"It's more or less an open secret by now," Octavian continued. "Magnus isn't really a mere valet."
"Cursor?" Marcus asked, purely for form. Valiar Marcus would need to confirm a suspicion, after all. He wouldn't be one hundred percent certain.
The Princeps nodded. "My grandfather appointed him my advisor in political matters. I intend his decisions to guide the expedition in diplomatic matters while I am gone. You have authority over security or military decisions. In the end, though, Marcus, I expect you to keep everything together until I get back."
Marcus exhaled slowly. "Understood, sir."
"I'll be meeting with the Tribunes shortly, to let them know how I expect things to run in my absence-and with the officers of the Free Aleran, after that. All things considered, I think they'll be nervous enough at being surrounded by hostile Canim to be willing to be cooperative, provided they're treated with respect."
"I'll break enough heads to get that point across, sir," Marcus promised.
"Good," Octavian said, rising, and Marcus mirrored the gesture.
"Sir?" Marcus asked. "May I ask you a question?"
"Of course."
"Do you really expect to come back from this meeting with the Shuaran Warmaster alive?"
The young Princeps' face became an expressionless mask. "You don't think he's going to meet with me in good faith?"
"Your Highness," Marcus said, "from what I've heard, there is a bloody idiot in charge of the warrior caste here."
"Yes," the Princeps said. "That's true."
Marcus grimaced. "Then they're hiding something, sir."
"Why do you say that, First Spear?"
"Think about it. If you had one bloody fortified port on your entire shoreline, would you leave an incompetent in charge of it? Or would you put the best commander you could find in that position."
Octavian frowned, his brow furrowing.
"Doesn't make any sense," Marcus said. "There's got to be some kind of pressure forcing that kind of appointment. Which says to me that this Warmaster doesn't have the kind of control he would like to have. If I were you, sir, I'd want to know why not. Might be important."
"You're right," Octavian said quietly. "I hadn't thought of it in quite those terms, but you're right. Thank you."
Marcus nodded. "Sir."
"I'll be departing within two hours," Octavian said. "In that time, I want you to make me a list of anything you think you'll need my approval to get done. Draw them up as separate items, and I'll sign off on them before I go."
"Yes, sir," Marcus said. "Best of luck on your journey, sir."
"To both of us, Marcus. Though I'd rather neither of us needed it."
Chapter 16
The journey from Molvar to Shuar took four days, all of them along a stretch of hilly, windy country that supported little but yellowed grass, peeking up through early snows, and rounded black stone. By the end of the third day, the taurg Tavi was riding had only tried to kill him twice-since lunchtime. By the standards of Canim cavalry, the beast was behaving admirably.
The taurg most closely resembled a bull, Tavi had decided. It was a bit bigger, and considerably humpier about the shoulders. Its rear quarters were much more heavily muscled, as well, and its legs were longer, springier, more in proportion to a hare's than to anything so large as it was. The beast was covered with thick, curly fur that ranged from deep grey on its blunt muzzle to blue-black on its shoulders and haunches. Its neck was thick, its head was rather tiny, and its brow was half-encircled by a massive, bony ridge that was capable, so the Canim claimed, of smashing through stone walls. Its eyes were tiny and pink and hostile, its wide nostrils drooled a constant stream of slobbery mucus, and its cloven hooves struck at a speed that rivaled that of any warhorse in Alera-and hit with several times the power.
Anag raised a hand and signaled for the group to halt near a circle of standing stones beside the road-the campsite for the night. Forty taurga drew off the road at their long-legged, swaybacked walk, in a maneuver as familiar to them as making camp was to any legionare, and began filing into a circle within the standing stones, three beasts to each. Three blued-steel rings had been set into each stone, each to tether a single taurg.
Tavi slid down from the saddle, keeping a hand on it to control his descent to the ground. He winced at the shock to sore muscles as he landed. The first couple of days in the strange saddles, made for large Canim riders, had been nightmarish, but his body had finally begun to adjust.
The taurg promptly whipped its head at Tavi in an effort to crush his windpipe with the heavy ridge of bone on its skull.
Tavi ducked the attempt without really thinking about it and slashed at the taurg's vulnerable nose with the ends of his reins, still gripped in his hand. The taurg jerked its head away and tried to kick him with one of its rear legs, lashing a cloven hoof forward in an effort to disembowel him, but Tavi had already slipped forward, alongside the taurg's head, slipped the reins through the ring in its slimy, sensitive nose, and tied them securely through the ring on the standing stone.
Thus secured, the taurg settled down placidly onto its belly, as most of the rest of the riding beasts were doing.
"Crows take you, Steaks," Maximus snarled from the far side of the taurg beside Tavi. The beast was dancing in place, shuffling its mass left and right, evidently trying to kick at Max with the rear leg on the far side of its body. "One more kick out of you and I'm walking the rest of the way with a full stomach."
Tavi stepped forward, slapped the other taurg's ear to startle it, then seized its nose ring with his hand and jerked firmly. The taurg let out a startled little bawl of basso discomfort, and Maximus appeared, stuffing the reins through the ring and securing the beast as Tavi had, muttering a dark string of curses beneath his breath as he did. "Roasted. Spit on a nice long lance and roasted over a roaring fire. Then boiled. Boiled in a pot big enough to fit your entire lazy, ornery, smelly ass."
"You're taking it awfully personally," Tavi murmured. "I think Steaks and New Boots is probably treating you the same way he does everyone else."
"It isn't that's he treating me badly," Max growled. "It's that he's too stupid to understand something everything with brains enough to see the sky should know."
Tavi found himself grinning. "What's that?"
"Legionares are not afraid of dinner," Max growled, giving the taurg a dire glare. "Dinner is afraid of legionares."