"Not today."
"When you do," Tavi said, "send him to my office, too."
"Yes, sir," Max said.
Tavi went to the slateboard and swiped a damp cloth over it until the markings had been erased. It was sloppy of Amos to leave his marching orders- such as they were-displayed for any idiot to wander by and see. "All right, Tribune." He sighed. "Let's get to work."
Chapter 7
Marcus looked around the shabby tent-tavern, one of many that had sprung up in the refugee camp. He hadn't been to this particular establishment before, but he'd seen many like it in his day. Admittedly, few of them had been quite this squalid. The canvas of the tent was sloppily patched with tar rather than being properly repaired. The floors, which could at least have been swept smooth and laid with rushes, were simply mud. The legs of the trestle tables had sunk six inches into it, and their surfaces would have been too low if the benches in front of them hadn't sunk down as well.
Marcus stared at the mug in front of him. The beer had chunks of something floating in it-probably grain from the fermenting pots, but one could never be sure. It didn't smell like beer should. It smelled something like dirty water, only not as pleasant. He'd paid for it with a silver bull, and the copper rams he'd gotten back had been shaved so badly that the horns on the inscribed side were almost entirely gone.
It was intriguing, in a way. The refugee camp had done what hardship always did to people. In some of them, it brought out a greatness of spirit that was almost unbelievable. Fidelias had seen men with next to nothing literally give cold children the cloaks off their backs. He'd seen families with barely enough food to survive take in one more homeless child, find a way to stretch a blanket over one more freezing body. He'd seen legionares of the First Aleran, sickened by the suffering they'd seen while on drill, take their pay directly to market, spend it all on food, and take it to the camp to be given to those who needed it.
In others, though, it brought out the worst. He'd led squads that buried the corpses of people who'd been killed for their threadbare cloaks and the rags they'd had wrapped around their feet. He'd seen men demanding things of women in lieu of money, seen those who had what others needed demand degradation and humiliation from them before they would share it. He'd seen the bruises and broken bones that had come as the result of fear and frayed tempers. The sickness brought on by exposure and too little food-even here, in the gentlest lands of the Realm. And all of it, all of that sad, pitiable, loathsome humanity began to clot together somehow, to become a near-visible vapor, a stench in the air that smelled like…
Well. It smelled like this beer.
Marcus pushed his mildewed wooden mug away a little and did his best to ignore the smell. Then he took the little furylamp from his pouch, murmured it to life, set it out on the rough table, and waited.
The washerwoman entered the nameless tavern and paused in the doorway before looking around. It was dark enough inside that his little lamp served as a beacon for her gaze, and she crossed the rough floor to sit down at the table with him.
"Good day," the disguised Lady Aquitaine said. She glanced around the tavern with a sniff. "I always knew you were a secret romantic."
Marcus nudged the mug toward her. "Thirsty?"
She glanced at the mug, turned a shade paler, and gave him a level look.
"Suit yourself," he said.
"Why here?" she asked him.
"No one will recognize me here."
"I almost didn't recognize you."
Marcus shrugged. "No armor. Different cloak. My hood is up. I look like everyone else."
"We could have met anywhere," she countered. "Why here?"
Marcus glanced up and met her eyes. "Maybe I wanted you to see it."
The washerwoman tilted her head slightly to one side. "See what?"
He moved his hand in an all-encompassing gesture. "The consequences."
She lifted both eyebrows sharply.
"A lot of times, people who make big choices never have to see what can happen. All of this… and worse than you see here, or what you saw on the way here-it's all the result of choices like that."
She stared at him without expression for a long moment. "This is supposed to horrify me?"
"This? This is nothing," Marcus replied. "This is what happens when there's a polite disagreement, which is more or less what we've had with the Canim so far. This is what happens when everyone has to tighten their belts a little, but there's still enough to go around. It's worse, in the south. Rampant disease. Starvation. Brigands, looting, mercenaries. Men taking more liberties. Men seeking vengeance for the same." He nodded at the tavern. Outside the damp, stinking canvas, someone with a wet cough was wheezing for breath between fits of hacking spasms. "This is sunshine and sweetbread compared to what could happen."
Lady Aquitaine narrowed her eyes. "If my husband and I continue in our designs, you mean."
"I'd have to know them all," Marcus replied. "And I'm sure that I don't. So it's for you to say."
"One of the things I have always admired about you is your professionalism. This isn't like you."
Marcus shrugged. "It's a secure enough meeting space. I had something to say to you. I said it. What you do with it is up to you."
Lady Aquitaine frowned. She glanced around the shabby tavern for a few seconds. Then she shook her head briskly, took the mug, and emptied its contents onto the floor. She put the mug firmly back on the table. "Keep your focus on the task at hand."
"I would-if he could be bothered to arrive on time."
She shrugged. "He's used to being the most important person around. Important people are always late to meetings."
"Why tolerate it?" Marcus asked.
"I need him," she said simply.
"What happens when you don't?"
She gave him a little smile. "He'll have the opportunity to learn better working habits."
Just then, the tavern's entrance cloth swung to one side again, and half a dozen people entered, cloaked, all of them obviously together and too well dressed for the neighborhood. Marcus sighed. The worst thing about his departure from the Cursors had been the lack of competent professional associates.
One of the cloaked figures turned to the surly-looking man behind the cheap wooden table that passed for a bar. She lifted her hands to her hood and lowered it, revealing her features. Marcus tensed slightly as he recognized Phry-giar Navaris.
Navaris flung a small leather pouch. It struck the barman in the chest, bounced off, and landed on the grimy bar. She fixed the man with a flat grey stare, and said, "Get out."
Marcus could have made the same threat, the same way-but the man would have counted the money first. Marcus didn't blame the barman for taking the purse and departing without bothering to so much as glance inside.
The shortest of the figures looked around for a moment, then hurried to the table and sat down opposite Lady Aquitaine. He sat on his cloak, pulling the hood tight, and he muttered in irritation, glancing around the tent before he flung it back. "There's discretion," Senator Arnos muttered, "and then there's senseless paranoia. Did we have to meet in this sty?"
"Now, now, be nice, Arnos," Lady Aquitaine said. "It smells just as bad on this side of the table, I assure you."
Marcus watched the Senator's singulares. Navaris remained by the entrance, looking at nothing, and displaying all the emotion of frozen granite. The other four fanned out around the room, dividing their attention between the easily opened canvas walls and the people sitting at the table. Marcus noted the weapons belted at one man's hip, and the bow one of the others bore in a slender hand. Then he focused on Arnos again.