Jim Butcher - Cursors's Fury

“No,” Kitai said in his ear. The arm around his waist shifted, and she clasped the hand in which Tavi held the reins. She pulled his hand to the right, and the horse altered course, Max’s mount following suit. Lightning flashed, and Tavi saw the black maw of a sharp-edged pothole flash by, narrowly avoided.

Kitai leaned forward, and he felt her cheek against his as she smiled. “I will be your eyes, blind Aleran.”

Tavi felt his own mouth stretch into a grin to match hers, and he shouted to his mount, coaxing all the speed he could from the draft horse.

They entered the town through the eastern gate, shouting passwords to the legionares on duty there, thundering over the stone streets, the heavy steel-shod hooves of their horses striking sparks from the stone. The western gate of the town had been left unguarded and slightly ajar. As they approached, Max crafted a miniature cyclone that hammered it the rest of the way open, and they swept through, altering course to follow the city’s wall down to the riverside.

The town of Elinarch had been founded as little more than a standard Legion camp anchoring either end of the bridge. In the century since, its rising population had spread beyond the original walls, building homes and business around the wall’s outskirts and, especially, constructing extensive docking facilities for the river traffic that supported the town. The wooden wharves and piers had spread hundreds of yards upon either side of the original town’s boundaries on both banks of the river.

Piers brought ships and boats, which brought a steady and large number of sailing men, which gave birth to an inevitable, if modest, industry of graft and vice. Wine clubs, gambling halls, and pleasure houses were built upon both the wharves and permanently anchored barges. There was a paucity of furylamps throughout the docks-partly because no one wanted even a tiny fire fury that close to so much aged wood, and partly because the darkness suited the clandestine nature of the businesses there.

Tavi swung down from the horse and flicked the reins around the nearest wooden post. “Knowing Ehren, where do we look?”

“Little guy liked to plan ahead,” Max said. “Be early for lecture. Set aside time to study.”

Tavi nodded. “He’d have prepared a spot in case he had to run or fight. A distraction, to keep people from noticing while he slipped away.” Tavi nodded toward a number of large, roomy buildings built directly beneath the soaring stone Elinarch. “Warehouses.”

The three of them started out at a hard pace, and though Tavi’s leg ached from the effort, it supported his weight easily enough. The first warehouse was open and lit as Legion teamsters unloaded the wagons of foodstuffs the Subtribunes Logistica had scrounged-like the one they’d left back on the road. Haradae, the seniormost Subtribune Logistica, a watery-eyed young man from Rhodes, looked up from a ledger book and frowned at Tavi. “Scipio? Where is your wagon?”

“On the way,” Tavi called back, slowing. “Have you seen any of Erasmus’s eighth spear out tonight?”

“Just went by, not five minutes ago, chasing some thief,” he said, hooking a thumb. “But I thought they were on gate duty, not night watch.”

“Erasmus thought that, too,” Tavi improvised. “No one’s at the gate.”

Haradae shook his head and checked his list. “Here. Bandages. I’ll have some set out for Erasmus after he’s done lashing them.”

Max growled under his breath, “Think he has any coffins?”

“Come on,” Tavi said, and picked up the pace again.

They found the body in the shadows beside the fifth warehouse in the row, and Tavi’s heart leapt into his throat as he peered at the empty black shape in the darkness. “Is it…?”

“No,” Kitai said. “A legionare. He is older than Ehren and has a beard.” She bent and casually tugged at the corpse. Light gleamed on steel for a second. “Knife in the neck. Well thrown.”

“Shhhh,” Tavi said, and held up a hand. They were quiet for a moment. The lazy river whispered now and then beneath them. The wooden wharves creaked and groaned. Tavi heard a pair of men arguing in tight, tense voices meant not to carry. Then there was a heavy thud.

Tavi drew his sword as silently as he could and nodded to Max. The pair of them started down the walkway in a hurried prowl. They were able to slip up behind a group of seven legionares. One of them held a single, dim furylamp while two others spoke and the rest stood in a loose half circle around a weather-beaten wooden storage shed, perhaps five feet high and wide and ten deep. One of the men held a wounded arm in close to his body, a kerchief wrapped around his hand in a crude bandage.

Max narrowed his eyes and crouched, but Tavi lifted a hand, silently signaling him to halt. A second gesture told Max to follow his lead, and Tavi walked boldly into the dim light of the lamp.

“And just what the crows do you men think you’re doing?” he demanded.

The legionares whirled to face him. The two men arguing froze, startled expressions of guilt on their faces. Tavi recognized them, though he did not know them by name-apart from the wounded man. It was Nonus, the legionare who had given Tavi trouble his first day in the camp. His companion Bortus stood uneasily beside him. Though no one had ever commented on it, Tavi suspected that a quiet word from Max had convinced Valiar Marcus to transfer them to Erasmus’s century-a less-senior century within his cohort, which had doubtless resulted in a reduction in pay.

“Well?” Tavi demanded. “Who is the file leader of this sorry bunch?”

“Sir,” mumbled one of two debaters. He wore his helmet sloppily unfastened, cheek flaps loose. His voice had a Kalaran accent. “I am, Subtribune Scipio.”

Tavi tilted his head and kept his face fixed in a steadily darkening scowl. “Name, soldier?”

The man glanced about uneasily. “Yanar, sir.”

“Yanar. You want to tell me why one of your men is dead in that alley and you’ve another wounded, instead of being at your crowbegotten post? ”

“Sir, Creso was murdered, sir!”

“I assumed that from the way a knife was sticking out of his neck,” Tavi said in a quietly acidic tone. “But that is hardly important. Why was he murdered there and not at his post? ”

“We were pursuing a criminal, sir!” Yanar stammered. “He fled.”

“Yes, file leader. I did manage to deduce that if you were pursuing him, he most probably had fled. But why are you here instead of at your post? ”

“Yanar,” growled one of the legionares. He was a man of medium size, slender in build, dark of hair and eye. Tavi did not know his name. “He’s just one prating little subbie.” He jerked his head at the storage shed. “Maybe he tries to help us. We tell him not to, but maybe he goes in first. Maybe our boy killed him and Creso both.”

Yanar turned back to Tavi, a look of ugly speculation in his eyes.

“Careful, Yanar,” Tavi said in a quiet voice. “You’re getting near to treason.”

“It’s only treason,” said the dark man, “if you get caught.”

Yanar narrowed his eyes at Tavi and said, “K-”

Tavi presumed the man was going to say “kill him,” but he decided not to waste a perfectly good second in listening. He took a bounding step forward and struck straight down with his gladius. The blow landed on the crown of Yanar’s untied helmet, slamming it forward and down, breaking the legionare’s nose and roughly gouging at one cheek. Tavi slammed his armored shoulder into Yanar s chest, knocking him down, ducked the swing of another sword, and kicked against the dark man’s knee, crushing the joint, sending him to the wharf with a cry of pain.