First Lord's Fury (Page 90)

Marok growled. "The code calls for a blood answer when an outsider kills one of us, regardless of the circumstances."

"An outsider," Varg growled. "He is gadara."

Marok stopped to eye Varg thoughtfully. In a much quieter, quite calm voice, he muttered, "That might work. If we can make it stick."

Tavi took his cue from Marok and lowered his voice as well. "Varg. If Lararl had done what I did, what would be the proper reply?"

Varg growled. "My people on his range? Simple defense of his territory. They would be in the wrong, not Lararl. Though I would consider it clumsy and wasteful, under the circumstances, since Lararl could quite likely have rendered them helpless without killing either of them."

Tavi grimaced. "That wasn’t what I wanted. There were only two of us. Each of us was trying to dispose of his opponent so that he could help the other. I would much rather have had them alive and answering questions about who sent them."

Marok grunted. He looked at Varg. "You believe him?"

"Gadara, Marok."

The old Cane tilted his head slightly to the side in acknowledgment. "Khral’s pack of scavengers are going to raise a whirlwind of howls if you give one of the demons status as a member of the people. Naming him gadara is a warrior concern, and your rightful prerogative. Establishing a demon as one of our people under the codes is another matter entirely."

Varg growled. "Without this demon, there would be no people for the codes to guide."

"A fact that does not escape me," Marok replied. "But it does not alter the codes."

"Then there must be a blood answer," Varg said.

"Yes."

Varg flicked his ears in thoughtful agreement and turned to Tavi. "Would you be willing to trade two Aleran lives for those you took?"

"Never," Tavi said quietly.

Marok made a rumble of approval in his chest.

"The poor dead fools," Varg growled. "This was a blade well sunk. Give Khral credit for that much."

"Blood," Tavi said abruptly.

The two Canim eyed him.

"What if I pay a blood price for the two dead makers? Their weight of blood?"

Marok narrowed his eyes again. "Interesting."

Varg grunted. "A Cane has twice the weight in blood of an Aleran, gadara. We could bleed you to a husk, and you would have paid back only a quarter."

"What if it were done slowly?" Tavi replied. "A little at a time? And the blood entrusted to, say, Master Marok here, to use for the protection and benefit of the families of the two dead makers?"

"Interesting," Marok said again.

Varg mused for a moment. "I can think of nothing in the codes to hold against it."

"Nothing in the codes," Marok said. "But it sets a dangerous precedent. Others might use it to kill as well and escape the consequences in this fashion."

Tavi showed his teeth. "Not if the party who has been wronged does the bloodletting."

Marok huffed out a harsh bark of Canim-style laughter.

Varg’s jaws lolled open in a smile. "Aye. That would stand up to usage." He tilted his head and eyed Tavi. "You would trust me with the blade, gadara?"

"If anything happened to me, your people would be finished," Tavi said soberly. "We would kill them all. Or the vord would kill them all. And there would never again be such an opportunity for us to build mutual respect."

Varg watched Marok as Tavi spoke. Then he spread one paw-hand open, as though he had just proved something to the older Cane.

Marok nodded slowly. "As the observer sent by the bloodspeakers, I will consider this payment an offering of honor and restitution – and I will see to it that the makers know that it has been concluded according to the codes. Wait here."

Marok went back into the black tent. When he returned, he held what would be a rather small vial, for a Cane, made of some kind of ivory. To Tavi, it looked nearly the size of a canteen. Marok handed the container to Varg.

Varg took it with another, deeper bow, this time reversing the roles of accorded respect with Marok. The old Cane said, "From the left arm."

Tavi steeled himself as he pushed the arm of his tunic up past his elbow and extended it to Varg.

The Warmaster drew his dagger, an Aleran gladius that had once belonged to Tavi. Varg carried it for use when he needed a keen-edged knife. Moving with quick, sure motions, he laid a long, shallow cut across Tavi’s forearm, along a diagonal. Tavi gritted his teeth but made no other reaction to the pain of the injury. He lowered his arm to his side, and Varg bent to place the vial beneath his fingertips, catching the blood as it spilled. It slowly began to fill.

The entrance to the black tent flew open again, and a burly Cane in a pale leather mantle strode out, his fangs bared, his ears laid back. "Marok," the Cane snarled. "You will cease this trafficking with the enemy!"

"Nhar," Marok said. "Go back in the tent."

Nhar surged toward Marok, seething. "You cannot do this! You cannot so bind us to these creatures! You cannot so dishonor the lives of the fallen!"

Marok eyed the other ritualist for a moment, and said, "What were their names, Nhar?"

The other Cane drew up short. "What?"

"Their names," Marok said in that same, gentle voice. "Surely you know the names of these makers whose lives you defend so passionately."

Nhar stood there, gnashing his teeth. "You," he sputtered. "You."

"Ahmark and Chag," Master Marok said. And without warning one of his hands lashed out and delivered a backhanded blow to the end of Nhar’s muzzle. The other Cane recoiled in sheer surprise as much as pain, and fell to the ground. The blood in the pouch at his side sloshed back and forth, some of it splashing out.

"Go back into the tent, Nhar," Marok said gently.

Nhar snarled and plunged one hand into the blood pouch.

Marok moved even more quickly. One of the knives sprang off his belt into his hand and whipped across his own left forearm.

Nhar screamed something, and a cloud of blue-grey mist formed in front of him, coalescing into some kind of solid shape in response. But before it could fully form, Marok flicked several drops of his own blood onto the other Cane. Then the old master closed his eyes and made a calm, beckoning gesture.

Nhar convulsed. At first Tavi thought that the Cane was vomiting, but as more and more substance poured out of Nhar’s mouth, it only took a few seconds for Tavi to realize what was really happening.