"Sire," growled Nasaug. There was a note of warning in his tone, Marcus thought. It was not difficult to guess at its source. Marcus had come to the immediate conclusion that he did not relish the notion of being effectively trapped within the hectic conditions of a ship under a storm with the angry young officer still smarting from his learning experience.
"The foremost cabin," Varg said.
Nasaug's tail lashed in a gesture that Marcus had come to recognize as one of surprise. The younger Cane quickly controlled himself and rose. "Centurion," he rumbled, "if you would come with me. It would be best to have you out of the way so that the sailors may do their work. We will do our best to keep you comfortable."
Marcus thought, with a dry amusement, that in this case comfortable was synonymous with breathing. But one learned rather quickly that the Canim had a viewpoint distinct from that of Alerans.
He followed Nasaug onto the Trueblood's deck. Its timbers had all been painted black-which would never have happened to an Aleran vessel. Quite the opposite, in fact. Ships were generally whitewashed. They made it easier for the crew to see what they were doing at night, particularly during bad weather, when few reliable light sources were to be had. All the black wood around them gave the ship a grim, funeral appearance, which was certainly imposing, particularly when combined with the black sails. A Cane's night vision, though, was far superior to an Aleran's. They likely had no trouble operating at night, whatever color the ship was tinted.
Nasaug led him to the foremost cabin on the ship-the one generally considered to be the least desirable, Marcus knew. On a sailing vessel, the wind generally blew in from the stern, and whoever was furthest downwind received the benefit of every unpleasant odor on board-and there were generally plenty to be had. The door to the cabin was low, barely Marcus' own height, but rather than simply entering, Nasaug paused and knocked first-then waited for the door to be opened.
When it did, the cabin beyond was completely unlit, windowless and dark. A quiet voice asked, "May we serve, son of Varg?"
"This Aleran huntmaster is under Varg's protection," Nasaug said. "My sire bids you to safeguard him until he can be returned to his people after the storm."
"It will be done," the voice said. "He may enter, son of Varg."
Marcus arched an eyebrow at that, and glanced at Nasaug.
The Cane gestured toward the doorway with his snout. "Your quarters, Centurion."
Marcus glanced at the dark doorway and then at Nasaug. "I'll be comfortable here, will I?"
Nasaug's ears flicked in amusement. "More so than anywhere else on the ship."
One of the critical things the Alerans had learned about dealing with the Canim, largely in thanks to the Princeps himself, was that they placed a far higher priority on body language than humanity did. Words could be empty, and statements of motion and posture were considered to be a great deal more reliable and genuine indicators of intention. As a result, one did not display physical signs of fear before the predatory wolf-warriors, if one wanted to avoid being, for example, eaten.
So Marcus firmly clubbed down the instinctive apprehension the unseen speaker had awakened in him, nodded calmly to Nasaug and stepped into the darkened cabin, shutting the door behind him. In the darkened cabin, he became acutely aware of how thin his tunic and trousers were, and for the first time since the ships had left port, more than a month ago, he missed the constant burden of his armor. He did not put his hand to his sword-the gesture was too obvious. The knives he had concealed on his person would doubtless be of more use in any fight in this blackness, in any case. It would all happen in terrible proximity.
"You are no huntmaster," said the unseen Cane after a moment. It let out a chuckling snarl. "No, no warrior."
"I am a centurion of the First Aleran Legion," he responded. "My name is Valiar Marcus."
"Unlikely," replied the voice. "It is more likely that you are called Valiar Marcus, I should judge."
Marcus felt the tension sliding into his shoulders.
"We have been watching your spies, you know. They are largely untrained. But we had no idea that you were one of them until only yesterday-and even that was the result of an accident. The wind parted a curtain and you were seen reading one of Varg's scrolls when he was out of the cabin."
A second voice, this one to the right and higher up, spoke. "Only chance revealed you."
A third voice, this one low and to his left added, "The mark of an adept of the craft."
Marcus narrowed his eyes in thought. "Varg didn't bring in that pig-headed brat to use me to teach him a lesson," he said. "He did it to delay my departure until the storm stranded me here."
"At our request," confirmed the first speaker.
Marcus grunted. But Varg had played the entire situation out as if it had been his usual planning intersecting with chance, all the way through. It meant that for whatever reason, he wanted to keep this conversation concealed, even from his own people. It implied dissension in the ranks-always useful information.
It also meant that his current hosts could only be one thing. "You're Hunters," he said quietly. "Like the ones who tried to assassinate the Princeps."
There the sound of soft motion in the dark, and then one of the Canim drew a heavy cloth away from a bowl filled with a liquid that cast off a glowing red light. Marcus could see the three Canim, lean, grey-furred members of the breed, with somewhat larger, more fox-like ears than most of the warriors he had seen. They were dressed in the loose robes patterned in grey and black that had been described upon the Hunters every time they had been seen back in the Amaranth Vale.
The cabin was small, containing two bunk beds. One Cane crouched on the floor over the bowl. Another sprawled across the top bunk at one side of the room, while a third sat in an odd-looking crouch on the bottom bunk opposite. The three Canim were all but identical, down to the shade and patterning of their fur, marking them as family, probably brothers.
"Hunters," said the first Cane. "So your folk have named us. I am called Sha."
"Nef," growled the second.
"Koh," said the third.
The wind had begun to rise, deepening the roll of the ship. Thunder rolled across the vast, open sea.
"Why have you brought me here?" Marcus said.
"To give you warning," Sha replied. "You need not fear attack at the hands of the Narash. But the other territories have given your kind no pledge of safety. They regard your kind as vermin, to be exterminated on sight. Varg can only protect you to a certain point. If you continue to Canea, you will do so at your own peril. Varg suggests that your Princeps may wish to consider turning back now, rather than continuing on."
"The Princeps," Marcus said, "is remarkably unlikely to be motivated by the possibility of danger."
"Be that as it may," Sha said.