Jim Butcher - Cursors's Fury

He shook his head and chuckled at himself. Ridiculous. Those were notions that rightfully belonged in far-younger, far-less-bitter hearts than his own. He knew that. It did not, however, lessen their power.

He heard nothing but a faint rustle of sound behind him, cloth stirred by wind.

“Good,” he said quietly. “I was wondering when you’d get here.”

A tall man in a simple, grey traveling cloak and hood stepped up beside Marcus and also leaned his elbows on the stone siding of the bridge, staring down at the river. “Well?”

“Pay up,” Marcus said quietly.

Gaius glanced aside at him. “Really?”

“I’ve always told you, Gaius. A good disguise isn’t about looking different. It’s about being someone else.” He shook his head. “Watercrafting is the beginning, but it isn’t enough.”

The First Lord said, “Perhaps so.” He watched the river for a time, then said, “Well?”

Marcus exhaled heavily. “Bloody crows, Sextus. When I saw him in uniform, giving orders on the wall, I thought for a moment I’d gone senile. He could have been Septimus. The same look, the same style of command, the same…”

“Courage?” the First Lord suggested.

“Integrity,” Marcus said. “Courage was just a part of it. And the way he played his cards-crows. He’s smarter than Septimus was. Wilier. More resourceful.” He glanced aside at the First Lord. “You could have just told me.”

“No. You had to see it for yourself. You always do. “

Marcus grunted out a short laugh. “I suppose you’re right.” He turned to face Gaius more fully. “Why haven’t you acknowledged him?”

“You know why,” Gaius said, voice quiet and pained. “Without furycraft, I might as well cut his throat myself as make him a target to men and women against whom he couldn’t possibly defend himself.”

Marcus considered that for a moment, then said, “Sextus. Don’t be stupid.”

There was a shocked little silence, then the First Lord said, “Excuse me.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Marcus repeated obligingly. “That young man just manipulated his enemies into disarray and cut down a ritualist with fifty thousand fanatic followers. He didn’t just defeat him, Sextus. He destroyed him. Personally. He stood to battle shoulder to shoulder with legionares, survived a Canim sorcery that killed ninety percent of the officers of this Legion-twice-and employed his Knights furycrafting with devastating effect.” Marcus turned and waved a hand toward the Legion camp on the south side of the bridge. “He earned the respect of the men, and you know how rare that is. If he told this Legion to get on their feet, right now, and start marching out to take on the Canim, they’d do it. They’d follow him.”

Gaius was silent for a long moment.

“It isn’t about furycraft, Gaius,” he said quietly. “It never has been. It’s about personal courage and will. He has it. It’s about the ability to lead. He can. It’s about inspiring loyalty. He does.”

“Loyalty,” Gaius said, light irony in the word. “Even in you?”

“He saved my life,” Marcus said. “Didn’t have to. Nearly got himself killed doing it. He cares.”

“Are you saying you’ll be willing to work for him?”

Marcus was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I’m saying that only a fool will discount him simply because he’s furyless. Crows, he’s already checked a Canim invasion, helped forge an alliance with the Marat, and personally prevented your assassination at Wintersend. How much more bloody qualified does he need to he ?”

Gaius absorbed that in silence for a moment. Then he said, “You like being Valiar Marcus.”

Marcus snorted. “After I got done with him and he retired from the Shield-wall Legions… I forgot how much I’d liked being him.”

“How long did it take you to do the face?”

“Three weeks, give or take, several hours each day. I’ve never been particularly strong at watercraft.” They both fell quiet again. Then Marcus sighed. “Crows take it, Sextus. If only I’d known.”

Gaius chuckled without much humor. “If only I’d known.”

“But we can’t go back.”

“No,” the First Lord agreed. “We can’t.” He turned to Marcus, and said, “But perhaps we can go forward.”

Marcus frowned. “What?”

“You recognized him, when you finally got a good look at him. Don’t you think anyone else who ever served with Septimus might do the same?” Gaius shook his head. “He’s grown into a man. He won’t go overlooked for much longer.”

“No,” Marcus said. “What would you have me do?”

Gaius looked at him and said, “Nothing. Marcus.”

Valiar Marcus frowned. “She’ll find out soon enough, whether or not I say anything.”

“Perhaps,” Gaius said. “But perhaps not. In either case, there’s no reason it couldn’t slip your notice as it has everyone else’s. And I hardly think she’d be displeased to have an agent as Octavian’s trusted right hand.”

Marcus sighed. “True. And I suppose if I refuse, you’ll take the standard measures.”

“Yes,” the First Lord said, gentle regret in his voice. “I don’t wish to. But you know how the game is played.”

“Mmmm,” Marcus said. Both were quiet for perhaps ten minutes. Then Marcus said, “Do you know what the boy is?”

“What?”

Marcus heard the faint, quiet wonder in his own voice when he spoke. “Hope.”

“Yes,” Gaius said. “Remarkable.” He reached out a hand and put several golden coins on the stone siding, next to Marcus’s hand. Then he took another one, an ancient silver bull, the coin worn with age, and placed it beside them.

Marcus took up the gold. He stared at the silver coin for a long moment, the token of a Cursor’s authority. “You and I can never be made right again.”

“No, “ Gaius said. “But perhaps you and Octavian can.”

Marcus stared at the silver coin, the token of a Cursor’s allegiance to the Crown. Then he picked it up and put it in his pocket. “How old was Septimus when he started crafting?”

Gaius shrugged. “About five, I think. He set the nursery on fire. Why?” “Five.” Marcus shook his head. “Just curious.”

The man in the grey cloak turned to walk away.

“You didn’t have to show me this,” Marcus said to his back.

“No,” he answered.

“Thank you, Sextus.”

The First Lord turned and inclined his head to the other man. “You are welcome, Fidelias.”

Marcus watched him go. Then he drew out the old silver coin and held it up to let the distant fires shine on its surface. “Five,” he mused.

“How long have we known one another, Aleran?” Kitai asked. “Five years this autumn,” Tavi said. Kitai walked beside Tavi as he left the hospital-the first building Tavi had ordered the Legion’s engineers to reconstruct. A clean, dry place to nurse the injured and sick had been badly needed, given the numbers of wounded and the exhaustion of Foss and his healers, particularly during the final hours of the battle, when the healers had barely been able to so much as stabilize the dying, much less return them to action.

Tavi had spent his evening visiting the wounded. Whenever he’d been able to find a few moments, he would visit a few more of his men, asking about them, giving them whatever encouragement he could. It was exhausting, to see one mangled legionare after another, every one of them wounded while obeying orders he had given.

He brought Kitai with him whenever he visited-in fact, he brought her nearly everywhere he went, including staff meetings. He introduced her as Ambassador Kitai, and offered no other explanation whatsoever for her presence, his entire manner suggesting that she belonged there and that anyone with questions or comments about her had best keep them to himself. He wanted the men to get used to seeing her, to speaking her, until they got the idea that she was not a threat. It was a method adapted from his uncle’s lessons in shepherding, Tavi had thought, amused. It was the same way he would train sheep to accept the presence of a new shepherd or dog.