But Marat didn’t often take more than one beast as . . . what sufficed to describe the term? Mate? Companion? Blood-sibling? She shook her head with a shiver. The savages’ ways were still alien to her, something fantastic from a tale rather than the businesslike reality she had learned from classes in the Academy.
Hordemasters took more than one beast, commonly, as a symbol of status. But what would a Marat hordemaster be doing in the Calderon Valley?
Invading.
Her own silent response to the thought gave her a little chill. Could the holders have run into the advance scouts of a Marat attack force?
The attack could hardly come at a more advantageous time for the enemy, Amara realized. The roads were slowly closing down for the winter season here among the northern cities. Many troops had been given winter furlough with their families, and folk of the countryside, in general, were winding down the frantic labor of harvest into the sedate pace of winter.
If the Marat attacked the Valley now, providing the forces stationed at Garrison were neutralized, they could wipe out every person in it and maraud through all the steadholts, practically all the way back to Riva itself. They might even, if they numbered enough, simply pour around the city and into Alera’s interior. Amara shuddered to imagine what a horde might accomplish in that event. She had to contact the Count at Garrison—his name was Bram or Gram or something like that—and put him on the alert.
But what if the boy was lying about the Marat? Or mistaken? She grimaced. She knew the local Citizenry by name, at least, though the memorization of the Lords and Counts had been one of the more tedious chores at the Academy. She had no such knowledge of this Steadholder Bernard or of the folk of the Valley. By all accounts, they were a tough and independently minded folk, but she knew nothing about their reliability or lack of it.
She had to talk to this Bernard. If he had indeed seen a Marat hordemaster and been wounded by one of the great hunting birds of the outland plains, then she had to know it, secure his support (and hopefully some new clothes with it), and act.
She frowned. But she could expect the opposition to be moving as well. Fidelias had lead her into a trap she had escaped by the smallest of margins. She had been pursued for several hours and escaped the Knights Aeris sent after her through skill and good fortune. Did she suppose that Fidelias would not continue the pursuit?
In all probability, she realized, his business lay here, in the Calderon Valley. That had to be one of the reasons Gaius sent her here. Fidelias was her patriserus. Or had been, she thought, with a bitter taste in her mouth. She knew him, perhaps better than anyone else alive. She had seen through his deception at the renegade camp, though only barely.
What would Fidelias do?
He would judge her by her previous actions, of course. He would expect her to arrive in the valley and promptly to make contact with the Steadholders, coordinating information and after suitable data had been gathered, to take action against whatever was happening, whether it meant falling into a defense within one of the strongest steadholts or mobilizing the men of the Valley and the troops of Garrison to meet it.
And what would he do to stop it?
He’d find me. Kill me. And sow confusion among the holders until his plan could begin.
A slow chill went through her. She considered the situation again, but it was perfectly typical of Fidelias. He preferred simple approaches, direct solutions. Keep lies simple, he had always told her, keep plans simple. Leave them open to modification, and use your eyes, your head, more than any plan.
Word of a Cursor in the Valley would spread among the holders like wildfire. She might as well paint a circle over her heart and wait for an arrow to soar into its center. A slow chill crawled through her. He would kill her, now. Fidelias had given her a chance, and she had made him suffer for it. He would not allow himself to make the same mistake again. Her teacher would kill her, without a moment’s hesitation, if she got in his way again.
“That’s what I’m here to do,” she whispered. She started shivering again.
Though she tried to tell herself that it was not fear coloring her decision, she felt it, tickling at her belly, racing with cold spider-fingers up and down her spine. She could not allow herself the luxury of openly invoking her authority and revealing herself to Fidelias. To do so would be to invite her own death, swift and certain. She had to remain quiet, as covert as possible. A runaway slave would be a far less unusual occurrence here at the frontier than an emissary of the Crown warning of possible invasion. She couldn’t allow her identity to be known until she knew who she could trust, who could give her information that would let her act decisively. To do any less would be to invite her own death, and possibly disaster upon the Valley.
She looked down at the boy, her thoughts still in a tangle. He hadn’t needed to come and help her the previous evening, but he had. The boy had courage, even if he lacked some more life-preserving common sense, and she had little choice but to be glad that he did. That said something of him, and in turn of the folk who had raised him. In his sleep, in his fever, he had spoken not to a mother or a father, but to his aunt, whose name apparently was Isana. An orphan?
Amara mused, and as she did, her belly rumbled. She rose to her feet and padded among the trees planted around the pool. As she expected, she found more than a few fruit-bearing trees among them. Gaius never acted with a single consequence in mind, when he could manage several at once. In creating this Memorium for his fallen son, he had raised a spectacular tribute to the Princeps’ memory, reminded the High Lords exactly what power he commanded, and provided a place of refuge for himself (or for his agents) all at the same time.
She picked fruit from the trees and ate, studying the area around her. Amara went to the statues. They had been armed with genuine shields and with weapons, the short, vicious blades of the Royal Guard, meant to be used in close quarters, to incapacitate or kill in a single blow. She slid one from its sheath and tested it. Its edge proved to be keen, and she returned it to its resting place. Food, shelter, and arms. Gaius was a paranoid old fox, and she was glad for it.
Her arm twinged as she slid the sword back, and she glanced at the dirtied bandage on it. She retrieved the knife from her discarded skirts and cut a fresh bandage from them. She dried it, first, near one of the fires, before cutting the old one off, cleaning the wound with fresh water, and applying fresh wrappings. Something else tugged at her attention, but she pushed it firmly away. There was work to be done.