Jim Butcher - Cursors's Fury

The wounded Cane clutched the bleeding stump of his arm to his belly and retreated, making high-pitched whimpering noises in his throat.

“Apologies,” Nasaug then said to Tavi. “For the distraction.”

“No offense was given,” Tavi replied, his tone thoughtful. “You have little love for the ritualists.”

“Your eyes can see the sun at midday, Captain,” Nasaug replied. He studied the board a moment later, and said, “Your strategy was sound. You know much of us.”

“Some,” Tavi replied.

“It took courage and intelligence to attempt it. For this, you have earned respect.” Nasaug looked up at Tavi for the first time since the game began. “But however much I may despise Sari and those like him, my duty is clear. Sari and his ritualists are few, but they have the faith of the maker caste.” He tilted an ear in a vague gesture at the enormous number of raiders. “They may be fools to believe in the ritualists, but I will not turn upon the makers or desert them. I have studied your forces. You cannot stop us.”

“Perhaps,” Tavi said. “Perhaps not.”

Nasaug bared his teeth again. “Your men are half-trained. Your officers were slain, your Knights far weaker than they should be. There is little help to be had from the Alerans of the city.” He pushed a ludus Lord forward, beginning his own attack. “You have not seen our caste in battle, but for the probe this morning. You will not repulse us again, Aleran. Before tomorrow’s sunset, it will be over.”

Tavi frowned. Nasaug wasn’t posturing. There was neither threat nor anger nor enjoyment in the tone of his voice. He was simply stating a fact, attaching no emotion to it, no menace. It was far more disturbing than anything else he could have said.

But Nasaug was a warrior Cane. If he was anything like Varg, his words were like blood-never loosed unless necessary. And then as little as possible. “I wonder why you bother to speak of it.”

“To offer you an alternative. Retreat and leave the bridge sound. Take your warriors, your people, your young. I will give you two days to travel, in which I will make sure no forces are sent after you.”

Tavi regarded the board for a silent moment and altered the position of a single piece. “Generous. Why offer it?”

“I do not say we will destroy you without loss, Captain. It will save lives of my warriors and your own.”

“Until we fight again another day?”

“Yes.”

Tavi shook his head. “I cannot give you the bridge. It is my duty to hold it or destroy it.”

Nasaug nodded once. “Your gesture to allow us to take back our fallen was a generous one. Especially given how Sari dealt with you. For that, I offered you what I could.” The Cane began moving his pieces in earnest, and the rapid exchange began. It took him only three moves to see what Tavi had done, and he stopped, staring at the board.

Tavi’s reckless assault had been nothing of the kind. He had spent a great deal of time thinking about Ambassador Varg’s stratagem in their last game together, and he had adapted it to his own strengths as a player. The sacrifice of some of his lesser pieces earlier in the game had given the greater pieces a far more dominant position, and within the next two moves he would control the skyboard completely and have the positioning and power he would need to strike down Nasaug’s First Lord. His pieces would take terrible losses to do it, but Nasaug had seen the trap a bare move too late, and he could not possibly escape it.

“Things,” Tavi said quietly, “are not always as they seem.”

The last of the fallen Canim had been found and borne back to the Canim camp by their unarmed fellows. A grizzled Cane nodded to Nasaug in passing.

Nasaug stared at Tavi, then tilted his head very slightly to one side in acknowledgment of the defeat. “No. Which is why my warriors will not be the first to enter the town.”

Tavi’s heart all but stopped in his chest.

Nasaug had figured out the trap. He might not yet know the details, but he knew it was there. Tavi kept all expression from his face and stared impassively at the Battlemaster.

Nasaug let out another rumbling chuckle and nodded at the board. “Where did you learn that strategy?”

Tavi regarded the Cane, then shrugged. “Varg.”

Nasaug froze.

His ears came to quivering attention, pricked forward at Tavi.

“Varg,” he growled, very low. “Varg lives?”

“Yes,” Tavi replied. “Prisoner in Alera Imperia.”

Nasaug narrowed his eyes, his ears twitching. Then he lifted a hand and beckoned.

The grizzled Cane returned, bearing a cloth bundle held upon his upraised palms. At a nod from Nasaug, the Cane set the bundle down on the ludus board and unfolded it. Tavi’s gladius, the one he had cast aside that morning, lay within.

“You are dangerous, Aleran,” Nasaug said.

Instinct told Tavi that the words were a high compliment. He kept his eyes steady, and said, “I thank you.”

“Respect changes nothing. I will destroy you.”

“Duty,” Tavi said.

“Duty.” The Battlemaster gestured at the sword. “This is yours.”

“It is,” Tavi replied. “You have my thanks.”

“Die well, Aleran.”

“Die well, Cane.”

Nasaug and Tavi fractionally bared their throats to each other once more. Then Nasaug backed away several paces before turning and striding back toward his army. Tavi folded up the ludus board back into its case, recovered both of his blades, and made his own way back to the city. He slipped in through the gates just as deep drums began to rumble and Canim war horns began to blare.

Tavi spotted Valiar Marcus and called to him. “First Spear, get the men into position! This is it!”

“Very well,” Lady Aquitaine said. She nodded to Odiana, and said, “Time we got into costume.”

Odiana promptly opened a backpack and handed Amara her disguise.

Amara stared down at the scarlet silk in her hands, and said, “Where is the rest of it?”

Aldrick stood at the hostel’s window, watching the street outside. The big swordsman glanced back at Amara, made a choking sound in his throat, and turned away.

Odiana exercised no such restraint. The lovely water witch threw back her head and let out a peal of laughter, a sound too loud for the room they had rented from a surly Kalaran innkeeper. “Oh, oh, my lord. She’s blushing. Isn’t she fetching?”

To her horror, Amara realized that Odiana was right. Her cheeks felt as though she could have heated water on them, and she had absolutely no idea what to do about it. It was not the sort of situation she had been trained to handle. She turned away from Lady Aquitaine and her retainers and held up her disguise.

It consisted of a simple sheath of red silk, held up by a pair of tiny silk straps. Neckline, such as it was, was alarmingly low-and in back, the garment would leave her naked almost to the waist. The little shift’s hem would fall to the tops of her thighs if she was lucky.

“Now, now,” Lady Aquitaine chided Odiana. “Show her the rest of it.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Odiana said with a little curtsey. Then she drew out a pair of light sandals with straps that would wrap the leg to the knee, a pair of slender silver armbands wrought in the shapes of ivy vines, a beaded headdress that faintly resembled a chain coif and a plain, smooth metal band.

A discipline collar.

It was a slaver’s device, furywrought to give control of whoever wore it to the slaver. It could incapacitate its wearer with pain-and, more insidiously, it could, at the slaver’s option, provide the inverse of that sensation, and just as intensely. Discipline collars were sometimes used to restrain particularly dangerous furycrafters being held for trial in the legal system, though such cases were historically rare.