Jim Butcher - Furies of Calderon

"Wonderful," Amara said, drawing in a breath, thinking. Then she turned to Bernard. "I need my sword back."

Bernard's eyes widened. "Don't you think killing him is a little extreme? Especially since he'd cut you apart."

"It won't come to that. Get it for me." She turned to Giraldi and said, "Take me to him."

"Your Ladyship," Giraldi said hesitantly. "I don't know if you understand. He and the rest of the Knights are abed already."

"They're gambling and wenching you mean," Amara said. "I've seen it before, centurion. Take me to him."

"I'll have the sword, Countess," Bernard rumbled.

She looked back at him and flashed him a quick smile. "Thank you, Steadholder. Healer, perhaps the truthfinder needs a good bed."

"I think he does, at that," agreed Harger cheerfully. He toted Pluvus into the cell and dumped him unceremoniously on the bare palette. "The closest bed possible."

Amara had to stifle the laugh that leapt to her throat and struggled to keep her expression stern. "Centurion, lead on."

"Come on, Bernard," Harger said. "I know where they put your stuff."

Amara followed Centurion Giraldi up out of the basement of what turned out to be a storage building and into Garrison itself, laid out in the

standard formation of a marching camp. "Mutiny," he muttered. "Assaulting a senior officer. Abducting a senior officer. Misrepresenting the orders of a senior officer."

"What's that, centurion?"

"I'm counting how many ways I'll be executed, Your Ladyship."

"Look at it this way," Amara said. "If you live to be hanged, we'll all be very fortunate." She nodded toward the barracks that would customarily house the Knights of a camp. Lights still glowed inside, and she heard a piper and laughter from within. "This one?"

"Yes, Lady," the centurion said.

"Fine. Get to your men. Make sure they watch the signal towers. And ready any other available defense of the walls."

The centurion drew in a breath and nodded. "All right. Do you think you'll convince him, Lady?"

"The only question is whether or not he survives it," Amara said, and her voice sounded cool to her, very certain. "One way or another, those Knights will be ready to fight, by the Crown."

Harger came panting up to them out of the dark, blowing like an old but spirited horse. He held the sword Amara had claimed from the Princeps Memorium in his hand and offered her the hilt. "There you go," the healer panted. "Hope you work quick, girlie. One of the guards thought he saw a light from the furthest tower, but it went out. Bernard took a horse out to see what's going on."

Amara's heart skipped a beat. Bernard alone in that country. The Marat that close. "How far is the tower from here?"

"Seven, eight miles," Harger said.

"Centurion. How long to move troops that far?"

"Without furycrafting? At night? That's rough country, Lady. Maybe they could be here in three hours or a little more, as a body. Light troops could do it a lot faster."

"Crows," Amara breathed. "All right. Get the rest of the troops out of bed, centurion. Assemble them and tell them that the Knight Commander will address them in a few moments."

"Uh, Lady? If he won't come-"

"Leave that to me." She slipped the sword's scabbard through her belt, holding it at her hip with her left hand and stalked toward the Knight's barracks, her heart pounding in her throat. She stopped outside the doors and

took a breath to stabilize herself and clear her mind. Then she put her hand on the door and shoved it open, hard, letting it rattle against its frame.

The inside of the barracks was thick with the smell of wood smoke and wine. Furylamps burned in shades of gold and scarlet. Men played at draughts at one table, stacks of coins riding on the game, while groups threw dice at two others. Women, most of them of an age to speak of their status as camp women, draped on a man's arm here and there, carried wine, or sprawled on a sofa or in a chair, drinking or kissing. One girl, a lithe young thing in a slave's collar and little more, danced to the music of the piper before the fire, casting a slender, dark shadow there like some kind of exotic ornament.

Amara took a breath and walked to the nearest table. "Excuse me," she said, keeping her voice cool, businesslike. "I'm looking for Commander Pirellus."

One of the men at the table looked up at her with a leer. "He's already had his girls for tonight, lass. Though I'd be happy to fill your…" His eyes wandered suggestively. "… time."

Amara faced the man and said, cooly, "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. Where is Commander Pirellus?"

The man's face darkened with drunken anger, and he straightened, picking up a knife in his fist. "What? You saying I'm not good enough for you? You some kind of snob whore that only goes for rich boy Citizens?"

Amara reached for Cirrus and borrowed of her fury's swiftness. Her arm blurred, drawing the short guardsman's blade from its scabbard at her hip. The sword leapt across the space between them before the startled soldier could react, and Amara leaned forward enough to let it dimple his throat. The room abruptly went dead silent, but for the crackle of the fire. "I am a Cursor of the First Lord himself. I'm here on business. And I have no tolerance for drunken fools. Drop the knife."

The soldier made a strangled sound, holding up one hand to her, palm out. The other, he lowered to the table and set the knife down. Amara could feel the ugly stares of the men around him focusing on her like the tips of a dozen spears about to be driven home. Her throat grew tight with fear, but she allowed none of it to be seen on her face, leaving her expression cool, calm, and merciless as an icy sea.

"Thank you," Amara said. "Now. Where is Pirellus?"

Amara heard a door open behind her, and a calm, almost languid voice

said, in a lazy Parcian drawl, "He's having his bath. But he's always at the disposal of a lady."

Amara drew the sword from the throat of the soldier before her and with a glance of disdain, turned her back on him to face the speaker.

He was a man, taller than most, his skin the dark golden brown of her own. His night-black hair, worn long against Legion regulations, spilled down in a damp tangle around his shoulders. He was lean with hard, flat muscle, and bore a slender, curved sword of metal blacker than mourning velvet in his hand. He faced Amara with an expression of bland, confident amusement on his face.

He was also dripping wet and as naked as a babe.

Amara felt her cheeks start to heat and firmly kept herself from giving away her embarrassment. 'You are Pirellus, Knight Commander of Garrison?"

"A Parcian girl," Pirellus said, a wide, white smile coming over his mouth. "It has been a very long time since I have sat down and entertained a Parcian girl." He inclined his head, though his sword did not change its casually ready position at his side. "I am Pirellus.''

Amara arched an eyebrow at him and looked him up and down. "I'd heard so much about you."

Pirellus smiled, confident.

"I thought you'd be," she coughed delicately, letting her gaze linger significantly. "Taller."

The smile vanished. With it, Amara would hope, some of that arrogance.

"Put on some clothes, Commander," Amara said. "Garrison is about to come under attack. You will arm and prepare your men and address the members of the Legions who are assembling outside even now."

"Attack?" Pirellus drawled. "By whom, may I ask?"

"The Marat. We believe they have the support of a company of Knights. Possibly more."

"I see," he said, his tone unconcerned. "Now, let me see. I've seen you somewhere before. I'm trying to remember where."

"The capital," Amara said. "I went to some of your matches two years ago and was in a class you lectured at the Academy."