipline, and Isana could see the ranks forming along the palisade around the camp. "Do I need to go find him myself, Rari?'
His tone remained even and polite, but Isana could sense the fond annoyance behind his reply. "As you wish, my lady." He turned to the two grooms holding the reins of nervous horses nearby, flicked a hand, and said, "You two, with me." He started striding toward the eastern side of the camp. "Ladies, if you will come this way. We must make haste. I do not know when the horde will arrive, and every moment may be precious. "
And it was then that Isana saw war for the first time.
Arrows flew from the darkness. One of the grooms screamed, though he was drowned out by the cries of the horse whose reins he held. Isana turned, her heartbeat suddenly thunder in her ears, everything moving slowly. She saw the groom stagger and fall, a white-feathered Marat arrow protruding from his belly. The horse screamed and thrashed its head, trying to dislodge the arrow sunk into a long line of muscle in its neck.
Cries came from the darkness. Marat warriors, pale-haired, pale-skinned, erupted from the beds of supply wagons brought into the camp earlier in the afternoon, brandishing weapons of what looked like blackened glass and stone.
Araris turned and moved like lightning. Isana could only stare in shock as three more arrows flickered toward her. Araris's sword shattered them to splinters, and a casual flick of one of his steel-encased hands prevented even those from striking her face. He met the group of howling Marat and walked through them like a man in a crowded market, shoulders and hips twisting, bobbing up onto his toes to slide between passersby, turning a neat pirouette to avoid stumbling over something on the ground.
When he stopped, every one of the Marat lay on the ground, food for the crows.
He flicked his sword to one side, cleaning it of blood, sheathed it, and extended his hand as though nothing of note had happened. "This way, my lady. "
"This way, my lady," murmured a low, richly masculine voice, "we needn't worry about being too long parted. I'm sure you can see the advantages."
Isana jerked her head up from where she had dozed off in the comfortable seating within the litter the Aquitaines had sent to fly her down from Isanaholt. The vivid dream, full of the details of memory, lingered for longer than it usually did. Dreams of that last night had repeated themselves endlessly for the last two years. The fear, the confusion, the crushing weight of guilt replayed themselves to her mind as though she had never felt them before. As though she was innocent again.
She was sick of it.
And yet the dreams also restored to her those brief moments of joy, the heady excitement of those springtime days of youth. For those few seconds, she did not know what she did now. She had a sister again.
She had a husband. Love.
"I just bought you a brand-new girl, Attis," teased a woman's voice from outside the litter, the tone clear and confident. "You'll be amused until I return."
"She's lovely," said the man. "But she's not you." His tone turned wry. "Unlike the last one."
The door to the air coach opened, and Isana had to call upon Rill to halt tears from filling her eyes. Isana's fingers touched the shape of the ring beneath her blouse, still on the chain around her neck. Unlike her, it had remained bright and untarnished by the passage of years.
She shook away the remnants of the dream as best she could and forced her thoughts back to the moment.
High Lord Aquitainus Attis, who five years ago had perpetrated a plot resulting in the deaths of hundreds of her neighbors in the Calderon Valley, opened the coach door and nodded pleasantly to Isana. He was a lion of a man, combining grace of motion in balance with physical power. His mane of dark golden hair fell to his shoulders, and nearly black eyes glittered with intelligence. He moved with perfect confidence, and his furycrafting was unmatched by anyone in the Realm, save perhaps the First Lord himself.
"Steadholder," he said politely, nodding to Isana.
She nodded back to him, though she felt her neck stiffening as she did. She did not trust herself to sound civil when speaking to him, and so remained silent.
"I quite enjoy my holidays abroad," murmured the woman, her voice now near at hand. "And I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. Besides. You have your own work to do."
The woman entered the coach and settled down on the opposite bench. High Lady Aquitaine Invidia looked every inch the model of the elite Citizenry, pale, dark-haired, tall, and regal. Though Isana knew that Lady Aquitaine was in her forties, like her husband and Isana herself, she looked barely twenty. Like all blessed with sufficient power at watercrafting, she enjoyed the ongoing appearance of youth. "Good evening, Isana."
"My lady," Isana murmured. Though she had no more love for the woman than she did for Lord Aquitaine, she could at least manage to speak politely to her, if not warmly.
Invidia turned to her husband and leaned forward to kiss him. "Don't go staying up to all hours. You need your rest."
He arched a golden brow. "I am a High Lord of Alera, not some foolish aca-dem. '
"And vegetables," she said, as if he hadn't spoken. "Don't gorge yourself on meats and sweets and ignore your vegetables."
Aquitaine frowned. "I suppose you'll act like this the entire time if I insist upon joining you?"
She smiled sweetly at him.
He rolled his eyes, gave her a quick kiss, and said, "Impossible woman. Very well, have it your way."
"Naturally," she said. "Farewell, my lord."
He inclined his head to her, nodded at Isana, shut the door, and withdrew. He thumped the side of the litter twice, and said, "Captain, take care of them."
"My lord," replied a male voice from outside the door, and the Knights Aeris lifted the litter. The winds rose to the low, steady roar that had become familiar to Isana in the last two years, and unseen force pressed her against her seat as the litter leapt into the skies.
Several moments passed in silence, during which Isana leaned her head against her cushion and closed her eyes, in the hopes that the pretense of sleep would prevent the need for conversation with Lady Aquitaine. Her hopes were in vain.
"I apologize for the length of the trip," Lady Aquitaine said after a few moments. "But the high winds are always tricky at this season, and this year they are particularly dangerous. We must therefore fly much lower than we usually would."
Isana did not voice the thought that it was still a great deal higher than a walk along the ground. "Does it make a difference?" she asked, without opening her eyes.
"It is more difficult to stay aloft closer to the earth, and more difficult to fly quickly," Lady Aquitaine replied. "My Knights Aeris must count the journey in miles instead of leagues, and given the number of stops we must make to visit my supporters, it will take us a great deal longer to reach our destination."
Isana sighed. "How much longer?"
"Most of three weeks, I am told. And that is an optimistic estimate that assumes fresh teams of Knights Aeris await us at way stations."
Three weeks. Rather too long a time to pretend to be asleep without openly insulting her patron. Though Isana knew her value to the Aquitaines, and knew that she could afford to avoid the usual fawning and scraping such powerful patrons required, there were limits she would be ill-advised to press. Consequently, she opened her eyes.
Lady Aquitaine curled her rich mouth into a smile. "I thought you would appreciate the information. You'd look rather silly sitting there with your eyes closed the whole way."
"Of course not, my lady," Isana said. "Why would I do such a thing?"
Invidia's eyes hardened for a moment. Then she said, "I am given to understand that you plan a small reunion with your family in Ceres."
"After the meeting with the League, of course," Isana said. "I have been assured of alternate travel arrangements back to Calderon if my plans should inconvenience you."
Invidia's cool features blossomed into a small, even genuine, smile. "Hardly anyone fences with me anymore, Isana. I've actually looked forward to this trip."
"As have I, my lady. I have missed my family."
Invidia laughed again. "I shall ask little of you beyond our visits with my supporters and the League meeting," she said. Then she tilted her head to one side and leaned forward slightly. "Though you have not been apprised of the meeting's agenda."
Isana tilted her head.
"Gracchus Albus and his staff have been invited to attend."
"The Senator Primus, " she murmured. Then her eyes widened. "The emancipation proposal to the Senate?"
Lady Aquitaine sighed. "If only the rest of the League perceived the significance as well as you."
"They should spend time running a steadholt," Isana said, her tone wry. "It makes one acutely aware of the extended consequences of small but significant actions."
The High Lady moved one shoulder in a shrug. "Perhaps you are correct."
"Will Gracchus support the proposal?"
"He has never been a foe of the abolitionist movement. His wife, daughter, and mistresses assure me that he will," Lady Aquitaine said.
Isana frowned. She disapproved of such manipulations, though it was the Dianic League's first and favorite tool. "And the Senate?"
"Impossible to say for certain," Lady Aquitaine said. "There is no knowing what debts may be called in on such an important issue. But enough to make a real fight of it. For the first time in Aleran history, Isana, we may abolish the institution of slavery. Forever."
Isana frowned in thought. It was indeed a worthy goal, and one that would rally the support of folk of conscience everywhere. Slaves in most of the Realm faced a grim lot in life-hard labor and little chance of ever working their way free, even though the law required owners to sell a slave's freedom should he ever earn his (or her) buying price. Female slaves had no recourse to the uses their bodies were put to, though neither did males, when it came to it. Children were all born free, legally at least, though most owners employed various forms of taxation or indenture for them, which amounted to outright enslavement from birth.
The laws of the Realm were supposed to protect slaves, to limit the institution to those who had been willing to enter bondage and who could, in time, repay their indenture and walk free again. But corruption and political influence allowed each High Lord virtually to ignore the laws and to treat slaves in whatever fashion each saw fit. In the time since she had become Lady Aquitaine's ally in the Dianic League, Isana had learned more than she had ever dreamed about the abuses slaves suffered in much of the Realm. She had thought her own encounter with the slaver Kord was nightmarish enough to last a lifetime. She had been sickened to learn that in much of the rest of the Realm, his conduct was but marginally worse than average.
The Dianic League, an organization consisting solely of female Citizens of the Realm-those with status, influence, but little actual, legal power-had struggled for years to engender support for the abolishment of slavery. For the first time, they were in a position to cause it to be, for while the High Lords and the First Lord controlled the military assets of the Realm, the criminal codes of Alera, and the enforcement of civil law, it was left to the elected Senate to create and administer those laws.
Slavery had been a civil institution since its inception, and the Senate had the power to pass new laws regarding slavery-or to abolish it altogether. The Dianic League considered it the first step toward gaining legal parity for the women of the Realm.
Isana frowned. Though Lady Invidia had always been true to her word and her obligations as patron, Isana harbored no illusions that she had any personal interest in emancipation. Even so, it was difficult for Isana to resist the inherent lure in the accomplishment of such a dream, the destruction of such an injustice.
But then, she was hardly in any condition to think with the cool, detached logic required by politics. Not with a reunion with her loved ones so near at hand. Isana wanted nothing so much as to see Tavi again, whole and well-though the uncomfortable silences resulting from slips in conversation, when one of them mentioned something loosely related to politics or loyalty, made it a somewhat bittersweet proposition. She wanted to speak with her brother again. Between running the steadholt and the infrequent but regular voyages from her home on behalf of Invidia Aquitaine, there had been fewer and fewer opportunities to get together with her little brother. She missed him.
The irony in traveling halfway across the Realm to break bread with them again-and taken there by the Aquitaines, no less-was not lost on Isana. Neither was the sobering reality that she had brought it all upon herself, by allying herself with her current patron, one with ruthless, ambitious designs upon the Crown.
Even so, Isana forced herself to push her family from her thoughts and regard the situation with detached intellect. What did the Aquitaines have to gain by outlawing slavery?
"This isn't about freedom," she murmured aloud. "Not for you. It's about crippling Kalare's economy. Without slave labor, he'll never profit from his farmlands. He'll be too busy fighting to remain solvent to rival your husband for the Crown. "
Lady Aquitaine stared at Isana for a moment, her expression unreadable.
Isana did not let her eyes waver from her patron's. "Perhaps it's just as well that many in the League do not perceive as much as I do."
Lady Aquitaine's expression remained detached. "Do I have your support-and confidence-in the matter or not?"
"Yes. As I promised," Isana said. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes again. "Nothing I do can stop you from scheming. If some good can be accomplished along the way, I see no reason not to attempt it."
"Excellent," Lady Aquitaine said. "And practical of you." She paused for a thoughtful moment, and Isana could feel the sudden weight of the High Lady's full attention. "Hardly a freeman in the Realm would be able to recognize the situation for what it is, Isana. It makes me wonder where you acquired the necessary perspective for these kinds of politics. Someone must have taught you."
"I read," she said, not needing to falsify the weariness in her voice. "Nothing more." Isana used years of practice and experience to keep any expression from her face, but in the wake of the dream, it was almost painfully difficult to prevent her hand from rising to touch the outline of the ring hanging over her heart.
There was another long silence, and Lady Aquitaine said, "I suppose I must applaud your scholarship, then."
The weight of her attention passed, and Isana almost sagged with relief. It was dangerous, lying to the High Lady, whose talent for watercraft and thus for sensing lies and deceptions was greater than even Isana's own. The woman was capable of torture, of murder, even if she preferred to use less draconian tactics. Isana had no illusions that those preferences were the result of practical logic and self-interest, rather than ethical belief. If necessary to her plans, Lady Aquitaine could kill Isana without batting a long-lashed eyelid.
Should it ever come to that, Isana would die before speaking.
Because some secrets had to be kept.
At any price.
The life of a legionare, even that of officers, had, in Tavi's opinion, been vastly overrated. By the time a week had passed in the camp of the First Aleran, he had come to the conclusion that the vaunted glory and prestige of the officers corps was nothing more than a fiendish ploy on behalf of the Citizenry, designed to drive the ambitious to foaming insanity.
And that went double for the high reputation of the Cursors, which had gotten him ordered into this crowbegotten Legion to begin with.
Tavi had considered himself a stalwart, stoic, strong-minded agent of the Crown, especially after the trials he had faced at the Academy, where his time and focus had been in constant demand. There, he'd often been unable to find enough hours in the day to sleep, and constant runs up a monstrously sadistic stairwell had tested his physical and mental limits. There were some days where he had broken down into screaming fits of frustration, just to blow off steam.
The Legion life was worse.
Tavi tried not to give such cynical thoughts too much of his attention, but standing in the light, wooden storage building through the second chorus of yet another furious rant from Tribune Gracchus, to which he was not expected or allowed to respond, it was hard to keep from feeling somewhat bitter about the entire situation.
"Do you have any idea of the chaos you've caused?" Gracchus demanded. The beefy man slapped a pair of fingers against his opposite palm every few syllables, then jabbed them accusatorily at Tavi at the end of each sentence. "The measure of flour for each legionare is a precise calculation, Subtribune, and it is not subject to arbitrary adjustments by striplings on their first tour."
There was a pause as Gracchus drew breath, and Tavi promptly interjected, "Yes, sir." He had learned Gracchus's rant-rhythm before the end of the second day.
"That's why we use standardized, regulation measuring cups in the first place."
"Yes, sir," Tavi said.
"By introducing your shoddy replacements, you have thrown off my estimates, which will disrupt stores calculations for more than a month, Subtribune. I have every right to have you flogged for such a thing. In fact, I could have you up on charges for it and disenfranchised to repay the provisions budget."
"Yes, sir," Tavi repeated.
Gracchus's eyes were already beady. He narrowed them even farther. "Do I detect insubordination in your tone, Subtribune?"
"Sir, no sir," Tavi replied. "Only disagreement."
The Tribune's scowl darkened. "Do tell."
Freed to speak, Tavi kept his tone mild. "More than a score of veterans had complained to their centurions that they were receiving smaller measures of bread at meals. When enough of them had done so, the centurions requested that the First Spear look into the matter. He did. Per standard procedure, the First Spear approached a Subtribune Logistica. I happened to be the first one he found."
Gracchus shook his head. "Do you have a point, Subtribune?"
"Yes, sir. I investigated the matter, and it seemed likely that some of the flour was going missing between the storehouse and the mess." Tavi paused for a moment, then said, "I started by verifying the accuracy of the measuring cups. Sir."
Gracchus's face went florid and angry.
"Though the cups appear to be standard-issue, sir, they are in fact forgeries that hold nine-tenths of what the actual cups will contain. I asked one of the smiths to beat out a few cups of the proper size, sir, until they could be replaced with standard-issue gear."
"I see," Gracchus said. His upper lip had beaded with sweat.
"Sir, I figure that someone must have replaced the cups with forgeries, then skimmed the excess flour off to a market for it-or perhaps they were utterly unscrupulous thieves with the gall to sell the excess grain back to the Legion at a profit." Tavi shrugged his shoulders. "If you wish me to face charges, sir, I understand your decision. But I estimate that the amount of money gained from this business wouldn't buy much more than a silver ring and a new pair of boots. I think we caught it before any real harm could be done."
"That's enough, Subtribune," Gracchus said in a quivering voice.
"Of course," Tavi went on, "if you wish to put me up on charges or take disciplinary measures against me, the captain would be obligated to open an investigation. I'm sure he'll be able to sort out exactly who was stealing what from whom, sir. That might be for the best."
Gracchus's face turned purple. He closed his eyes, and the silver ring on his left hand rapped nervously upon his breastplate. His new boots rasped against the floor as he shifted uncomfortably in place. "Subtribune Scipio, you are sorely trying my patience."
"Beg pardon, sir," Tavi said. "That was not my intention."
"Oh yes it was," Gracchus snarled. "You're lucky I don't drop you into a pit where you stand and close it after you."
From the entry to the building, someone coughed politely and rapped knuckles against wood. "Good afternoon, sirs," said Maestro Magnus, stepping forward to smile politely at them. "I hope this is not a bad time."
Gracchus's stare was almost poisonous, and Tavi was sure that if looks could kill, he would already be a dead man. "Not at all, centurion," he murmured, before Gracchus could answer. "How may I assist you?"
"Captain Cyril's compliments, Tribune, and will Subtribune Scipio join him at the practice field?"
Tavi frowned at Magnus, but the old Maestro's expression told him nothing. "With your permission, sir?"
"Why not," Gracchus said, his voice smooth. "I can use the time to consider how best to employ your energies. Something in the way of sanitation, perhaps."
Tavi managed not to scowl at the Tribune, but felt his cheek twitch in a nervous tic. He saluted, then departed with Magnus.
"Was that about the measuring cups?" Magnus murmured, after they had walked away.
Tavi arched a brow. "You knew about it?"
"Tribunes Logistica skimming from their Legion is not precisely unheard of," Magnus said. "Though in general they cover their tracks a little more carefully. Gracchus lacks the guile to do it well."
They strode past one neat row of tents after another. In the week since they'd arrived, the fish had at least learned the proper procedure for pitching a tent. Tavi frowned at Magnus. "Did the captain know?"
"Naturally."
"Then why didn't he do something about it?" Tavi asked.
"Because while Gracchus might be an incompetent embezzler, he's a capable logistics officer. We need him. Had the captain ordered an official investigation, it would have stained Gracchus's honor, ruined his career, and discharged him from the Legion over a few bits of jewelry and new boots."
Tavi grimaced. "So the captain is letting it slide."
"He's not a legate, Tavi. He's a soldier. His job is to build and maintain the Legion as a strong, capable military force. If that means ignoring an indiscretion or three within his senior staff, he's willing to pay that price."
"Even if it means short rations for the Legion?"
Magnus smiled. "But they aren't getting short rations, Subtribune. The cups have been replaced, the problem eliminated."
"The First Spear." Tavi sighed. "The captain sent him to me."
"He did no such thing," Magnus replied, smile widening. "Though I might have misunderstood some comments he made, and shared my misunderstanding with Valiar Marcus."
Tavi grunted and thought about it for a moment. "It was a test," he said. "He wanted to see how I'd react to it."
"Many men would have blackmailed their way into a share of the profits," Magnus said. "Now the captain knows you're honest. Gracchus's greedy impulses have been checked. The legionares are getting their full measure of food, and the Legion still has its Tribune Logistica. Everyone's a winner."
"Except me." Tavi sighed. "After today, Gracchus is going to have me knee deep in the latrines for a month."
"Welcome to the Legions," Magnus agreed. "I suggest you regard it as a learning experience."
Tavi scowled.
They walked out the west gate and received overly precise salutes from the two fish standing sentry in their brown tunics and training weapons. A few hundred yards from the gate, there was a wide field, furyc rafted into a perfectly flat plane. A broad oval of stone road ringed the field-a practice course of roadway, built with the same properties as the roads throughout the Realm.
Four full cohorts of recruits were on the track, attempting to speed-march in formation. Properly utilized, the furies built into the Realm's roads would enable a traveler to maintain a running pace for hours at a time with little more effort than walking. The recruits, for the most part, were not utilizing the road properly, and instead of moving in neat ranks their formation resembled a comet-a solid leading element led the way, followed by stragglers who grew progressively slower, more distant, and more exhausted.
In the center of the field, centurions drilled some recruits in weapon play, while others practiced with the true steel shields of a full legionare, learning a basic metalcrafting discipline that would enable them to make their shields stronger and more able to resist impacts-and that would, incidentally, carry over into similarly reinforcing their weapons and armor. Still other recruits sat in loose groups around their instructors, being shown the correct way to wear and maintain armor, how properly to care for weaponry, and dozens of other facets of Legion business.
Tavi and Magnus waited for a comet-shaped cohort of fish to pound past on the training road, then walked across it toward a wooden observation platform at roughly the field's center. The grounds around the tower served as a watering station for the thirsty recruits and also featured an infirmary for the recruits who had succumbed to fatigue or who had, like Tavi, earned a pointed lesson from the weapon instructors.
Captain Cyril stood atop the observation platform, and the sun shone off his armor and bald pate. He leaned against a guardrail, speaking quietly with Tribune Cadius Hadrian, a small, slender man who stood beside him in the light armor and woodland colors of a scout. Hadrian pointed at the running trainees on the back stretch of the track and murmured something to the captain. Then he pointed toward a group of fish strapping into bulky suits of training armor. Cyril nodded, then glanced down to see Tavi and Magnus at the base of the platform.
Cadius Hadrian followed the captain's look, then saluted and slid down the platform's ladder to the earth. The leader of the Legion's scouts nodded silently to Tavi and Magnus as they saluted him, and paced away.
"I've brought him for you, sir," Magnus called. "And I told you so."
Captain Cyril had a blocky, largely immobile face, tanned to leather by his time in the field, and even a small smile sent creases across his features. "Send him up."
Tavi turned to the ladder, and Magnus touched his arm. "Lad," he murmured, almost too low to be heard. "Remember your duty. But don't play him false."
Tavi frowned, then nodded to Magnus and scaled the ladder to join the captain on the platform. He reached the top, came to attention, and saluted.
"At ease," Cyril said easily, beckoning with one hand as he turned back to the field. Tavi stepped up to stand beside him. Neither said anything for several moments, and Tavi waited for the captain to break the silence.
"Not many novice subtribunes would stand up to their commanding officer like that," Cyril finally murmured. "That takes a certain amount of courage."
"Not really, sir," Tavi said. "He couldn't come against me without revealing what he'd done."
Cyril grunted. "There are ways he can get around it. Not to hurt your career, perhaps, but he can make your duties unpleasant."
"Yes," Tavi said, simply.
Cyril smiled again. "A Stoic, I see."
"I'm not afraid of work, sir. It will pass."
"True enough." The captain turned speculative eyes on Tavi. "I looked into your records," he said. "You aren't much of a furycrafter."
A flash of irritation mixed with pain rolled through Tavi's chest. "I've just got my Legion basics, " Tavi said-which was true, as far as the false records provided by the Cursors were concerned. "A little metal. I can handle a sword. Not like the greats, but I can hold my own."
The captain nodded. "Sometimes men go out of their way to conceal their talents, for whatever reason. Some don't want the responsibility. Some don't want to stand out. Others will embarrass an illegitimate parent should they do too much. Like your friend, Maximus."
Tavi smiled tightly. "That's not me, Captain."
Cyril studied Tavi for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I don't have those kinds of gifts, either. Pity," he said, and turned back to the field. "I was hoping I might round up a few more Knights."