Jim Butcher - Cursors's Fury

Tavi looked over his shoulder at the captain.

Cyril stood over the tub. He looked up at Tavi and arched an eyebrow. Then the captain frowned, and Tavi had the uncomfortable impression that Cyril had seen the direction of Tavi’s thoughts.

Cyril met Tavi’s gaze, his eyes steady. Tavi could see the strength in the man-not the raging strength of storms that underlay Gaius’s rage, or the smoldering fire of Lady Antillus’s anger. This strength was something older, humbler, as steady and sure as the rolling hillsides of the Vale, as set in place as the ancient, worn old mountains around it, as unchanging in the face of turmoil as waters of a deep well. Tavi couldn’t have said how he knew it, but he did: Cyril respected the power of those like Lady Antillus, but he did not fear them. He would neither bow his knee nor stain his honor for her or her like.

“Maximus is Legion,” the captain said, chin lifted proudly. “If harm comes to him, it will be because I am dead.”

Tavi nodded once. He touched his fist to his heart and nodded to the captain. Then he turned and hurried from the tent to follow Cyril’s orders.

Tavi spent the day and most of the night in the tent by his friend’s side. Valiar Marcus had spelled him for time enough to bathe and eat a cold meal. Captain Cyril himself had come in the hours before dawn, and Tavi had simply thrown himself down on the floor and slept, armor and all. He awoke stiff and sore in midmorning, and stretched the kinks out, doing his best to ignore the complaints of his body. The captain had waited until Tavi was fully awake before departing, leaving him to resume his watch over his friend.

Foss came in now and again, checking up on Max.

“Shouldn’t we get him into a bed?” Tavi asked.

Foss grunted. “Take his armor off. Water is better, so long as he doesn’t get cold.”

“Why?”

“M’ fury’s still in it,” Foss said. “Doin’ what she can to help im.”

Tavi smiled. “She?”

“Bernice. And don’t give me no mouth, kid. I know you Citizens make fun of us pagunus types for giving them names. Back in my home, they’d look at you just as funny for sayin’ they didn’t need them.”

Tavi shook his head. “No, I’m not criticizing you, healer. Honestly. It’s the results that matter.”

“Happen to be of the same mind m’self,” Foss said, grinning.

“How’d you wind up here?” Tavi asked.

“Volunteered,” Foss said. He added hot water from a steaming kettle to the tub, careful not to let it burn the man within.

“We all volunteered,” Tavi said.

Foss grunted. “I’m career Legion. Shieldwall. Antillus to Phrygia and back, fighting off the Icemen. One hitch for one city, then one in the other. Did that for thirty years.”

“Got tired of the cold?” Tavi asked.

“Manner of speakin’,” Foss confirmed, and winked at Tavi. “Wife in Phrygia found out about the wife in Antillus. Thought I might like to see what the south was like for a spell.”

Tavi chuckled.

Max said, his voice very weak, “Don’t play cards with him, Calderon. He cheats.”

Tavi shot up off the camp stool and went to his friend. “Hey,” he said. “You decide to wake up, finally?”

“Got a hangover,” Max said, his voice slurred. “Or something. What happened to me, Calderon?”

“Hey, Max,” Tavi said, gentle urgency in his voice, “don’t try to talk yet. Wake up a little more. Let the healer see to you.”

Foss knelt by the tub and peered at Max’s eyes, telling the young man to follow his finger when he waved it around. “Calderon?” he asked. “Thought you were Rivan.”

“Yes,” Tavi said smoothly. “My first hitch was in Riva. I was in one of the green cohorts they sent to Garrison.”

Foss grunted. “You was at Second Calderon?”

“Yes,” Tavi said.

“Heard it was pretty bad.”

“Yes,” Tavi said.

Foss peered up at Tavi from under shaggy black brows, his eyes thoughtful. Then he grunted, and said, “Maximus, get out of that tub before I drown you. I never cheated at cards in my life.”

“Don’t make me hit you,” Max said, his voice only a shadow of itself. He started to stir up out of the tub but groaned after a second and sagged back.

“Bucket,” Foss said to Tavi. Tavi grabbed a nearby bucket and tossed it to Foss. The healer deposited it on the floor just as Max turned on his side and threw up. The healer supported the wounded legionare with one broad arm. “There now, man. No shame in it. You had a close call.”

Max sagged back a minute later, then blinked his eyes several times and focused them on Tavi. “Scipio,” he said, gentle emphasis on the word. Max had recovered his wits, Tavi surmised. “What happened?”

Tavi glanced up at Foss. “Healer? You mind if we have a minute?”

Foss grunted, got up, and left the tent without speaking.

“You had a training accident,” Tavi said quietly, once Foss had left.

Max stared at Tavi for a long minute, and Tavi saw something like despair in his friend’s eyes. “I see. When?”

“About this time yesterday. One of your recruits lost his grip on his gladius and threw it through your neck.”

“Which one?” Max asked in a monotone.

“Schultz.”

“The crows he did,” Max muttered. “Kid’s got some real metalcraft, and he never even knew it until he joined up. He gets some experience, he could be a Knight. He didn’t slip.”

“Everyone says he slipped,” Tavi said. “The captain agrees that in the absence of other evidence, it was an accident.”

“Yeah. Captains always do,” Max said, his tone flat and bitter.

“What?” Tavi asked.

Max shook his head and sat upright in a slow, painful-looking motion. Water sluiced down over the heavy muscles of his shoulders and back, smooth rivulets broken by the heavy, finger-thick ridges of scar tissue that crisscrossed his upper back. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, and gingerly touched the stripe of furycrafted pink skin where the sword had struck him. “Toss me that towel.”

Tavi did. “This isn’t the first time something like this has happened to you, is it?”

“Fifth,” Max said.

“Crows,” Tavi muttered. “And it’s her?”

Max nodded.

“What do we do about it?” Tavi asked.

Max dried off, the motions slow, halfhearted. “Do?”

“We’ve got do something.”

Max looked around until he spotted his uniform pants and tunic on a nearby chair, folded and laundered. He dropped the towel on the floor and shambled over to his clothes. “There’s nothing to do.”

Tavi peered at his friend. “Max? We have to do something.”

“No. Leave it.”

“Max-”

Max froze, his shirt in his hands, his shoulders and voice tight. “Shut up. Now.”

“No, Max. We’ve got to-”

Max spun, and snarled, “What?” As he spoke, the ground lashed up at Tavi and bounced him into the air and to one side. He landed in a sprawl.

“Do what? ” Max snarled, sweeping his tunic like a sword at one of the tent’s support posts in a gesture of futile rage. “There’s nothing I can do. Nothing anyone can do.” He shook his head. “She’s too smart. Too strong. She can get away with whatever the crows she wants to.” He ground his teeth, and the tunic burst into sudden flame, white-hot tongues of it licking up around Max without harming his skin. Tavi felt the heat, though, intense, just short of painful. “Too…”

Max dropped his arms in a limp, weak gesture, flakes of black ash that had been his tunic drifting down. He sat down and leaned his back against the support post and shook his head. Tavi gathered himself to his feet and watched as Max’s head fell forward. He was silent for a time. Then he whispered, “She killed my mother. I was five.”