Captain's Fury (Page 4)

Kitai returned her grin. "See to it that looking is all you do."

Enna tilted her head to one side, studying Tavi with a frankness that accomplished the impossible, by making him feel even more embarrassed than he already did. "Is he always pink like that?" Enna asked. "Or is it merely something he does to amuse you."

"Bloody crows," Tavi muttered, shoving his arms back into his tunic.

Kitai let out a peal of laughter, then said, "He amuses me constantly, cousin."

Enna frowned, and said, "But he’s not a horse."

"No one is perfect," Kitai replied smoothly.

Tavi cleared his throat and reminded himself who was captain of this Legion. "Centurion," he said, forcing his voice into the deliberate, calm tones he always used when conducting Legion business. "Do you have something to report?"

Enna’s amusement and interest lingered in her eyes, but she came to attention and saluted him, striking one fist to her heart. "Captain. Sir Cyril’s compliments, and he thought you would want to know that Ehren has returned."

Tavi gave her a sharp glance and inhaled deeply. His heart leapt in his chest, somehow transfixed by relief and anxiety at the same time. Ehren had returned alive from his dangerous mission into the occupied Aleran territory now held by the inhuman Canim, and Tavi felt mightily relieved that he was back in one piece. Ehren’s mission had not called for him to return this soon, though, and that was the cause of Tavi’s anxiety. If Ehren had cut the mission short early, it was because he had discovered something that couldn’t wait. Tavi had several ugly speculations on what might be important enough to merit such an action on behalf of his friend and fellow Cursor, and the least unpleasant of them was more than a little troubling.

"Kitai," Tavi said quietly, and glanced at her.

The Marat girl was already several paces away, drawing her tunic back down over the supple curve of her back. She untied the horses from where they’d left them.

"Enna," Tavi said, "ride ahead. Tell Tribune Maximus that I want all four of his alae ready to move, and alert Tribune Crassus that his Knights had better be prepared to ride as well."

Enna nodded sharply. "Yes, sir. What shall I tell the First Spear?"

"Tell him I want the Battlecrows mounted up," Tavi said. "Beyond that, nothing. Valiar Marcus knows what needs to be done better than I do."

By that time, Kitai had returned with the horses, and Tavi swung up onto his own mount, a long-legged, deep-chested black he’d dubbed Acteon. The stallion had been a gift from Kitai’s aunt Hashat. Well, not a gift, precisely, since the Horse Clan did not see their totem beasts as property. From what Tavi understood, he had been entrusted to the horse’s care in matters where speed was necessary, and the horse had been entrusted to his, in matters of everything else. So far, the arrangement had worked out.

Tavi wheeled Acteon as Kitai mounted her own barbarian-bred steed, a dappled grey mare who could run more tirelessly than any Aleran horse Tavi had ever seen. Enna turned and loped swiftly over to her own roan, equipped with the minimal amount of tack the Marat called a saddle, and sent it into an immediate run. There would be little point in attempting to keep pace with her-no riders on the face of Carna could match the pace set by the Horse Clan of the Marat.

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.