Jim Butcher - Cursors's Fury

Isana frowned. Though Lady Invidia had always been true to her word and her obligations as patron, Isana harbored no illusions that she had any personal interest in emancipation. Even so, it was difficult for Isana to resist the inherent lure in the accomplishment of such a dream, the destruction of such an injustice.

But then, she was hardly in any condition to think with the cool, detached logic required by politics. Not with a reunion with her loved ones so near at hand. Isana wanted nothing so much as to see Tavi again, whole and well-though the uncomfortable silences resulting from slips in conversation, when one of them mentioned something loosely related to politics or loyalty, made it a somewhat bittersweet proposition. She wanted to speak with her brother again. Between running the steadholt and the infrequent but regular voyages from her home on behalf of Invidia Aquitaine, there had been fewer and fewer opportunities to get together with her little brother. She missed him.

The irony in traveling halfway across the Realm to break bread with them again-and taken there by the Aquitaines, no less-was not lost on Isana. Neither was the sobering reality that she had brought it all upon herself, by allying herself with her current patron, one with ruthless, ambitious designs upon the Crown.

Even so, Isana forced herself to push her family from her thoughts and regard the situation with detached intellect. What did the Aquitaines have to gain by outlawing slavery?

“This isn’t about freedom,” she murmured aloud. “Not for you. It’s about crippling Kalare’s economy. Without slave labor, he’ll never profit from his farmlands. He’ll be too busy fighting to remain solvent to rival your husband for the Crown. “

Lady Aquitaine stared at Isana for a moment, her expression unreadable.

Isana did not let her eyes waver from her patron’s. “Perhaps it’s just as well that many in the League do not perceive as much as I do.”

Lady Aquitaine’s expression remained detached. “Do I have your support-and confidence-in the matter or not?”

“Yes. As I promised,” Isana said. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes again. “Nothing I do can stop you from scheming. If some good can be accomplished along the way, I see no reason not to attempt it.”

“Excellent,” Lady Aquitaine said. “And practical of you.” She paused for a thoughtful moment, and Isana could feel the sudden weight of the High Lady’s full attention. “Hardly a freeman in the Realm would be able to recognize the situation for what it is, Isana. It makes me wonder where you acquired the necessary perspective for these kinds of politics. Someone must have taught you.”

“I read,” she said, not needing to falsify the weariness in her voice. “Nothing more.” Isana used years of practice and experience to keep any expression from her face, but in the wake of the dream, it was almost painfully difficult to prevent her hand from rising to touch the outline of the ring hanging over her heart.

There was another long silence, and Lady Aquitaine said, “I suppose I must applaud your scholarship, then.”

The weight of her attention passed, and Isana almost sagged with relief. It was dangerous, lying to the High Lady, whose talent for watercraft and thus for sensing lies and deceptions was greater than even Isana’s own. The woman was capable of torture, of murder, even if she preferred to use less draconian tactics. Isana had no illusions that those preferences were the result of practical logic and self-interest, rather than ethical belief. If necessary to her plans, Lady Aquitaine could kill Isana without batting a long-lashed eyelid.

Should it ever come to that, Isana would die before speaking.

Because some secrets had to be kept.

At any price.

The life of a legionare, even that of officers, had, in Tavi’s opinion, been vastly overrated. By the time a week had passed in the camp of the First Aleran, he had come to the conclusion that the vaunted glory and prestige of the officers corps was nothing more than a fiendish ploy on behalf of the Citizenry, designed to drive the ambitious to foaming insanity.

And that went double for the high reputation of the Cursors, which had gotten him ordered into this crowbegotten Legion to begin with.

Tavi had considered himself a stalwart, stoic, strong-minded agent of the Crown, especially after the trials he had faced at the Academy, where his time and focus had been in constant demand. There, he’d often been unable to find enough hours in the day to sleep, and constant runs up a monstrously sadistic stairwell had tested his physical and mental limits. There were some days where he had broken down into screaming fits of frustration, just to blow off steam.

The Legion life was worse.

Tavi tried not to give such cynical thoughts too much of his attention, but standing in the light, wooden storage building through the second chorus of yet another furious rant from Tribune Gracchus, to which he was not expected or allowed to respond, it was hard to keep from feeling somewhat bitter about the entire situation.

“Do you have any idea of the chaos you’ve caused?” Gracchus demanded. The beefy man slapped a pair of fingers against his opposite palm every few syllables, then jabbed them accusatorily at Tavi at the end of each sentence. “The measure of flour for each legionare is a precise calculation, Subtribune, and it is not subject to arbitrary adjustments by striplings on their first tour.”

There was a pause as Gracchus drew breath, and Tavi promptly interjected, “Yes, sir.” He had learned Gracchus’s rant-rhythm before the end of the second day.

“That’s why we use standardized, regulation measuring cups in the first place.”

“Yes, sir,” Tavi said.

“By introducing your shoddy replacements, you have thrown off my estimates, which will disrupt stores calculations for more than a month, Subtribune. I have every right to have you flogged for such a thing. In fact, I could have you up on charges for it and disenfranchised to repay the provisions budget.”

“Yes, sir,” Tavi repeated.

Gracchus’s eyes were already beady. He narrowed them even farther. “Do I detect insubordination in your tone, Subtribune?”

“Sir, no sir,” Tavi replied. “Only disagreement.”

The Tribune’s scowl darkened. “Do tell.”

Freed to speak, Tavi kept his tone mild. “More than a score of veterans had complained to their centurions that they were receiving smaller measures of bread at meals. When enough of them had done so, the centurions requested that the First Spear look into the matter. He did. Per standard procedure, the First Spear approached a Subtribune Logistica. I happened to be the first one he found.”

Gracchus shook his head. “Do you have a point, Subtribune?”

“Yes, sir. I investigated the matter, and it seemed likely that some of the flour was going missing between the storehouse and the mess.” Tavi paused for a moment, then said, “I started by verifying the accuracy of the measuring cups. Sir.”

Gracchus’s face went florid and angry.

“Though the cups appear to be standard-issue, sir, they are in fact forgeries that hold nine-tenths of what the actual cups will contain. I asked one of the smiths to beat out a few cups of the proper size, sir, until they could be replaced with standard-issue gear.”

“I see,” Gracchus said. His upper lip had beaded with sweat.

“Sir, I figure that someone must have replaced the cups with forgeries, then skimmed the excess flour off to a market for it-or perhaps they were utterly unscrupulous thieves with the gall to sell the excess grain back to the Legion at a profit.” Tavi shrugged his shoulders. “If you wish me to face charges, sir, I understand your decision. But I estimate that the amount of money gained from this business wouldn’t buy much more than a silver ring and a new pair of boots. I think we caught it before any real harm could be done.”