Captain's Fury (Page 5)

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.

"Marcus," the captain said. The two traded a quick salute. "What have you heard?"

"Just got here, sir," Marcus replied.

The captain nodded. "I’ve sent orders to have the auxiliaries ready to ride, as well as the Battlecrows."

"Already done, sir," Marcus said.

"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."

"And without it they’d starve," Myra said. "We’re helping them."

"Precisely," Isana said.

"And it’s here because of you!" the girl said.

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."

Myra chewed on a fingernail and studied her steadily. "Papa says you’re important."

Isana smiled at the girl. "Everyone’s important."

"Myra," came the carter’s voice from the front of the wagon. "Come away now, and let the Steadholder work."

"Coming, Papa," the girl said. She gave Isana a smile and scampered back out of the wagon’s rear.

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.