Tavi met Gaius’s uncompromising eyes for a long and silent moment. Then he nodded slightly in acquiescence. “Yes, sire.”
“Then let’s waste no more time.” Gaius rose. “Oh,” he said in a tone of afterthought. “Are you by any chance sleeping with the Marat Ambassador, Tavi?”
Tavi felt his mouth drop open again. His cheeks heated up so much that he thought they might actually, literally, burst into flame. “Urn, sire…”
“You understand the consequences, I assume. Neither of you has furycraft that would prevent conception. And believe me when I say that paternity complicates one’s life immensely.”
Tavi wished desperately that the earth would open up, swallow him whole, and smash him into a parchment-thick blob. “We, uh. We aren’t doing that,” Tavi said. “There are, uh, well, other. Things. That aren’t…”
Gaius’s eyes sparkled. “Intercourse?”
Tavi put a hand over his face, mortified. “Oh, bloody crows. Yes, sire.”
Gaius let out a rolling laugh. “I dimly remember the concept,” he said. “And since young people always have done and always will do a poor job of restraining themselves, at best, I suppose I must be satisfied with your, ah, alternate activities.” The smile faded. “But bear in mind, Tavi. She’s not human. She’s Marat. Enjoy yourself if you must-but I would advise you not to become too deeply attached to her. Your duties will only become more demanding.”
Tavi chewed on his lip and looked down. In his excitement, he had overlooked the fact that if he was sent away, he would not see Kitai for half of a year. He didn’t like that notion. Not at all. They found time to spend together on most days. And most nights.
Tavi felt his blush rising again, just thinking of it. But he felt faintly surprised at how much he disliked the idea of being parted from Kitai-and not just because it would mean a severe curtailing of his, ah, alternate activities. Kitai was a beautiful and fascinating young woman-clever of wit, quick of tongue, honest, loyal, fierce, and with a sense of innate empathy that Tavi had only seen previously in watercrafters like his aunt, Isana.
She was his friend. More than that, though, he was attached to Kitai by an unseen bond, some kind of link between them that each Marat shared with a totem creature. Every Marat Tavi had ever seen had been in the company of their totems, what Kitai called a chala. Her father, Doroga, the head of the Gargant Clan, was never to be seen outside the company of the enormous black gargant named Walker. He could count the number of times he’d seen Hashat, head of the Horse Clan, walking on her own feet with one hand.
Tavi nursed a secret concern that if he was separated from Kitai, it might put some kind of strain upon her, or harm her in some way. And after this visit to the south, he would be entering into his required three-year term with the Legions, which could take him to the far-flung reaches of the Realm-and which would certainly not be near Alera Imperia and Kitai, her people’s ambassador to the Crown.
Three years. And after that, there would be another assignment. And another. Cursors in service to the Crown rarely spent much time in one place.
He already missed her. Worse, he hadn’t told Gaius about the bond and what he feared it might do to Kitai. He had never explained his suspicions about the bond to the First Lord. Beyond a formless anxiety about the notion, he had no sharply defined reason why-but his instincts told him that he should be very wary about revealing anything Gaius might see as an ability to influence or manipulate one of his Cursors. Tavi had grown up on the frontiers of the Realm, dangerous lands where he’d spent most of his life learning to listen to his instincts.
Gaius watched the expressions play over his face and nodded, perhaps mistaking Tavi’s concerns for romantic regrets. “You begin to understand.”
Tavi nodded once, without lifting his eyes, and carefully kept his emotions in check.
Gaius blew out a breath, resumed his disguised form, then headed for the door. “You’ll do as you wish, Tavi, but I trust your judgment. Start packing, Cursor. And good luck.” Unseasonably rough weather slowed the pace of the Knights Aeris bearing Rook to her master in the south, and it took her nearly five days to make the trip. That time had been pure torture for her. She had no talent for windcraft herself, which meant that she could only sit in the enclosed windcraft-borne litter and stare at the package of folded documents sitting on the seat opposite her.
Nausea unrelated to the litter’s lurching through rough winds wound through her. She closed her eyes so that she wouldn’t have to look at the bundle of missives she’d secretly copied from official documents in the capital. She’d bought copies of some from unscrupulous, greedy palace staff. She’d stolen into empty offices and locked chambers to acquire others. All contained information of some value, crumbs and fragments that meant little alone, but that would be assembled into a more coherent whole with the help of similar reports from her fellow bloodcrows.
Ultimately, though, none of them mattered. Not anymore. The topmost document on the stack would render it all obsolete. When her master learned what she had found, he would be forced to move. He would begin the civil war every Aleran with half a mind had known was coming. It would mean the death of tens of thousands of Alerans, at the very least. That was bad enough, but it wasn’t what made her feel the most sick.
She had betrayed a friend to attain this secret. She was not the naive youngster she pretended to be, but she was not much older than the boy from Calderon, and in the time she’d known him she’d grown to like and respect him and those around him. It had been a torment of its own, knowing that her friendship and laughter was nothing but a facade, and that if her friends knew her true purpose in the capital, every single one of them would not have hesitated to assault and imprison her.
Or even kill her outright.
It made it harder to play her role. The camaraderie and easy contact was seductive. She had entertained idle thoughts of defection, despite her determination to focus on other things. If she hadn’t been a skilled watercrafter, she would have left tears on her pillow each night-but even that much would have jeopardized her cover, so she willed them away.
Just as she was doing now, as the litter finally descended into the sizzling, steaming heat of late summer in Kalare. She had to look calm and professional for her master, and her fear at the mere thought of failing him made a rush of terrified, acidic vertigo whirl through her. She clenched her hands into fists, closed her eyes, and reminded herself in a steady rhythm that she was his most valuable tool and too successful to discard.
It didn’t help much, but at least it gave her something to do during the last few moments of the flight, until the rich, vaguely rotten vegetable stench of Kalare made its way into her nose and throat. She didn’t need to look out the window and see the city, as busy at dusk as at dawn. Nine-tenths of the place was worn, muddy squalor. The enclosed litter descended upon the other tenth, the splendor of the High Lord’s Tower, landing upon the battlements as such litters did many times each day.
She took a deep breath, calmed herself, took up her papers, raised her hood to hide her identity from any observer, and hurried down the stairs to cross a courtyard into the Tower proper, the High Lord’s residence. The stewards on duty recognized her voice and did not ask her to lower her hood. Kalarus had impressed upon them his will regarding Rook’s visits, and not even his guards would dare his anger. She was hurried directly to the High Lord’s study.
Kalarus sat at his desk within, reading. He was not a large man, nor heavily built, though perhaps a bit taller than average. He wore a shirt of light, almost gauzy grey silk, and trousers of the same material in dark green. Every single finger bore a ring set with a variety of green stones, and he wore a steel circlet across his brow. He was dark of hair and eye, like most southerners, and modestly handsome-though he wore a goatee to hide his weak chin.
Rook knew her role. She stood beside the door in total silence until Kalarus glanced up at her a few moments later.
“So,” he murmured. “What brings you all the way back home, Rook?”
She drew back her hood, bowed her head, and stepped forward to lay the missives upon her master’s desk. “Most of these are routine. But I think you’ll want to read the topmost document without delay.”