Jim Butcher - First Lord's Fury

“Blood,” Tavi said abruptly.

The two Canim eyed him.

“What if I pay a blood price for the two dead makers? Their weight of blood?”

Marok narrowed his eyes again. “Interesting.”

Varg grunted. “A Cane has twice the weight in blood of an Aleran, gadara . We could bleed you to a husk, and you would have paid back only a quarter.”

“What if it were done slowly?” Tavi replied. “A little at a time? And the blood entrusted to, say, Master Marok here, to use for the protection and benefit of the families of the two dead makers?”

“Interesting,” Marok said again.

Varg mused for a moment. “I can think of nothing in the codes to hold against it.”

“Nothing in the codes,” Marok said. “But it sets a dangerous precedent. Others might use it to kill as well and escape the consequences in this fashion.”

Tavi showed his teeth. “Not if the party who has been wronged does the bloodletting.”

Marok huffed out a harsh bark of Canim-style laughter.

Varg’s jaws lolled open in a smile. “Aye. That would stand up to usage.” He tilted his head and eyed Tavi. “You would trust me with the blade, gadara ?”

“If anything happened to me, your people would be finished,” Tavi said soberly. “We would kill them all. Or the vord would kill them all. And there would never again be such an opportunity for us to build mutual respect.”

Varg watched Marok as Tavi spoke. Then he spread one paw-hand open, as though he had just proved something to the older Cane.

Marok nodded slowly. “As the observer sent by the bloodspeakers, I will consider this payment an offering of honor and restitution—and I will see to it that the makers know that it has been concluded according to the codes. Wait here.”

Marok went back into the black tent. When he returned, he held what would be a rather small vial, for a Cane, made of some kind of ivory. To Tavi, it looked nearly the size of a canteen. Marok handed the container to Varg.

Varg took it with another, deeper bow, this time reversing the roles of accorded respect with Marok. The old Cane said, “From the left arm.”

Tavi steeled himself as he pushed the arm of his tunic up past his elbow and extended it to Varg.

The Warmaster drew his dagger, an Aleran gladius that had once belonged to Tavi. Varg carried it for use when he needed a keen-edged knife. Moving with quick, sure motions, he laid a long, shallow cut across Tavi’s forearm, along a diagonal. Tavi gritted his teeth but made no other reaction to the pain of the injury. He lowered his arm to his side, and Varg bent to place the vial beneath his fingertips, catching the blood as it spilled. It slowly began to fill.

The entrance to the black tent flew open again, and a burly Cane in a pale leather mantle strode out, his fangs bared, his ears laid back. “Marok,” the Cane snarled. “You will cease this trafficking with the enemy!”

“Nhar,” Marok said. “Go back in the tent.”

Nhar surged toward Marok, seething. “You cannot do this! You cannot so bind us to these creatures! You cannot so dishonor the lives of the fallen!”

Marok eyed the other ritualist for a moment, and said, “What were their names, Nhar?”

The other Cane drew up short. “What?”

“Their names,” Marok said in that same, gentle voice. “Surely you know the names of these makers whose lives you defend so passionately.”

Nhar stood there, gnashing his teeth. “You,” he sputtered. “You.”

“Ahmark and Chag,” Master Marok said. And without warning one of his hands lashed out and delivered a backhanded blow to the end of Nhar’s muzzle. The other Cane recoiled in sheer surprise as much as pain, and fell to the ground. The blood in the pouch at his side sloshed back and forth, some of it splashing out.

“Go back into the tent, Nhar,” Marok said gently.

Nhar snarled and plunged one hand into the blood pouch.

Marok moved even more quickly. One of the knives sprang off his belt into his hand and whipped across his own left forearm.

Nhar screamed something, and a cloud of blue-grey mist formed in front of him, coalescing into some kind of solid shape in response. But before it could fully form, Marok flicked several drops of his own blood onto the other Cane. Then the old master closed his eyes and made a calm, beckoning gesture.

Nhar convulsed. At first Tavi thought that the Cane was vomiting, but as more and more substance poured out of Nhar’s mouth, it only took a few seconds for Tavi to realize what was really happening.

Nhar’s belly and guts had just been ejected from his body, as if an unseen hand had reached down his throat and pulled them out.

Nhar made a number of hideous sounds, but within seconds he was silent and still.

Marok eyed the tent, and said, “Brothers, would anyone else care to dispute my arbitration?”

A Cane’s hand appeared from the black tent—but only long enough to pull the entrance flap closed again.

Varg let out a chuckling growl.

Marok reached into his own pouch and drew out a roll of fine cloth. He wrapped it around his arm with the ease of long, long practice, tearing it off with his teeth when he’d used enough. He then offered the roll of cloth to Tavi.

Tavi inclined his head to the master ritualist and accepted the cloth. When Varg nodded to him, he bent his arm and began to wind the cloth over it, though he did not do it nearly so smoothly as Marok.

Varg capped the vial and offered it back to Marok with another bow. Marok accepted the vial, and said, “This will continue when you are recovered, Tavar. I will keep the accounting. It will be accurate.”

“It was an honor to meet you, sir,” Tavi replied.

They exchanged parting bows, and Tavi and Varg continued their rounds of the camp. He stumbled twice, before Varg said, “You will return to your tent now.”

“I’m fine.”

Varg snorted. “You will return to your tent now, or I will take you there. Your mate expressed to me in very clear terms her strong desire to see you back safely.”

Tavi smiled tiredly. “I do feel a bit less than myself, I suppose. Will this end our trouble with the ritualists?”

“No,” Varg said. “They will embrace some new idiocy tomorrow. Or next week. Or next moon. But there is no escaping that.”

“But for today, we’re quit of them?”

Varg flicked his ears in assent. “Marok will keep them off-balance for months after today.”

Tavi nodded. “I’m sorry. About the makers who died. I wish I hadn’t had to do that.”

“I wish that, too,” Varg said. He looked at Tavi. “I respect you, Tavar. But my people are more important to me than you are. I have used you to help remove a deadly threat to them—Khral and his idiocy. Should you become a threat to them, I will deal with you.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Tavi said. “I will see you in the morning.”

Varg growled assent. “Aye. And may all of our enemies be in front of us.”

Tavi lay on his cot in the command tent while the Tribune Medica of the First Aleran, Foss, argued with everyone.

“I don’t care if he can eat sand and crap gold!” Foss snarled, his black beard bristling. “He’s a crowbegotten Cane , and he’s bloodied up the captain!”

“Is the captain in any danger?” Crassus asked, his voice calm.

“Not at the moment,” Foss said. “But you can’t expect me to stand around and say nothing while those heathen dogs bleed our bloody First Lord to be!”

“Sure he can,” Max growled. “Back off, Foss. Captain knows what he’s doing.”

“Of course! We’re charging headlong into a fight where we’re outnumbered a bloody thousand to one, and he’s bleeding himself before the fighting! Presumably to save the enemy the bother!”