Furies of Calderon (Codex Alera #1)
Jim Butcher
For my son, hero in training. And in memory of my father, a hero in truth.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Jennifer Jackson, for her excellent advice in reworking this book. Thanks to my wife and son, as always, and to the beta reading asylum. And a whole ton of thanks to all those insane men and women of the International Fantasy Gaming Society, with whom I have spent many a weekend slaying and being slain in return. Keep your foam swords dry, carry lots of water on course, and watch out for snakes and head shots.
But can anyone tell me why I have to keep carrying these whistles into games?
PROLOGUE
The course of history is determined not by battles, by sieges, or usurpations, but by the actions of the individual. The strongest city, the largest army is, at its most basic level, a collection of individuals. Their decisions, their passions, their foolishness, and their dreams shape the years to come. If there is any lesson to be learned from history, it is that all too often the fate of armies, of cities, of entire realms rests upon the actions of one person. In that dire moment of uncertainty, that person’s decision, good or bad, right or wrong, big or small, can unwittingly change the world.
But history can be quite the slattern. One never knows who that person is, where he might be, or what decision he might make.
It is almost enough to make me believe in Destiny.
FROM THE WRITINGS OF GAIUS PRIMUS FIRST LORD OF ALERA “Please, Tavi,” wheedled the girl in the predawn darkness outside the steadholt’s kitchen. “Just this one little favor?”
“I don’t know,” said the boy. “There’s so much work today.”
She leaned in closer to him, and the boy felt her slender body mold against his, soft and flower-scented and delightful. She pressed her mouth to his cheek in a slow kiss and whispered in his ear, “I’d be very grateful.”
“Well,” the boy said. “I’m not sure if, um.”
She kissed his cheek again and whispered, “Please.”
His heart pounded more quickly, and his knees felt weak. “All right. I’ll do it.”
CHAPTER 1
Amara rode atop the swaying back of the towering old gargant bull, going over the plan in her head. The morning sun shone down on her, taking the chill out of the misty air and warming the dark wool of her skirts. Behind her, the axles of the cart squeaked and groaned beneath their loads. The slave collar she wore had begun to chafe her skin, and she made an irritated mental note to wear one for a few days in order to grow used to it, before the next mission.
Assuming she survived this one, of course.
A tremor of nervous fear ran down her spine and made her shoulders tighten. Amara took a deep breath and blew it out again, closing her eyes for a moment and blocking out every thought except for the sensations around her: sunlight on her face, swaying of the pungent gargant’s long strides, creaking of the cart’s axles.
“Nervous?” asked the man walking beside the gargant. A goad dangled from his hand, but he hadn’t lifted it in the entire trip. He managed the beast with the lead straps alone, though his head barely came to the old bull’s brown-furred thigh. He wore the plain clothes of a peddler: brown leggings, sturdy sandals, with a padded jacket over his shirt, dark green on homespun. A long cape, tattered green without embroidery, had been cast over one shoulder as the sun rose higher.
“No,” Amara lied. She opened her eyes again, staring ahead.
Fidelias chuckled. “Liar. It’s not a brainless plan. It might work.”
Amara shot her teacher a wary glance. “But you have a suggestion?”
“In your graduation exercise?” Fidelias asked. “Crows, no. I wouldn’t dream of it, academ. It would cheapen your performance.”
Amara licked her lips. “But you think that there’s something I should know?”
Fidelias gave her a perfectly guileless look. “I did have a few questions.”
“Questions,” Amara said. “We’re going to be there in a few moments.”
“I can ask them when we arrive, if you prefer.”
“If you weren’t my patriserus, I would find you an impossible man,” Amara sighed.
“That’s sweet of you to say,” Fidelias replied. “You’ve come a long way since your first term at the Academy. You were so shocked when you found out that the Cursors did more than deliver missives.”
“You love telling that story even though you know I hate it.”
“No,” Fidelias said with a grin. “I love telling that story because I know you hate it.”
She looked down at him archly. “This is why the Cursor Legate keeps sending you away on missions, I think.”
“It’s a part of my charm,” Fidelias agreed. “Now, then. My first concern —”
“Question,” Amara corrected.
“Question,” he allowed, “is with our cover story.”
“What question? Armies need iron. You’re an ore smuggler, and I’m your slave. You heard there was a market out this way, and you came to see what money could be made.”
“Ah,” said Fidelias. “And what do I tell them when they ask where I got the ore? It isn’t just found by the roadside, you know.”
“You’re a Cursor Callidus. You’re creative. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Fidelias chuckled. “You’ve learned delegating skills, at least. So, we approach this renegade Legion with our precious ore.” He nodded back toward the squeaking cart. “What’s to stop them from simply taking it?”
“You’re the harbinger of a smuggling network, representing several interests in the business. Your trip is being watched, and if the results are good, others might be willing to bring supplies as well.”
“That’s what I don’t understand,” Fidelias said, his expressioninnocent. “If this is indeed a renegade Legion, as rumors say, under the command of one of the High Lords, in preparation for overthrowing the Crown—aren’t they going to object to any word about them getting out? Good, bad, or indifferent?”
“Yes,” Amara said. She glanced down at him. “Which works in our favor. You see, if you don’t return from this little jaunt, word is going to spread all around Alera about this encampment.”
“Inevitable, since word would get out anyway. One can hardly keep an entire Legion secret for long.”
“It’s our best shot,” Amara said. “Can you think of anything better?”
“We sneak in close, furycraft ourselves into the camp, obtain evidence, and then run like the crows were after us.”
“Oh,” Amara said. “I considered it. I decided it was too brainless and predictable.”