Jim Butcher - Cursors's Fury

Fantus frowned. “That near the ground it’s going to be tiring on the first tier, Captain. The men will have to take it in shifts. It will severely reduce the number of eyes we’ve got looking out for trouble.”

“We aren’t in hostile territory. Better that than to lose more of our Knights Aeris to these things. We’re spread thin enough as it is. Do it.”

Fantus nodded and saluted again. Then he went to Crassus and stood beside the young Knight, staring down at the men in the tubs.

Tavi glanced back at the tubs and nearly threw up.

One of the men was dead, horribly dead, his body shrunken and wrinkled like a rotten grape, gaping holes burned into the body. The other Knight was breathing in frenzied gasps, his eyes wide and bulging, while the healers worked frantically to save him.

“It would seem that someone is attempting to impede our progress,” the captain said to the First Spear.

“Doesn’t make much sense. The way we’re marching, we’re getting out of Kalarus’s way. Totally out of the theater of this war. He should be happy to see us on the road.”

“Yes,” Cyril said. “But it would seem that someone wants us slow and blind.”

The First Spear grunted. “Which means you want to move fast and find out what the crows is going on out here. Just to spite him.”

Cyril’s teeth flashed in a swift smile. “Take half a glass for the men and the animals to get some water. Then we’re on the march again.”

The First Spear saluted the captain and marched off, beckoning runners and delivering orders.

Cyril stared at the survivor of the attack. He was slowly easing down from his agonized thrashing. He stepped up to stand beside Crassus. The young Knight hadn’t moved. His gaze remained on the sad, withered body of the dead man.

“Sir Crassus,” Cyril said.

“Sir?”

The captain took the young man by his shoulders and gently forced his entire body to turn away from the corpse, and toward the captain. “Sir Crassus, you can do nothing for him. Your brother Knights need your eyes and thoughts to be upon your duty. They are who you should focus upon.”

Crassus shook his head. “If I’d-”

“Sir Crassus,” Cyril said, his tone quiet but hard. “Writhing in recrimination and self-doubt is a game your men cannot afford you to play. You are a Knight of the Realm, and you will comport yourself as such.”

Crassus stiffened to attention, swallowed, and threw the captain a steady salute.

Cyril nodded. “Better. You’ve done all you can for them. Return to your duties, Sir Crassus.”

“Sir, “ Max’s half brother said. He began to look over his shoulder but arrested the movement with a visible effort, then donned his helmet and strode back toward the front of the column.

Cyril watched Crassus for a moment, then the healers began to back away from the second tub, with the air of men whose work had been completed. The young Knight in the tub, though pale as death, was breathing steadily while Lady Antillus continued to kneel beside the tub, her head bowed, her hands on the injured Knight’s head.

Cyril nodded, and his gaze fell on Tavi. “Scipio?” he asked. “What happened to you?”

“Accident with a cart, sir,” Tavi replied.

“Broke his leg,” Foss provided with a grunt, as he returned to the wagon.

Cyril arched a brow and glanced at Foss. “How bad?”

“Lower leg, clean break. I mended it. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

Cyril stared at Tavi for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. Then he nodded.

Lady Antillus rose from the healing tub, smoothed her skirts, and walked sedately to the captain. She saluted him.

“Tribune,” Cyril greeted her. “How is he?”

“I believe he is stable,” Lady Antillus replied, her voice cool, calm. “Barring complications, he should survive. The acid ate away most of the muscle on his left thigh and his right forearm. He’ll never serve again.”

“There’s more to serving a Legion than fighting,” Cyril said quietly.

“Yes, sir,” Lady Antillus said, her neutral tone speaking clearly as to her disagreement.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Cyril said. “For his life.”

Lady Antillus’s expression became remote and unreadable, and she inclined her head very slightly.

Cyril returned the nod, then turned to his horse, mounted, and headed back up the column.

Lady Antillus turned to Tavi after the captain left. “Scipio.”

“Tribune,” Tavi said, saluting her.

“Hop down from the wagon,” she said firmly. “Let’s see your leg.”

“Excuse me?”

Lady Antillus arched a brow. “I am the Tribune Medica of this Legion. You are one of my charges. Now hop down, Subtribune .”

Tavi nodded and eased himself down slowly, careful to put as little weight as he could on his wounded leg.

Lady Antillus knelt and touched the wounded leg for a moment, then rose and rolled her eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“Foss healed it,” Tavi said.

“It is a minor injury,” she said. “Surely, Scipio, someone with even your modest skills of metalcrafting could ignore any discomfort it might cause and march.”

Tavi glanced back at Foss, but the healer was supervising the loading of the wounded Knight into the bed of the wagon and studiously kept his eyes away. “I’m afraid not, Your Grace,” Tavi improvised, regarding her thoughtfully. “It’s still fairly tender, and I don’t want to slow the Legion.”

Clearly, he hadn’t fooled Lady Antillus by starting that fire. It was depress-ingly probable that she knew or at least strongly suspected his identity, and she was out to expose him. Given how badly he’d beaten her nephew, Kalarus Bren-cis Minoris, back at that fiasco during Wintersend, he wasn’t surprised at her animosity. Even so, he couldn’t allow her to prove to everyone in sight who he was.

Which meant that he had to act.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Tavi said. “But I can’t put any weight on it yet.”

“I see,” Lady Antillus said. Then she reached out and firmly pushed on Tavi’s shoulder, forcing his weight to the injured leg.

Tavi felt a flash of pain that shot from his right heel to his right collarbone. The leg buckled and he fell, pitching forward into Lady Antillus, almost knocking her down.

The High Lady let Tavi fall and recovered her balance. Then she shook her head, and said, “I’ve seen little girls in Antillus bear more than that.” Her eyes fell on Foss. “I don’t care to waste my time dealing with obvious shirkers. Watch the leg. Get him back on his feet the moment you deem him fit. Meanwhile, he can play nurse for the casualty.”

Foss saluted. “Yes, Tribune.”

Lady Antillus glared down at Tavi. Then she tossed her dark hair back over one shoulder, mounted her horse again, and kicked it into a run toward the front of the column.

After she was gone, Foss snickered. “You’ve got a nose for trouble, sir.”

“Sometimes,” Tavi agreed. “Foss. Assuming I can get some cash, how much are we talking, to ride in the wagon.”

Foss considered. “Two gold eagles at least.”

Tavi returned his small knife to its sheath in his pocket, calmly loosened the neatly sliced strings of Lady Antillus’s coin purse, and upended its contents into his hand. Three gold crowns, half a dozen gold eagles, and eleven silver bulls jingled together. Tavi selected a gold crown and flicked the coin to Foss.

The healer caught the coin on reflex and stared at Tavi, then at the silk purse. His eyes widened, and he made strangling sounds in his throat.

“That’s five times your asking price,” Tavi said. “And I’ll help with your casualty the whole way. Good enough?”

Foss rubbed a hand back over his short-shorn hair. Then he let out a rough laugh and pocketed the coin. “Kid, you got more balls than brains. I like that. Get in.”