Jim Butcher - Cursors's Fury

“That’s enough, Subtribune,” Gracchus said in a quivering voice.

“Of course,” Tavi went on, “if you wish to put me up on charges or take disciplinary measures against me, the captain would be obligated to open an investigation. I’m sure he’ll be able to sort out exactly who was stealing what from whom, sir. That might be for the best.”

Gracchus’s face turned purple. He closed his eyes, and the silver ring on his left hand rapped nervously upon his breastplate. His new boots rasped against the floor as he shifted uncomfortably in place. “Subtribune Scipio, you are sorely trying my patience.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” Tavi said. “That was not my intention.”

“Oh yes it was,” Gracchus snarled. “You’re lucky I don’t drop you into a pit where you stand and close it after you.”

From the entry to the building, someone coughed politely and rapped knuckles against wood. “Good afternoon, sirs,” said Maestro Magnus, stepping forward to smile politely at them. “I hope this is not a bad time.”

Gracchus’s stare was almost poisonous, and Tavi was sure that if looks could kill, he would already be a dead man. “Not at all, centurion,” he murmured, before Gracchus could answer. “How may I assist you?”

“Captain Cyril’s compliments, Tribune, and will Subtribune Scipio join him at the practice field?”

Tavi frowned at Magnus, but the old Maestro’s expression told him nothing. “With your permission, sir?”

“Why not,” Gracchus said, his voice smooth. “I can use the time to consider how best to employ your energies. Something in the way of sanitation, perhaps.”

Tavi managed not to scowl at the Tribune, but felt his cheek twitch in a nervous tic. He saluted, then departed with Magnus.

“Was that about the measuring cups?” Magnus murmured, after they had walked away.

Tavi arched a brow. “You knew about it?”

“Tribunes Logistica skimming from their Legion is not precisely unheard of,” Magnus said. “Though in general they cover their tracks a little more carefully. Gracchus lacks the guile to do it well.”

They strode past one neat row of tents after another. In the week since they’d arrived, the fish had at least learned the proper procedure for pitching a tent. Tavi frowned at Magnus. “Did the captain know?”

“Naturally.”

“Then why didn’t he do something about it?” Tavi asked.

“Because while Gracchus might be an incompetent embezzler, he’s a capable logistics officer. We need him. Had the captain ordered an official investigation, it would have stained Gracchus’s honor, ruined his career, and discharged him from the Legion over a few bits of jewelry and new boots.”

Tavi grimaced. “So the captain is letting it slide.”

“He’s not a legate, Tavi. He’s a soldier. His job is to build and maintain the Legion as a strong, capable military force. If that means ignoring an indiscretion or three within his senior staff, he’s willing to pay that price.”

“Even if it means short rations for the Legion?”

Magnus smiled. “But they aren’t getting short rations, Subtribune. The cups have been replaced, the problem eliminated.”

“The First Spear.” Tavi sighed. “The captain sent him to me.”

“He did no such thing,” Magnus replied, smile widening. “Though I might have misunderstood some comments he made, and shared my misunderstanding with Valiar Marcus.”

Tavi grunted and thought about it for a moment. “It was a test,” he said. “He wanted to see how I’d react to it.”

“Many men would have blackmailed their way into a share of the profits,” Magnus said. “Now the captain knows you’re honest. Gracchus’s greedy impulses have been checked. The legionares are getting their full measure of food, and the Legion still has its Tribune Logistica. Everyone’s a winner.”

“Except me.” Tavi sighed. “After today, Gracchus is going to have me knee deep in the latrines for a month.”

“Welcome to the Legions,” Magnus agreed. “I suggest you regard it as a learning experience.”

Tavi scowled.

They walked out the west gate and received overly precise salutes from the two fish standing sentry in their brown tunics and training weapons. A few hundred yards from the gate, there was a wide field, furyc rafted into a perfectly flat plane. A broad oval of stone road ringed the field-a practice course of roadway, built with the same properties as the roads throughout the Realm.

Four full cohorts of recruits were on the track, attempting to speed-march in formation. Properly utilized, the furies built into the Realm’s roads would enable a traveler to maintain a running pace for hours at a time with little more effort than walking. The recruits, for the most part, were not utilizing the road properly, and instead of moving in neat ranks their formation resembled a comet-a solid leading element led the way, followed by stragglers who grew progressively slower, more distant, and more exhausted.

In the center of the field, centurions drilled some recruits in weapon play, while others practiced with the true steel shields of a full legionare, learning a basic metalcrafting discipline that would enable them to make their shields stronger and more able to resist impacts-and that would, incidentally, carry over into similarly reinforcing their weapons and armor. Still other recruits sat in loose groups around their instructors, being shown the correct way to wear and maintain armor, how properly to care for weaponry, and dozens of other facets of Legion business.

Tavi and Magnus waited for a comet-shaped cohort of fish to pound past on the training road, then walked across it toward a wooden observation platform at roughly the field’s center. The grounds around the tower served as a watering station for the thirsty recruits and also featured an infirmary for the recruits who had succumbed to fatigue or who had, like Tavi, earned a pointed lesson from the weapon instructors.

Captain Cyril stood atop the observation platform, and the sun shone off his armor and bald pate. He leaned against a guardrail, speaking quietly with Tribune Cadius Hadrian, a small, slender man who stood beside him in the light armor and woodland colors of a scout. Hadrian pointed at the running trainees on the back stretch of the track and murmured something to the captain. Then he pointed toward a group of fish strapping into bulky suits of training armor. Cyril nodded, then glanced down to see Tavi and Magnus at the base of the platform.

Cadius Hadrian followed the captain’s look, then saluted and slid down the platform’s ladder to the earth. The leader of the Legion’s scouts nodded silently to Tavi and Magnus as they saluted him, and paced away.

“I’ve brought him for you, sir,” Magnus called. “And I told you so.”

Captain Cyril had a blocky, largely immobile face, tanned to leather by his time in the field, and even a small smile sent creases across his features. “Send him up.”

Tavi turned to the ladder, and Magnus touched his arm. “Lad,” he murmured, almost too low to be heard. “Remember your duty. But don’t play him false.”

Tavi frowned, then nodded to Magnus and scaled the ladder to join the captain on the platform. He reached the top, came to attention, and saluted.

“At ease,” Cyril said easily, beckoning with one hand as he turned back to the field. Tavi stepped up to stand beside him. Neither said anything for several moments, and Tavi waited for the captain to break the silence.

“Not many novice subtribunes would stand up to their commanding officer like that,” Cyril finally murmured. “That takes a certain amount of courage.”

“Not really, sir,” Tavi said. “He couldn’t come against me without revealing what he’d done.”