Captain's Fury (3 page)

He didn't need to say anything to Kitai. The two of them had ridden out so often that by now, it was a matter of routine to send both their horses leaping into a run at the same moment, and together they thundered back toward the First Aleran's fortifications at the Elinarch.

* * * *

"I
know
there haven't been orders yet," Valiar Marcus thundered, scowling at the stable master. "Even if they never come, it's good practice for my men. So you bloody well
get
those mounts prepared for the Battlecrows, and you do it
now
, or I'll have your lazy ass on a whipping post."

The stable master for Alera's first mounted infantry cohort gave the First Spear a surly salute and hurried away, bawling orders at the grooms who cared for the extra mounts. Marcus scowled at the man's back. You practically had to kick the man all the way to his job to get him to fulfill his responsibilities, and he was getting too old to spend that much energy on fools. Good help, it seemed, remained hard to find, regardless of the fact that the Realm was fighting for its life against the greatest threat to its integrity in at least four hundred years.

Marcus stalked through the lines of the First Aleran, their tents stretched in ruler-straight rows within the sheltering walls of the town at the Elinarch, the enormous bridge that stretched over the broad Tiber River. He stopped to have a quick word with a number of senior centurions along the way, putting them on alert that something was happening in officer country. As often as not, a stir in officer country meant that the rank and file of the Legion was about to be ordered to hurry up and wait, but it was always good for the centurions to look prepared and unfazed, no matter how sudden or urgent the news.

Marcus strode through the town. It had grown considerably in the two years the First Aleran had been using it as a base of operations. In fact, the southern half of the town had been rebuilt from the paving stones up and made into a fortress that had withstood two ferocious assaults from the Canim's elite warriors and twice as many tides of their howling raiders—before the captain had taken the initiative and begun carrying the battle to the Canim invaders, hard enough to teach them to keep their distance from the Elinarch. The streets were crowded with refugees from the occupied territory to the south, and in the marketplaces the price of food had climbed to outrageous levels—there simply wasn't enough to go around, and the demand had driven prices to unheard-of heights.

Marcus marched through all of it without slowing his pace. No one hampered his progress. Though he wasn't a tall man, and though he did not look particularly more formidable than any other
legionare
, the crowd seemed somehow to sense his purpose and determination. They melted out of his path.

Marcus reached the command quarters just as hooves began to make rhythmic thunder on the paving stone. Half a dozen of the First Aleran's Marat auxiliaries rode down the street, clearing the way for the captain and the Marat Ambassador, returning early from their daily ride, and six more brought up the rear. Ever since those deadly Canim assassins that had come to be known as Hunters had tried their luck against the captain and his woman, the young man had never been left unguarded.

Marcus frowned. The captain's
singulare
, his personal bodyguard, normally a shadow rarely seen more than a few paces away from his back, was still missing from the camp. There was no explanation as to why, or where the man had gone. Marcus, though, had no business querying the captain on the matter. As the First Spear, the senior centurion of the Legion, he had unparalleled access to the command structure, when compared to any other foot soldier of the First Aleran—but even his comparatively broad authority had limits, and he dared not press them.

It would make people begin to ask dangerous questions.

Marcus shook off the unpleasant line of thought and the uneasy quiver that ran through his stomach whenever he allowed it to occupy his attention.

"Good man!" The captain flashed Marcus a quick grin, startling for its boyishness. The past two years had made even Marcus occasionally forget how
young
the captain really was. His poise, courage, and intelligence had guided the now-veteran Legion through a deadly war of maneuver with an unforgiving foe, and he had stood front and center, facing the danger with his men every step of the way. They loved him for it. The young captain wore the mantle of command as naturally and capably as if he had been born to it.

Which was only natural, because, of course, he had.

Marcus's stomach twisted again.

It was easier to think of him as the captain. Whatever else the young man might be, in time, right now he was the captain—and a captain worthy of Marcus's loyalty. Worthy of his respect.

Worthy of your honesty
, whispered a poisonous little voice in his heart.

"Come on," the captain said, his eyes and his thoughts both clearly focused on the command building. "If Ehren's back this soon, it means he's got something that can't wait. Let's find out what."

Valiar Marcus, whose true name was not Valiar Marcus, followed Captain Rufus Scipio, whose true name was not Rufus Scipio, into the fortified stone command building, and struggled with the sudden instinct that the days of pretending he was someone else were only too numbered.

* * * *

Steadholder Isana of the Calderon Valley grimaced as the wagon hit a rough spot in the road and made her blur a digit in the column of numbers she was tabulating on the little lap desk. She spared a moment to take a breath and calm down, reminding herself firmly that the frustration was a result of long weeks of labor and travel, and not the ineptitude of the wagon's builders, driver, the beasts pulling it, or the engineers who originally constructed the road.

She reached for a fresh piece of paper but found the wooden box empty. "Myra," she called to the cart driver's daughter. "Have you any more paper?"

"Yes, my lady," called a young woman's voice. The wagon creaked as someone moved about the front seat for a few moments, then the curtain to the covered back of the wagon parted, and a scrawny, frizzy-haired darling of a girl appeared, holding out a fresh sheaf.

"Bless you, child," Isana said, taking the paper.

"Of course, my lady," Myra said, beaming. "Did you know that we're in the refugee territory now? The guard showed me and Papa the sight of a scare-mish with the Canim that happened right here by the road."

"Skirmish, dear," Isana corrected her. "And yes, I know that there's been fighting on both sides of the river, on and off."

Myra nodded, her dark eyes intent, her young face serious. "This caravan is very important, isn't it, my lady?"

Isana began the botched page anew. The eagerness she felt in the girl's presence was undermined by a sense of slowly dawning worry, an emotion Isana felt as clearly as she felt her own weary impatience, thanks to the constant, steady presence of her water fury, Rill. "Yes, it is," she said, keeping her tone steady and calm to reassure the girl. "That's why we're so well protected. The food and supplies we're bringing to the refugees will help them survive the coming winter."

That was an oversimplification of staggering degree, but there was little point in trying to explain it to the carter's daughter. "The supplies and money came from a great number of important and generous Citizens," she replied. "The leaders of the Dianic League. I'm only keeping things organized."

Myra frowned. "But Papa said without you, all those old biddies wouldn't have done anything!"

Partly true, though she should hardly like to be the one to call, say, Lady Placida an old biddy. But Isana
had
managed to parlay the exposure she'd been given as Lady Aquitaine's rallying standard for the Dianic League into something far more useful than a trough for her patron's thirst for power. Lady Aquitaine had not been at all amused at what Isana had done with the personal influence she'd gained, but if she'd tried to undermine Isana's relief project, it would have turned a great many minds in the League against her—and Lady Aquitaine knew it. The barely simmering edge of irritation that had tinged Lady Aquitaine's presence every time Isana had spoken to her recently was almost reason enough to have endured the endless hours of effort she'd needed to gather support and put the relief column together. Though if she admitted it to herself, that small victory was nothing compared to the misery and suffering the caravan would alleviate.

Isana was
helping
. She was doing something good, something that she could be proud of—something Septimus would have been proud of.

Isana fought off a smile and a faint shimmer of tears at the same time. "Everyone wanted to do something to help the refugees, child. They only needed someone to give them a way to do it."

Isana went back to her work on the inventory, and didn't look up from it until the caravan halted for its midday rest. She kept working while the carters and mule skinners took their lunch.
She
hadn't been walking or driving or loading all morning, after all.

A shout of challenge went up outside from one of the caravan's mounted guards, and Isana felt herself tense up. The caravan, while not transporting a great deal of liquid wealth,
did
have a considerable amount of material of use and value. It was too large a target for bandits, but there was always the chance that the Canim might seize the food and supplies in order to feed their own doubtlessly hungry soldiers.

No furor arose, though, and Isana relaxed and kept to her inventories, until the trotting hoofbeats of an approaching horse came up to the wagon and stopped.

Isana looked up, frowning faintly, concentrating on her link with Rill—and suddenly bolted up from where she sat, spilling ink on her most recent page, and not caring in the least. Her heart pounded in a fashion entirely too girlish to suit anyone of her age or her station or responsibilities, and she found herself fidgeting with her hair and straightening her dress. Then she stared in dismay at her ink-stained fingers. Doubtless she had just managed to spread smudges over her entire outfit, and possibly upon her face as well. She felt a blush rise to her cheeks.

Boots hit the ground outside the wagon, and the horse shifted its weight. Someone knocked on the sideboards.

Feeling mildly ridiculous, Isana parted the curtains with one hand and descended from the wagon, emerging into the noonday sunshine of the earliest days of spring in the Amaranth Vale.

A man of average height stood waiting for her, his dark hair shorn to regulation Legion length, his armor plain and showing signs of use. The features of one side of his face were strongly carved, striking. The other half of his face was marred by horrible burn scars centered around the shape of the Legion brand for cowardice, high on his cheekbone. He wore a simple sword at his side, and the scarlet half cape of a Legion
singulare
.

Isana felt her heart speed up again as she smiled at him. "Araris."

His face turned up into one of his rare, swift smiles, and his eyes all but glowed from within. The sudden warmth of his emotions flooded over Isana, and she felt as if she might float up off the ground. She could feel his happiness and excitement at seeing her, his affection, and a certain, lazily controlled hunger for her that she knew would draw out spots of pink high on her cheeks.

"Isana," he said quietly. She offered her hand. He took it and bent over it, brushing his lips over the backs of her fingers. Isana felt the warmth of his breath as an impact that spread deliciously up her arm to dance along every fiber of her body.

He straightened, eyes sparkling, fingers tightening very gently around hers. "You look…" His eyes wrinkled at the corners. "Inky."

Isana tilted her head back and laughed.

"And beautiful," he said. "I've missed you."

"And I you," she replied, covering his hand with her other one. "What are you doing here? We were to arrive at the Elinarch in another two days."

Some of Araris's smile trickled away. "I bring you word. Can we speak here?"

Isana glanced around them. The carters and their crews were sitting down to a simple lunch at the cook's wagon, farther down the line. There was no one nearby. "I believe so."

Araris nodded once. "I am sent to caution you, of course, to remember that while you may be Tavi's blood kin, you have never met Rufus Scipio. You must take every precaution not to reveal his identity."

"Of course." Isana sighed. "I'm not quite senile yet. What else?"

Araris regarded her with a steady gaze for a moment. Then he said, "When he was a child, it was right and proper that you should make decisions for him." He leaned forward, his fingers tightening on hers, giving his words gentle emphasis. "He is no longer a child."

Isana felt her shoulders stiffening. "What do you mean?"