Chapter 27
Travel with the vord Queen was, Isana felt, an extremely unsettling experience - not so much because of the alien nature of the environment as because of all the small, familiar things that appeared, here and there.
Enough of the enslaved Knights Aeris had survived the Battle of Riva to lift a wind coach, though there were precious few others. Each evening, when dark lay on the land, Isana would accompany the vord Queen to the wind coach. She would emerge directly from the Queen's hivelike lair to climb aboard the coach. The coach would soar up into the sky, just as every other coach she had ridden in. After a time, it would descend again, depositing them at the entrance to another hive.
The Queen would lead Isana back down into the new hive. Dozens of wax spiders would cooperate to carry Araris, still virtually entombed in a coffin-sized slab of croach, down to the new hive, where they would seal him to the wall as before.
Once that was finished, they sat down at a table (one always waited to receive them) to take a meal together. Genuine candles would light the table, though the eerie glow of the croach was more than enough light to see by. The food was... Isana wasn't sure she could justly call it a form of torture, any more than she could have ascribed malevolence to Tavi's disastrous first effort at cooking griddle cakes when he was a child. But whether ignorance or malice was to blame, the food twisted unpleasantly in her stomach. Eating sliced sections of the croach inexpertly prepared in the imitation of one dish or another was an experience Isana could have done without.
Several days after the Battle of Riva, Isana descended into the evening's hive and watched the spiders settling Araris into the croach.
"I have a surprise for you," the vord Queen said.
Isana had to keep herself from flinching. She hadn't realized the Queen was standing at her elbow. "Oh," she said, her tone neutral. "A surprise?"
"I have given consideration to your reasons for desiring properly prepared implements for the dinner ritual."
"Clean dishes," Isana said. "A clean tablecloth? Clean cutlery?"
"Your species is young and weak," the vord Queen said. "Disease is no enemy of the vord. We have lived longer than most diseases. We have survived them. The hygienic concerns of the dinner ritual are unnecessary."
"And yet," Isana said, "if you do not follow them, you are not doing it properly."
"Just so," the vord Queen said. "There are... intangible factors at work here. Things that make your kind difficult to predict." The petulant tone of a sulking child entered the Queen's voice. "Their backs should have been broken at Riva. But they fought more tenaciously than at any time in my observation."
"And they will only grow more determined," Isana said. "Not less."
"That is irrational," the Queen said.
"But true."
The Queen stared at Isana sullenly. "I will permit you to observe the proper forms of the dinner ritual. Water will be brought to you in containers. You may use salt and water to clean the implements. You have one hour. Prepare three places."
She turned abruptly and stalked over to the croach-lined dome she used to command her creations.
The wax spiders began carrying in silverware, plates, and cups. Isana felt sure that basins of water and salt would not be far behind.
She sighed and rolled up her sleeves, wondering as she did how many First Ladies of Alera had found themselves playing scullion to an invading enemy.
It was slightly more than an hour later when, for the first time since the Battle of Riva, they were joined at the meal by Lady Invidia.
Isana stared at the other woman in shock. Invidia had been burned. Horribly. Though portions of her face and neck showed the fresh pink skin indicative of flesh that had been watercrafted whole, they only served to create a contrast against the thick scarring of flesh burned beyond the ability of any healer to make whole. Invidia had been considered one of the great beauties of Alera. One could still see the faint echoes of that beauty, but they only made the melted-wax scarring of her features that much more horrible. One of her eyes drooped at the outer corner, as if the flesh had melted and run down a bit before hardening again. Her lips were twisted into a permanent sneer. Her hair was all but gone, replaced by burn-scarred skin and a close-shaved stubble. The creature on her chest showed similar scars, but it still pulsated and stirred from time to time.
"Good evening, Isana," Invidia said. The words were slurred very slightly, as if she'd had a little too much wine. "Always a pleasure to see you."
"Great furies," Isana breathed. "Invidia... What happened?"
The former High Lady's eyes flickered with something satisfied and ugly. "A divorce."
Isana shivered.
Invidia picked up her spoon and examined it thoughtfully. She did the same with her plate. She looked at Isana and arched an eyebrow before looking at the Queen. "I take it she convinced you to see reason?"
"I decided to experiment," the Queen replied, "on the theory that by doing so, I might gain additional insight into Alerans."
Invidia's eyes went back to Isana, and her lips peeled back from her teeth. "I see. Though there seems little point for you in continuing the exercise. Din- nertimes are about to become a matter of historical record. Along with plates and silverware."
"Part of my duty to my kind is to learn from and absorb the strengths of those beings we displace," the Queen replied. "The emotional bonding between homogenous bloodlines seems to be the foundation of a wider sense of bonding among the species. Study is warranted."
Isana felt a sudden stirring of emotion from the Queen as she spoke - a brief spike of sadness and remorse, as slender and cold as a frost-covered needle. Isana did not look up at Invidia, but in her watercrafting senses, the simmering cauldron of pain, fear, and hate that comprised Invidia's presence did not change.
The former High Lady had not sensed the instant of vulnerability in the vord Queen.
The burns, the injuries, the trauma of suffering so much pain, had doubtless left her weakened, of furycraft, of body, and, most importantly, of mind. Now was the time to pressure her, to see what information she might give away, what weaknesses she might reveal.
From somewhere outside the hive, there was a high, ululating shriek or whistle. The Queen's head snapped around toward the entrance - turning an unsettling half circle to do so - and she rose from the table at once to stalk over to the glowing dome.
Isana watched her go and toyed with her food. She was starving, but this particular dish - intended to be some sort of marinade and roast combination, perhaps? - tasted singularly vile.
"Terrible, isn't it?" Invidia said. She cut herself a small bite, impaled it on a fork, and ate it daintily. "On a scale of one to ten, ten being the most revolting and one being almost edible, I believe that rating this recipe would require the use of exponents."
Isana ate the largest bite she thought she could stand. It was not large. She chased it down to her stomach with several swallows of water. There was no point in starting an attack too soon. Even in her diminished state, Invidia would surely notice anything truly overt. "I suppose food does not absolutely need to taste good in order to keep one alive."
"But to keep one from committing suicide, it does need to taste better than this," Invidia said. She fixed her eyes on Isana and smiled. It was a grotesque expression. "Why, First Lady. What do you see that disturbs you so?"
Isana cut another bite from the rectangular brick of roasted croach. She ate it very slowly. "I'm sorry to see you so harmed, Invidia."
"Of course you are," she said, her voice dripping acid. "After all we've done for one another, of course you feel sympathy for me."
"I think you should hang from the neck until dead for what you've done, Invidia," Isana replied gently. "But that isn't the same thing as seeing you in such pain. I don't like to see anyone suffer. That includes you."
"Everyone wants someone to suffer, Isana," the former High Lady replied. "It's simply a matter of finding a target and an excuse."
"Do you really believe that?" she asked quietly.
"That is the truth of the world," Invidia said harshly. "We are selfless when it suits our purposes, or when it is easy, or when the alternative would be worse. But no one truly wishes to be selfless. They simply desire the acclaim and goodwill that comes from being thought so."
"No, Invidia," she said quietly, firmly. "Not everyone is like that."
"They are," Invidia said, her voice shaking with unsteady intensity. "You are. Under the lies you tell yourself, part of you hates me. Part of you would love to pluck out my eyes while I screamed."
"I don't hate a serpent for being a serpent," Isana said. "But neither will I permit it to harm me or those I care about. I will kill it if I must, as quickly and painlessly as possible."
"And that's what I am to you?" Invidia asked. "A serpent?"
"That's what you were," Isana said quietly.
Invidia's eyes shone with a feverish intensity. "And now?"
"Now, I think you might be a mad dog," Isana said quietly. "I pity such a poor creature's suffering. But it changes nothing about what I must do."
Invidia dropped her head back and laughed. "What you must do?" she asked. She put her fingertip on the table, still smiling, and smoke began rising in a thin, curling thread. "Exactly what do you think you could possibly do to me?"
"Destroy you," Isana said quietly. "I don't want to do it. But I can. And I will."
"If you go shopping for a hat, darling, be sure to get one several sizes larger than the one it's replacing." She glared at Isana. "So you were the choice of the flawless Princeps Septimus, over every woman in the Realm actually qualified to be his wife. So your child by him was recognized by Gaius. It means nothing, Isana. Don't think for an instant that your strength can compare to mine."
"Oh," Isana said, "I'm quite sure it doesn't. It doesn't need to." She stared at Invidia for a quiet moment, her expression calm, then she picked up her knife and fork again. "When have you gone too far, Invidia? At what point do the lives your new allies take begin to outweigh your own?"
The expression drained out of the former High Lady's scarred face.
"When does your own life become something you don't want to live anymore?" Isana said in that same quiet, gentle voice. "Can you imagine another year of living this way? Five years? Thirty years? Do you want to live that life, Invidia?"
She folded her hands in her lap and stared at Isana, her scarred face bleak and expressionless.
"You could change things," Isana said quietly. "You could choose another path. Even now, you could choose another path."
Invidia stared at her, not moving - but the creature on her chest pulsed horribly, its legs stirring. She closed her eyes, stiffening in pain, which Isana could all but feel lance through her own body. She remained that way for a long moment, then opened her eyes again.
"All I can choose is death." She gestured bleakly to the creature that still grasped her. "Without this, I would die within hours. And if I do not obey her, she will take it from me."
"It isn't a very good choice," Isana said. "But it is a choice, Invidia."
That rictus of a smile returned. "I will not willingly end my own life."
"Even if it costs others theirs?"
"Have you never killed to protect your life, Isana?"
"That isn't the same."
Invidia arched an eyebrow. "Isn't it?"
"Not at all."
"I am what the Realm and my father and my husband have made me, Isana. And I will not simply lie down and die."
"Ah," Isana said quietly. "Quite."
"Meaning what, precisely?"
"Meaning," Isana said, "that whether you realize it or not, you've already made your choice. Probably quite some time ago."
Invidia stared at her. Her lips quivered once, as if she would speak, but she withdrew into a shell of silence again. Then she took up her fork with a deliberate movement, cut another bite of the hideous croach concoction, and ate it with measured, steady motions.
Now, while she was retreating from the conversation. It was time to push. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry, Invidia. I'm sorry that it came to this for you. You have so much power, so much talent, so much ability. You could have done great things for Alera. I'm sorry that it went to waste."
Invidia's gaze turned cold. "Who are you?" she asked quietly. "Who are you to say such things to me? You're no one. You're nothing. You're a camp whore who happened to be favored by a man. The fool. He could have had his choice of any woman of Alera."
"As I understand it," Isana said, "he did." She let the simple statement hang silent in the air for a moment. Then she took a breath, and said, "If you will excuse me." Isana rose from the table and turned as though to walk as far away from Invidia as the chamber would allow. But she listened as she walked. There was no chance whatsoever that Invidia would allow her to have the last word on the matter of Septimus.
"Yes. He chose you." Invidia bared her teeth. "And see what it earned him."
Isana stopped in her tracks. She felt as if someone had struck her a hard blow in the belly.
"The contracts were drawn. Sextus was agreed. Everything had been arranged. After he'd shown his power at Seven Hills, it would have been the perfect time for him to take a wife. A wife of breeding, of power, of skill, of education. But he chose... you."
Isana felt her hands clench into fists.
"Septimus was a fool. He imagined that those he bested would react with the same grace he thought he possessed. Oh, he never went forth to humiliate anyone, but it always seemed to work out that way. In school. In games. In those ridiculous duels the boys used to find excuses to engage in. Little things he didn't bother to remember would fester in others."
Isana turned, very slowly, to face Invidia.
The former High Lady stood with her chin lifted, her eyes bright, the un-marred portions of her face flushed and rosy. "It was easy. Rhodus. Kalarus. It barely took a whisper to put the idea in their minds."
"You," Isana said quietly.
Invidia's eyes flashed. "And why not me? The House of Gaius has earned its hatreds over the centuries. Sooner or later, someone would break it to pieces. Why not me?"
Isana faced Invidia and stood perfectly still for a long moment, looking at the other woman's eyes. Isana smoothed her worn dress down carefully, considering her words and the thoughts behind them, and the burning fires of her own grief and loss that colored all of her mind the color of blood.
Then she drew in a deep breath, and said, "For my husband's memory, for my child's future, for those whose blood is upon your hands, I defy you. I name you Nihilus Invidia, Invidia of Nusquam, traitor to the Crown, the Realm, and her people." She drew herself up straight and spoke in a hard tone barely louder than a whisper. "And before I leave this place, I will kill you."
Invidia lifted her chin, her lips quivering. A little hiccuping laugh drifted around in her throat. She shook her head, and said, "This world is not for such as you, Isana. Wait a few more days. You'll see."
Chapter 28
"Crows take it," Tavi muttered. He tried to mop the rain from his face with a corner of his sopping cloak. "We've got another thirty miles to make today."
"It's going to be darker than a Phrygian winter in another hour, Captain," Maximus said. "The men will keep going. But I hate to think what might happen to us if the vord hit us while we're setting up camp in the dark."
Tavi looked back at the column behind them. It was a mixed and disorganized sight. The First Aleran and Free Aleran Legions were managing fairly well, especially given how long they'd been cooling their heels on ships in the last few months. They moved ahead at a loping run, their endurance and footsteps bolstered by the earth furies in the causeway. At normal pace, they would be moving as quickly as a man could sprint across open ground. Tavi had been forced to reduce their speed, in part because the men were out of practice. At least they maintained their spacing with acceptable discipline.
Behind them came a long double column of supply wagons, cargo wagons, farm carts, town carriages, rubbish carts, vegetable barrows, and every other form of wheeled conveyance imaginable. Phrygius Cyricus had, in under two hours, provided them with enough carts to bear more than two-thirds of the Canim infantry. The carts themselves were not being drawn by horses - the Legion simply did not have enough personnel to care for the army of beasts that would be needed, nor did they have enough cartage to haul their feed. Instead, the vehicles were being pulled by teams consisting largely of whichever legionares had most recently earned their centurion's displeasure.
Canim warriors overflowed the carts in a fashion that was little short of comical. Those who couldn't fit in the carts came behind them, galloping along swiftly enough to keep pace with the reduced speed of the Legions. They could only maintain that pace for two hours or so, then the entire force would halt and allow the rested Canim in the carts to exchange places with those who had been running, rotating between them in turns throughout the day. By this time, even the Canim who had been in the carts the longest looked hungry, miserable, and exhausted, though Tavi supposed that might largely be due to the way the rain was plastering their fur to their skin.
Behind them rode the cavalry. First came the mounted alae of the Legions, eight hundred horses and their riders, then the Canim cavalry. Composed almost entirely of Shuaran Canim riding the odd-looking Canean creature called a "taurg," they each massed two or three times the weight of a legionare on a horse. The horned, hunchbacked taurga, each considerably larger than a healthy ox, kept pace with the column without difficulty, the muscles in their heavy haunches flexing like cables of steel. The taurga didn't look tired. The taurga looked impatient and short-tempered and as though they were giving serious consideration to eating their riders or fellow herd members. Possibly both. Tavi had ridden a taurg for weeks in Canea, and in his judgment it would not be out of character for the war beasts.
He sighed and looked aside and up at Maximus, who was riding a particularly ugly, mottled taurg of his own. "Crows, Max. I thought you'd killed and eaten that thing."
Max grinned. "Steaks and New Boots, Captain? I hate this critter like no other on Carna. Which is why I decided he could be miserable carrying me all this way in the rain instead of inflicting it on some perfectly decent horse."
Tavi wrinkled up his nose. "It stinks, Max. Especially in the rain."
"I have always found the odor of wet Aleran to be slightly unsavory," Kitai said, from where she rode on Tavi's right.
Tavi and Max both gave her an indignant look. "Hey," Max said, "we don't smell when we're wet."
Kitai arched an eyebrow at them. "Well, of course you don't smell yourselves." She lifted a hand and waved it daintily at the air by her nose, an affectation of gesture that Tavi thought she must have studied from some refined lady Citizen. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen." She nudged her horse several paces to one side and let out a sigh of relief.
"She's joking," Max said. He frowned and looked at Tavi. "She's joking."
"Um," Tavi said, "almost certainly."
Kitai gave them an oblique look and said nothing.
There was a muffled roar of wind as Crassus came soaring down out of the rainy skies. He hit the water-slickened surface of the causeway with his shoulders parallel to the road, his legs spread solidly. A sheet of water sprayed up from his boots as he slid along the causeway for twenty yards before slowing to a couple of skipping steps, then came to a halt in front of Tavi's horse. He threw Tavi a crisp salute and began running alongside the horse. "Captain. Looks like we'd better get used to the idea of getting rained on. There's a fairly rocky patch about half a mile ahead. It won't be comfortable, but I don't think anyone will get sucked into the mud there."
Tavi grunted and peered up at the weeping sky. He sighed. "All right. There's no sense in pushing through in the dark. Thank you, Crassus. We'll make camp there. Please spread the word to the Tribunes. Maximus, please inform the Warmaster that we'll halt in half a mile."
The Antillan brothers both saluted, then left to follow their orders.
Tavi eyed Kitai, who continued to ride facing straight ahead, not looking at him. Her expression was unreadable. "You were joking, weren't you?"
She lifted her chin, sniffed, and said nothing.
For the first time in history, Alerans and Canim pitched a camp together.
Tavi and Varg walked about the camp together as their respective country-men labored to set up the camp's defenses after a hard day's marching, in the rain, with night coming on rapidly.
"Should be interesting tonight," Varg rumbled.
"I thought that the Free Aleran Legion had done this sort of thing many times," Tavi said.
Varg growled in the negative. "Nasaug was already pushing the letter of the codes by training makers to fight. Bringing demons into a warrior camp? He would have been forced to kill some of his own officers to keep his place." Varg squinted at a team of Aleran engineers who were using earthcrafting to soften the stone so that they could drive the posts of the palisade into it.
Tavi watched them for a moment, considering. "There was more to it than that."
Varg inclined his head slightly. "Can't just tell a soul it is free, Tavar. Freedom must be done for oneself. Important that the slaves created their own freedom. Nasaug gave them advisors. They did everything else on their own."
Tavi glanced up at Varg. "Are you going to be forced to kill some of your officers tonight?"
Varg was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged. "Possible. But I think unlikely."
"Why?"
"Because their opposition would be based upon tradition. Tradition needs a world to exist. And the world has been destroyed, Aleran. My world. Yours, too. Even if we could defeat the vord tomorrow, nothing would change that."
Tavi frowned. "Do you really think that?"
Varg flicked his ears in the affirmative. "We are in uncharted waters, Tavar. And the storm has not yet abated. If we are still alive when it is over, we will find ourselves on unknown shores."
Tavi sighed. "Yes. And then what?"
Varg shrugged. "We are enemies, Tavar. What do enemies do?"
Tavi thought about it for a moment. Then he said, "I only know what they did in the old world."
Varg stopped in his tracks. He eyed Tavi for several seconds, then shook his ears and began walking again. "Wasted breath to talk about it now."
Tavi nodded. "Survive today. Then face tomorrow."
Varg flicked his ears in agreement. They had crossed into the Canim side of the camp as they spoke. Varg came to a halt outside a large, black tent. There was an odd smell of incense in the air, and the stench of rotting meat. From inside the tent, a deep-bellied drum kept a slow, reverberating cadence. Deep voices chanted in the snarling tongue of the wolf-warriors.
Varg stopped outside the tent and drew his sword in a long, slow rasp of steel on brass. Then he hurled it point down into the earth before the tent. It sank into the ground with a thump, and the bubbling whisper of its quivering went on for several seconds.
The chanting voices inside the tent stopped.
"I am here regarding the matter of the dead makers at Antillus," Varg called.
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.
The entrance to the black tent flew open again, and a burly Cane in a pale leather mantle strode out, his fangs bared, his ears laid back. "Marok," the Cane snarled. "You will cease this trafficking with the enemy!"
"Nhar," Marok said. "Go back in the tent."
Nhar surged toward Marok, seething. "You cannot do this! You cannot so bind us to these creatures! You cannot so dishonor the lives of the fallen!"
Marok eyed the other ritualist for a moment, and said, "What were their names, Nhar?"
The other Cane drew up short. "What?"
"Their names," Marok said in that same, gentle voice. "Surely you know the names of these makers whose lives you defend so passionately."
Nhar stood there, gnashing his teeth. "You," he sputtered. "You."
"Ahmark and Chag," Master Marok said. And without warning one of his hands lashed out and delivered a backhanded blow to the end of Nhar's muzzle. The other Cane recoiled in sheer surprise as much as pain, and fell to the ground. The blood in the pouch at his side sloshed back and forth, some of it splashing out.
"Go back into the tent, Nhar," Marok said gently.
Nhar snarled and plunged one hand into the blood pouch.
Marok moved even more quickly. One of the knives sprang off his belt into his hand and whipped across his own left forearm.
Nhar screamed something, and a cloud of blue-grey mist formed in front of him, coalescing into some kind of solid shape in response. But before it could fully form, Marok flicked several drops of his own blood onto the other Cane. Then the old master closed his eyes and made a calm, beckoning gesture.
Nhar convulsed. At first Tavi thought that the Cane was vomiting, but as more and more substance poured out of Nhar's mouth, it only took a few seconds for Tavi to realize what was really happening.
Nhar's belly and guts had just been ejected from his body, as if an unseen hand had reached down his throat and pulled them out.
Nhar made a number of hideous sounds, but within seconds he was silent and still.
Marok eyed the tent, and said, "Brothers, would anyone else care to dispute my arbitration?"
A Cane's hand appeared from the black tent - but only long enough to pull the entrance flap closed again.
Varg let out a chuckling growl.
Marok reached into his own pouch and drew out a roll of fine cloth. He wrapped it around his arm with the ease of long, long practice, tearing it off with his teeth when he'd used enough. He then offered the roll of cloth to Tavi.
Tavi inclined his head to the master ritualist and accepted the cloth. When Varg nodded to him, he bent his arm and began to wind the cloth over it, though he did not do it nearly so smoothly as Marok.
Varg capped the vial and offered it back to Marok with another bow. Marok accepted the vial, and said, "This will continue when you are recovered, Tavar. I will keep the accounting. It will be accurate."
"It was an honor to meet you, sir," Tavi replied.
They exchanged parting bows, and Tavi and Varg continued their rounds of the camp. He stumbled twice, before Varg said, "You will return to your tent now."
"I'm fine."
Varg snorted. "You will return to your tent now, or I will take you there. Your mate expressed to me in very clear terms her strong desire to see you back safely."
Tavi smiled tiredly. "I do feel a bit less than myself, I suppose. Will this end our trouble with the ritualists?"
"No," Varg said. "They will embrace some new idiocy tomorrow. Or next week. Or next moon. But there is no escaping that."
"But for today, we're quit of them?"
Varg flicked his ears in assent. "Marok will keep them off-balance for months after today."
Tavi nodded. "I'm sorry. About the makers who died. I wish I hadn't had to do that."
"I wish that, too," Varg said. He looked at Tavi. "I respect you, Tavar. But my people are more important to me than you are. I have used you to help remove a deadly threat to them - Khral and his idiocy. Should you become a threat to them, I will deal with you."
"I would expect nothing less," Tavi said. "I will see you in the morning."
Varg growled assent. "Aye. And may all of our enemies be in front of us."