There was a low murmur of voices. Then a dozen of them spoke in ragged concert. “Their blood cries out for justice.”
“Agreed,” said Varg in a very hard voice. “What wisdom have the bloodspeakers to give such justice a shape?”
Another swift and murmured conference followed. Then they answered together again. “Blood for blood, life for life, death for death.”
Varg flicked his tail impatiently. “And if I do not do this?”
This time they all answered at once. “Call to the makers, call to the warriors, call for strength to lead us.”
“Then let Master Khral come forth to see it done!”
There was a long silence from the tent.
Tavi arched an eyebrow and glanced at Varg. The big Cane looked intent.
“Master Khral speaks for the bloodspeakers, and for the makers! So he has assured me for many months! Let him come forth!”
Again, silence.
“Then let one of honor and experience come forth to witness it! Let Master Marok come forth!”
Almost before Varg was finished speaking, the opening of the tent parted, and a tall, weathered old Cane emerged. He wore a mantle constructed from sections of vord chitin, and a misshapen warrior-form’s chitinous skull served as his hood. More plates of chitin armored his torso and legs. His fur was, like Varg’s, midnight black, though both of his forearms were so heavily laden with layer upon layer of scars that almost no fur grew there at all. He wore a sling bag across his chest. The band had been woven from what looked like the legs of many wax spiders. The bag, too, was a black chitin skull from some vord form Tavi had never seen—but instead of carrying blood, it held multiple scrolls and what might have been some sort of flute carved from bone. The old Cane also had a pair of daggers stored side by side on his belt. Their bone handles looked old and worn.
“Master Marok,” Varg rumbled. He bared his throat very slightly, the Canim version of a bow. Marok returned the gesture only a shade more deeply, acknowledging Varg’s leadership without quite recognizing his superiority.
“Varg,” Marok replied. “Has no one killed you yet?”
“You are welcome to try your luck,” Varg replied. “The bloodspeakers allowed you to speak for them?”
“They’re all afraid that if one of them steps up to the head of the pack, Khral will have them killed when he returns.”
“Khral,” Varg said, amusement in his voice.
“Or someone.” Marok eyed Tavi. “This is the demon Tavar?”
Varg’s ears flicked affirmation. “Gadara, this is Marok. I respect him.”
Tavi lifted his eyebrows and gave Marok a Canim bow, which was returned in precisely equal measure. The old Cane watched him through narrowed eyes.
“You killed two of my people,” Marok said.
“I’ve killed more than that,” Tavi replied. “But if you mean the two false messengers who attacked me in my tent, then yes. I killed one, and a soldier under my command killed another.”
“The tent was the Tavar’s,” Varg said. “He did not seek the makers out for murder. They trespassed upon his range.”
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.