Jim Butcher: Princeps’ Fury

The Cane nodded and rose. “Then with your consent, I will return to my pack leader’s ship.”

Tavi arched an eyebrow. That was unusual. “Will you not take dinner with us before you go?”

Gradash flicked his ears in the negative-then a second later remembered to follow the gesture with the Aleran equivalent, a negative shake of the head. “I would return before the storm arrives, little brother.”

Tavi glanced at Kitai. “What storm?”

Kitai shook her head. “Demos has said nothing.”

Gradash let out a rumbling snarl, the Canim equivalent of a chuckle. “Know when one’s coming. Feel it in my tail.”

“Until our next lesson, then,” Tavi said. He tilted his head slightly to one side, in the Canim fashion, and Gradash returned the gesture. Then the old Cane padded out, ducking to squeeze out of the relatively tiny cabin.

Tavi glanced at Kitai, but the Marat woman was already swinging down from the hammock. She trailed her fingertips through his hair as she passed his bunk, gave him a quick smile, and left the cabin as well. She returned a moment later, trailing the Legion’s senior valet, Magnus.

Magnus was spry for a man of his years, though Tavi always thought that the close-cropped Legion haircut looked odd on him. He had grown used to Magnus’s shock of fine white hair while the two of them had explored the ancient Romanic ruins of Appia. The old man had wiry, strong hands, a comfortable potbelly, and watery eyes that had gone nearsighted after years of straining to read faded inscriptions in poorly lit chambers and caves. A scholar of no mean learning, Magnus was also a Cursor Callidus, one of the most senior of the elite agents of the Crown, and had become Tavi’s de facto master of intelligence.

“Kitai has alerted Demos to what Gradash said,” Magnus began, without preamble. “And the good captain will keep a weather eye out.”

Tavi shook his head. “Not good enough,” he said. “Kitai, ask Demos if he would indulge me. Prepare for a blow, and signal the rest of our ships to do the same. As I understand it, we’ve had unusually gentle weather so far, sailing this late in the year. Gradash didn’t survive to old age by being a fool. If nothing else, it will be a good exercise.”

“He’ll do it,” Kitai said with perfect confidence.

“Just be polite, please,” Tavi said.

Kitai rolled her eyes as she left and sighed. “Yes, Aleran.”

Magnus waited until Kitai had left before he nodded to Tavi, and said, “Thank you.”

“You really can say whatever you like in front of her, Magnus.”

Tavi’s old mentor gave him a strained look. “Your Highness, please. The Ambassador is , after all, a representative of a foreign power. My professionalism feels strained enough.”

Tavi’s weariness kept the laugh from gaining too much momentum, but it felt good in any case. “Crows, Magnus. You can’t keep beating yourself up for not realizing I was Gaius Octavian. No one realized I was Gaius Octavian. I didn’t realize I was Gaius Octavian.” Tavi shrugged. “Which was the point, I suppose.”

Magnus sighed. “Yes, well. Just between the two of us, I’m afraid that I have to tell you, it’s a waste. You’d have been a real terror as a historian. Dealt those pigheaded snobs at the Academy fits for generations, with what you’d have turned up at Appia.”

“I’ll just have to try to make amends in whatever small way I can,” Tavi said, smiling faintly. The smile faded. Magnus was right about one thing-Tavi was never going to go back to the simple life he’d had, working under Magnus at his dig site, exploring the ancient ruin. A little pang of loss went through him. “Appia was very nice, wasn’t it?”

“Mmm,” Magnus agreed. “Peaceful. Always interesting. I still have a trunkful of rubbings to transcribe and translate, too.”

“I’d ask you to send some of them over, but…”

“Duty,” Magnus said, nodding. “Speaking of which.”

Tavi nodded and sat up with a grunt of effort as Magnus passed over several sheets of paper. Tavi frowned down at them and found himself studying several unfamiliar maps. “What am I looking at?”

“Canea,” Magnus replied. “There, at the far right…” The old Cursor indicated a few speckles at the middle of the right edge of the map. “The Sunset Isles, and Westmiston.”

Tavi blinked at the map for a moment, looking between the isles and the mainland. “But… I thought it was about three weeks’ sailing from those islands.”

“It is,” Magnus said.

“But that would make this coastline…” Tavi traced a fingertip down its length. “Crows. If it’s to scale, it would be three or four times as long as the western coast of Alera.” He looked up sharply at Magnus. “Where did you come by this map?”

Magnus coughed delicately. “Some of our language teachers managed to make copies of charts on the Canim ships.”

“Crows, Magnus!” Tavi snarled, rising. “Crows and bloody furies, I told you that we were not going to play any games like that on this trip!”

Magnus blinked at him several times. “And… Your Highness expected me to listen ?”

“Of course I did!”

Magnus lifted both eyebrows. “Your Highness, perhaps I should explain. My duty is to the Crown. And my orders, from the Crown, are to take every action within my power to support you, protect you, and secure every possible advantage to ensure your safety and success.” He added, without a trace of apology, “Including, if in my best judgment I deem it necessary, ignoring orders containing more idealism than practicality.”

Tavi stared at him for a moment. Then he said, quietly, “Magnus, I’m not feeling well. But I’m sure that if I ask nicely, when Kitai gets back, she will be happy to throw you off this ship for me.”

Magnus inclined his head, unruffled. “That is, of course, up to you, Your Highness. But I would ask you to look over the map first.”

Tavi growled under his breath and turned his attention back to the map. The deed was done. There was no sense in pretending it hadn’t been. “How accurate is this copy?”

Magnus passed over several other pieces of paper, which were virtually identical to the first.

“Mmmm,” Tavi asked. “And these are to scale?”

“That remains unclear,” Magnus replied. “There could be differences in the way that the Canim understand and read their maps.”

“Not that much difference,” Tavi replied. “I’ve seen the charts they drew of the Vale.” Tavi traced a finger down one of the maps that had various-sized triangles marking the locations of a number of cities. Names had been sketched next to half of them. “These cities… I’m sure that…” He gave Magnus a sharp glance. “The population of each of these cities is enormous. As large as any of the High Lords’ cities in Alera.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Magnus said calmly.

“And there are dozens of them,” Tavi said. “In this section of coastline alone.”

“Just so, Your Highness.”

“But that would mean…” Tavi shook his head slowly. “Magnus. That would mean that the Canim civilization is dozens of times larger than our own- hundreds of times larger.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Magnus said.

Tavi stared down at the map, shaking his head slowly. “And we never knew ?”

“The Canim have guarded their coastline quite jealously over the centuries,” Magnus said. “Fewer than a dozen Aleran ships have ever visited their shores-and those have only been allowed to dock at a single port, a place by the name of Marshag. No Aleran has ever been permitted off the docks-and returned to tell about it, at any rate.”