Her smile widened. “That,” she said, “would be wholly inappropriate, my lord Octavian.” But her hands very slowly rose to the nape of her neck, and the clasp of the gown. Tavi let out another low, growling sound, and felt his hand curling possessively on the line of her waist.
Hoofbeats came rapidly thudding toward the isolated pavilion. The guards, who were stationed in a loose line forty yards down the hill at Magnus’s insistence, against the possibility of further vord infiltrators, began exchanging passwords with the messenger, whose voice was pitched high with excitement.
Tavi groaned and rested his forehead against Kitai’s… gown for a moment. “Of course. Something happens now.”
Kitai let out a low, wicked laugh, and said, “We could just keep going, if you like.”
“Bloody crows, no,” Tavi said, flushing again. He rose, lifting her as he did, and set her gently down on her feet. “Do I look all right?”
She leaned up and licked the corner of his mouth, eyes dancing, then wiped it with a napkin. She straightened the lines of his dress tunic slightly, and said, “You look most proper, my lord Octavian.”
He growled beneath his breath, something about remembering not to kill the messenger, and walked to draw aside one of the cloths that veiled the pavilion’s interior. A Legion valet was hurrying up the slope beside a messenger in the armor of an Antillan militiaman. The Antillan strode up the hill in the precisely spaced stride of an experienced legionare, stopped before Tavi, and saluted crisply. “Your Highness.”
Tavi returned the salute. The messenger was a senior centurion of the force defending the city, come out of retirement for the task, and was closer to fifty than forty. “Centurion… Ramus, isn’t it?”
The man smiled and nodded. “Aye, sir.”
“Report.”
“Compliments of the Lord Seneschal Vanorius, sir, and there’s been word from Riva.”
Tavi lifted his eyebrows. “A watersending?”
“Yes, si—” The centurion’s eyes had flicked past Tavi to Kitai, and the words choked in his throat. He coughed sharply, then inclined his head and saluted again. “Ah. Please excuse the intrusion, lady Ambassador.”
Tavi checked, just to be sure the gown was still on. It was. But with Kitai, you never really knew. He couldn’t blame Ramus for faltering, though. She looked stunning. “Word from Riva, centurion?” Tavi prompted.
“Yes, sir,” the man said. “Lord Aquitaine reports that the city is under attack.”
Tavi blinked and arched an eyebrow, permitting himself no further sign of surprise. “Really?”
“How?” Kitai demanded sharply.
“The message wasn’t a long one, sir,” the centurion replied. “My lord Vanorius said to tell you that some kind of interference ended it almost before it had begun. Just that Aquitaine appeared, in his visage and voice, having somehow driven through the interdiction the vord have kept on watersendings until, um, recently, Your Highness.”
“Well, then,” Tavi said. He inhaled once, nodded to himself, then glanced sharply over his shoulder at Kitai.
She nodded, already drawing on a dark traveling cloak. “I will speak to her immediately.”
“Thank you,” Tavi said. As Kitai left he said, to Ramus, “Centurion, please give the Lord Seneschal my compliments and inform him that our plans to depart have just been moved up by thirty-six hours. I’ll be moving the troops tonight. The city must be prepared to receive the auxiliaries and refugees a little sooner than we expected.”
“Yes, sir,” Ramus said, but his eyes were hard with suspicion.
Tavi eyed him. Ramus was only one man—but he was the kind of man other legionares listened to. The Antillans and the Canim were about to be left alone with one another in hideously dangerous proximity. This was an opportunity to plant a useful seed, one he’d sown as often as possible over the past days. “Centurion,” Tavi said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d speak your mind.”
“They’re Canim, sir,” the legionare spat. “They’re animals. I fought their raiders in my time in the Legions. I’ve seen what they do to us.”
Tavi considered his answer for a moment before giving it. “I could say that the Legions make use of animals in war on a daily basis, Ramus,” he said, finally. “But the truth of the matter is that they are their own people. They are our enemies, and they make no pretense otherwise.” He smiled, baring his teeth. “But we both have a bigger problem today. I’ve fought with the Canim personally, both against them and beside them, centurion, and I’ve got the scars to prove it. I’ve spent more time in the field against them than any Aleran commander in history. They’re vicious, savage, and merciless. And they keep their word.”
Tavi put a hand on the centurion’s shoulder. “Follow orders, soldier. They’ll follow theirs. And if we’re smart and lucky, maybe we’ll all get to cut one another’s throats next year.”
Ramus frowned. He began to turn, and hesitated. “You… you really think that, son? Er, sir?”
“No two ways about it. They’re in the same corner we are. And there’s some of them I’d sooner trust at my back than a lot of Alerans I’ve known.”
Ramus snorted. “Ain’t that the crowbegotten truth.” He squared his shoulders and slammed a fist to his chest. “I’ll take word to my lord Vanorius, sir.”
“Good man,” Tavi said. He drew the dagger from the centurion’s belt, turned, and speared what remained of his roast onto the end of it. Then he passed the knife back to the man. “For the ride back. No sense in letting it go to waste. Good luck to you, centurion.”
Ramus took the dagger back with a small, quick grin. “Thank you, Your High—”
A wind suddenly screamed down out of the north, a wall of cold air thirty degrees colder than the still-chilly northern night. One moment, the night was quiet, and the next the wind threatened to rip the pavilion from the ground.
“Bloody crows,” Ramus cried, lifting a hand to shield his face. Whipped by the wind, the sea below almost seemed to moan protest as its surface was lashed into a fine spray. “What’s this?”
Tavi lifted his own hand and faced north, peering at the sky. Clouds were being swallowed by a grey darkness spreading from north to south. “Well,” he said, baring his teeth in a snarling smile, “it’s about bloody time.”
He put a hand to his mouth and used a couple of fingers to let loose a whistle piercing enough to carry even over the sudden roar of cold wind, a trick his uncle Bernard had taught him while shepherding. He made a quick signal to the line of guards, who gathered in on him with alacrity.
“That’s enough vacation, boys,” he said. “Break out your extra cloaks. It’s time for us to save the Realm.”
CHAPTER 14
Valiar Marcus became aware that he was being stalked before he’d passed the fourth row of Legion tents in the first quadrant of the First Aleran’s camp. At night, the silent rows of bleached, travel-stained canvas were silent except for the occasional snore. Walking among them could be an eerie experience, like walking in a graveyard, the tents falsely aglow with the light reflected from the standard-issue bleached canvas. It was not easy to slip through a Legion’s grid of white tents without presenting a conspicuous dark profile against the fabric—which was by and large the reason every Legion used white canvas in the first place. But it could be done by one patient and skilled enough.
Marcus wasn’t sure what had tipped him off to the presence of his tail. He had long since ceased to question his knowledge of such things. He’d been in the business his entire life, and his mind seemed to assemble dozens of tiny, nearly unconscious cues into a tangible realization of his surroundings without any particular intent to do so on his part.