Jim Butcher - First Lord's Fury

“Don’t let them.”

“No, sir,” Crassus said.

The captain nodded. “Good work, Tribune.”

Crassus’s eyes flashed at the compliment, and he slammed a fist to his heart in a sharp salute. The captain returned it, then passed his hand over the image. Within seconds, the water from which it had formed returned smoothly and silently to the pool.

The captain sank onto a camp stool and pressed the heels of both hands against his forehead.

“Sir,” Marcus said. “You should rest.”

“Presently,” the captain replied wearily. “Presently.”

“Sir,” Marcus began, “with all due respect you sound just like—” He barely caught himself in time to avoid betraying himself. Just like your grandfather. Valiar Marcus hadn’t been a close professional colleague of Gaius Sextus. He couldn’t know what the First Lord had been like in private. “Just like a new recruit trying to tell me he’ll be able to finish the march just fine, even though the soles of his feet are one big blister, and he’s got a broken ankle.”

A faint smile touched the captain’s mouth. “Right after we’re done, then.”

“Very good, sir. How may I help you?”

The captain lowered his hands and eyed Marcus. “What do you know about Marat courtship customs?”

Marcus blinked slowly. “Excuse me?”

“Courtship among the Marat,” Octavian said wearily. “What do you know about it?”

“I’m sure Magnus would know more than me, sir.”

The captain waved an irritated hand. “I asked him already. He said once he’d learned about how they would occasionally devour their enemies, he knew all he needed to want nothing to do with them.”

Marcus snorted. “Certain amount of sense in that, sir. The Marat can be dangerous.”

The captain scowled. “Tell me about it. After you tell me what you know about their courtship.”

“You figuring on keeping the Ambassador, then?”

“It’s not that simple,” the captain replied.

“Should say not. Lot of Citizens aren’t going to like that idea.”

“The crows can have them,” the captain replied. “The only people making this decision are me and Kitai.”

Marcus grunted. “I’ve heard stories.”

“Like what?”

Marcus shrugged. “The usual. That they mate with their beasts. That they participate in blood rites and orgies before battle.” He suppressed a shudder. He’d seen that last with his own eyes, and it was the material of nightmare, not fantasy. “That their females are beaten until they submit to the will of a husband.”

The captain let out a loud snort at this last.

Marcus nodded soberly. “Aye. If the Ambassador is any indication, that last one is just so much dandelion fluff.”

“Anything else?”

Marcus pursed his lips and debated with himself. Valiar Marcus couldn’t be expected to know much of the Marat or their customs. On the other hand, a well-connected, respected northern soldier knew a lot of folk. Some of them would travel. Some of them would return with stories. And…

And, Marcus realized, he wanted to help the captain.

“I served with a fellow who became the chief of armsmen for a fairly large merchant family,” he said finally. “He told me something about a contest.”

The captain frowned and leaned forward intently. “Contest?”

Marcus grunted in the affirmative. “Apparently a Marat woman has the right to demand a trial by contest of her prospective groom. Or maybe it was a trial by combat. He wasn’t real clear on the point.”

Octavian arched a raven black eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”

The First Spear shrugged. “All I know.” That much was true. Even the Cursors had known little apart from the barbarians’ military capabilities. Information on Marat society was fairly scanty. The two peoples had, for the most part, practiced avoiding one another. It had been sufficient to know the threat that they represented, so that the Legions could counter them effectively.

Certainly, no one had ever ordered a Cursor to find out how to propose to a Marat woman.

“Trial by combat,” Octavian muttered darkly under his breath. Marcus thought he might have said, “Perfect.”

Marcus kept a straight face. “Love is a wonderful thing, sir.”

Octavian gave him a sour look. “Did you get the reports from Vanorius?”

Marcus opened up a leather case on his belt and passed a roll of papers to the captain. “Thanks to Magnus, yes, sir.”

The captain took the papers, leaned his hip against a sand table, and started reading. “You’ve read them?”

“Aye.”

“Your thoughts?”

Marcus pursed his lips. “The vord exist in overwhelming numbers, but they don’t appear to be all that bright without a queen to guide them. There’s always some fighting at the city sieges, but the besieged High Lords’ problems and solutions more closely resemble being trapped in a heavy blizzard than waging war.”

Octavian flipped a page, his green eyes rapidly scanning the next. “Go on.”

“The enemy has a large force on the move, toward Riva. They should have gotten there already, but Aquitaine burned all the ground between Riva and the old capital right down to the bloody dirt. It appears to have slowed them down.”

The captain grimaced and shook his head. “How long before they engage Aquitaine?”

“Tough to say. Assuming their pace remains as slow as it is now, another twelve to fourteen days.” Marcus frowned, and said, “Even if they assault the Legions and lose, they could strike us a death blow unless we’ve taken out the Queen. If she tells them to, they’ll fight to the last wax spider. They’ll take the lion’s share of our strength with them.”

“And she’ll simply make more,” Octavian said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d say our best option is to be there in twelve to fourteen days, then. Wouldn’t you?”

Marcus felt his eyebrows try to climb up to his hairline. “That isn’t going to happen. We don’t have causeways. We’ll never cover that distance in time to join the battle. We don’t have enough fliers to shuttle in a viable number of ground troops.”

Octavian’s eyes glittered, and he smiled. The expression transformed the features of the normally serious young man. It was the grin of a boy with a good prank in mind. “Did you know,” he said, “that Alera reached a peace agreement with the Icemen?”

“Sir? I heard something about it, but you hear a lot of things in a Legion rumor mill.”

Tavi nodded. “You know Lord Vanorius?”

“Aye, somewhat. We spoke regularly when I was serving Antillus. Always on Legion business.”

“Go to him,” Tavi said. “We need woodcrafters. I want every Knight Flora, every Citizen with woodcrafting, and every professional woodworker in Antillus to report to this camp by dawn.”

“Sir?” Marcus said. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Really?” Octavian said, that smile flickering to life again, if briefly. “Because I’m quite certain that you don’t.”

“Woodcrafters.”

“Yes,” said the captain.

Marcus lifted an eyebrow warily as his fist rose to his heart in salute. “What do you want me to tell Vanorius when he asks why you need them?”

“Operational security,” the captain said. “And if that doesn’t work, inform him that disobeying a lawful order of the Crown in time of war is considered treason.” His eyes hardened. “I am not making a request.”

“Yes, sir,” Marcus said.

Outside the tent, a sentry called a challenge, and a rumbling basso voice replied in snarling tones. A second later, one of the sentries leaned into the tent, and said, “Pair of messengers from the Canim, Captain.”