Princeps' Fury
Chapter 9~10

Chapter 9
After the first six days of the storm, Tavi more or less gave up trying to keep track of time. In the brief periods when he was not too sick to think coherently, he practiced his Canim-mostly the curse words. He'd learned to manage himself well enough to keep from constantly retching, at least, but it was still a miserable way to live, and Tavi did not bother hiding his jealousy at those around him who did not seem subject to the brutal pitching of the Slive under storm.
The winter gale was violent and relentless. The Slive did not simply rock. It positively wallowed, rolling wildly as it pitched back and forth. At times, only the lines fastened across his bunk kept Tavi from being tumbled completely out of it. Between the clouds and the long winter nights, it was dark the vast majority of the time, and lights were only permitted where absolutely necessary and where they could be constantly monitored. A fire on the ship, during such a storm, while unlikely to destroy the vessel on its own, would almost certainly cripple it and leave it easy prey for wind and wave.
Meanwhile, out on the deck, in the howling wind and driving rain and sleet, the sailors of the Slive shouted and labored continuously, constantly lashed by the bellowing voices of Demos and the ship's officers. Tavi would have joined them if he could, but Demos had flatly refused, on the grounds that serpents and worms had better sea legs, and that he wasn't going to explain to Gaius Sextus how the heir to the Realm had managed to trip over something while trying to tie a knot he didn't know very well and fallen to his death in the sea.
So Tavi was left to sit there in the dark, most of the time, feeling vaguely guilty that he stayed in his bunk while others labored to bring the ship through the storm, and bored out of his skull-in addition to being sicker than anyone really ought to be.
The entire business was enough to make him somewhat surly.
Kitai was there with him the whole while, her presence steady, calming, reassuring, always passing him bland food that he could keep down, or urging him to drink water or gentle broth-at least until the seventh day, at which point she said, "Aleran, even I have limits," and left the cabin with her fists clenched, muttering under her breath in Canim.
That part, at least, he spoke better than she did. But then, he'd been practicing.
An interminable time later, Tavi awoke to an odd sensation. It took him several moments to realize that the ship was riding smoothly and that he did not feel horribly ill. He unfastened the line across his chest and sat up at once, hardly daring to believe it, but it was true-the Slive rode steady in the waves, no longer tossed and shaken by the storm. The insides of his nostrils were painfully dry, and when he sat up out of his bunk, he felt the cold at once. Grey sunlight trickled drearily through cabin windows rimed with frost.
He got up and dressed in his warmest clothes, and found Kitai sleeping hard in the bunk beside his. Maximus was in the bunk across the room, the first time Tavi had seen him in days, in a similar state of exhaustion. Tavi added his blanket atop Kitai's. She murmured sleepily and curled a bit more closely beneath the additional warmth. Tavi kissed her hair, and went out onto the deck of the ship.
The seas were strange.
The waters, for one, were odd. Even at their smoothest, they had always rolled gently. These seas were as flat as a sheet of glass, hardly rippled by a mild, cold breeze from the north.
Ice was everywhere.
It coated the ship in a thin layer, glistening over the spars and masts. The deck, too, was covered in a thicker film of ice, though it had been pitted and scarred by some means, making it less treacherous than it might have been. Nonetheless, Tavi walked cautiously. Lines had been strung up in several places on the ship, obviously there to provide the crew with handholds where they could not reach a railing or other portion of the ship's superstructure to support themselves.
He went to the railing and looked out over the sea.
The fleet was spread out around them, raggedly, out into the distance. The nearest ship was too far away to make out any details, but even so, Tavi could see that its profile was wrong. It took him a moment of staring to realize that its mainmast was simply missing, snapped off in the storm. At least two more ships were close enough for him to identify similar damage, including one of the oversized Canim warships. Tavi could see no one moving on any of the ships, including his own, and it gave him the odd, uncomfortable sensation that he was the only person alive.
A gull let out a lonely-sounding cry. Ice crackled, and an icicle fell from a line to shatter on the deck.
"It's always like this after a long blow," came Demos's quiet voice from behind him.
Tavi turned to find the ship's captain emerging from belowdecks, moving calmly over the icy planks to stand beside Tavi. He looked the same as he always did-neat, calm, and dressed in black. His eyes were undershadowed with weariness, and he had several days' growth of beard. But otherwise he showed no signs of his days-long battle with the elements.
"The men have been working as hard as a man can, without proper food or sleep for days, sometimes," Demos continued. "Once the danger is passed, they just drop down and sleep. I practically had to beat them to get them to go to their racks first, this time. Some of them would have slept right on the ice."
"Why aren't you sleeping, too?" Tavi asked.
"I'm not as tired. I spent the time watching them work," Demos drawled. Tavi didn't believe him for a moment. "Someone has to keep his eyes open. I'll sleep when the bosun wakes up."
"Is everyone all right?"
"I lost three," Demos said, his voice never wavering. Tavi didn't mistake it for a lack of feeling. The man was simply too tired to become energetic about anything at all, be it joy or agony. "Sea took them."
"I'm sorry," Tavi said.
Demos nodded. "She's a cruel mistress. But we keep coming back to her. They knew what could happen."
"The ship?"
"My ship is fine," Demos said. Tavi didn't miss the very quiet note of pride in his voice. "Rest of them, I don't know."
"Those two look damaged," Tavi said, nodding out to the sea.
"Aye. Storms can take masts like a waterbuck cropping reeds." Demos shook his head. "The larger ships had it bad in this one. The fleet's witchmen were able to keep us from getting completely separated. Seas are calm enough, we might be able to send some flyers around, gather everyone in-once folks start waking up. Give it a couple of hours."
Tavi ground his teeth. "There must be something I can do. If you like, get some rest, and I'll keep an eye on-"
Demos shook his head. "Not on your life, my lord. Maybe you're a mad genius at war, but you sail like cows fly. You aren't commanding my ship. Not even in this pond."
Tavi grimaced at Demos but knew better than to argue with the man. Demos had certain views about the order of the universe-simply put, that upon the deck of his ship he should be the foremost policy-making entity. Given that the Slive had survived the storm in fine condition when many of the other ships seemed to have been horribly mauled, Tavi supposed Demos's opinion was not entirely without foundation.
"I've been lying around like a lazy dog for days," Tavi said.
"Like a sick dog," Demos said. He gave Tavi a direct look. "You don't look good, my lord. The Marat woman was worried about you. Worked herself harder than any of us, trying not to."
"She just got sick of my bellyaching," Tavi said.
Demos smiled faintly. "I'll wager your work will begin shortly, my lord. Then none of us will want to be you."
"That's shortly. I want to do something now," Tavi said. He squinted around the ship. "The men are going to wake up hungry."
"Like baby leviathans, aye."
Tavi nodded. "Then I'll be in the galley."
Demos arched an eyebrow. "Set fire to my ship, and I'll see you roasted alive before she sinks. My lord."
Tavi started for the galley and snorted. "I grew up in a steadholt, Captain. I've worked in a kitchen before."
Demos folded his arms on the ship's railing. "If you don't mind me saying, Octavian-you really don't have any idea at all how to be a Princeps, do you?"
Men began stirring sooner than Tavi would have thought. Partly, that was due to the day's growing swiftly colder, making sleep in still-damp shipboard clothing difficult. Partly, it was due to the minor injuries and strains associated with hard, dangerous labor. But it was due in large measure to their raw hunger, driving them from rest to fill their growling bellies.
The ship's galley included a frost cabinet large enough to require a pair of coldstones, and he was surprised to see how much meat it stored. By the time the men began to rouse themselves, he'd managed to prepare a large amount of mash and sliced and fried four entire hams, in addition to the stacks of ship's biscuit and gallons of hot, bitter tea. The mash wasn't much clumpier than the ship's cook normally made it, and the ham, while perhaps not of gourmet quality, was certainly in no danger of being undercooked. As Demos predicted, the crew dug in with abandon, while Tavi, just as the cook normally did, slapped food onto waiting plates as the men lined up.
He spent the time talking with each of the sailors, asking them about the storm, and thanking them for a job well done. The sailors, all of whom had become familiar with Tavi on their journey the previous year, spoke with him in familiar, friendly terms that never quite edged all the way into open disrespect.
The last people in line for food were Maximus, Kitai, and Magnus. The latter had a decidedly disapproving glare on his face.
"Not a word," Tavi said quietly as Magnus approached. "Not a crowbegotten word, Magnus. I had to lay there like a bloody infant for more than a week. I'm in no mood to be scolded."
"Your Highness," Magnus said, rather stiffly and just as quietly. "I would not dream of doing so in public. For fear that it would lessen the respect due your office."
Max stepped in front of Magnus without hesitation, seized a plate, and plunked it down on the counter next to Tavi. "Hey, cooky," he said, yawning. "Give me a piece of ham that isn't burned black. If you made such a thing."
"The rats knocked these three onto the floor before they were finished cooking," Tavi replied, loading Max's plate. "But then the crowbegotten little things refused to eat them for some reason."
"Rats are wise and clever," Kitai said, putting her own plate down as Max collected his. "Which makes the meat suitable for you, Maximus." She collected the plate and smiled at Tavi. "Thank you, Aleran."
Tavi winked at her and returned her smile, then turned to Magnus.
The old Cursor lifted his eyes skyward, sighed, and picked up a plate. "Extra mash, please, Your Highness."
"All right," Max sighed, shutting the cabin door behind him. The big Antillan held up a small sheaf of paper and tossed it onto the small writing table in front of Magnus. "The Knights Aeris found another two dozen that had wandered astray, and they've changed course to rendezvous with us. Crassus says he thinks we've found every ship that came through the storm."
Tavi exhaled slowly. "How many did we lose?"
"Eleven," Magnus said quietly. "Eight of the Free Aleran, three belonging to the Legion."
Eleven ships. With crews and passengers, more than two thousand souls, in all, lost to the fury of the storm.
"The Canim?" Tavi asked quietly.
"At current count, eighty-four," Magnus said quietly. "Most of them transports carrying noncombatants."
No one said anything for a moment. Outside, the mourning songs of the Canim, wild and lonely howls, drifted over the icy, placid sea from the dark ships.
"What condition are we in?" Tavi asked.
"The Legion transport ships have sustained considerable damage," Max replied. "Shattered masts, splintered hulls, you name it."
"Most of those tubs are still in danger of going under," Demos said. "We'll be lucky to make half our normal sailing speed. If the next storm catches us in the open sea, our losses will be a great deal worse."
"According to Varg's letter," Tavi said, gesturing with another piece of paper, "the Canim ships aren't much better off than we are. Also according to Varg, the storm has taken us several hundred miles out of our way, north along the Canean coast-hence the calm seas, the cold, and all the ice that we've seen in the water. He says that there is a port we might be able to reach nearby. He did not, however, specify our exact location."
"Give the overcast a few days to clear, and we can read the stars," Demos said quietly.
"I don't think fortune-telling is the answer here," Max said. "No offense, Captain."
Demos gave Max a level look, then glanced at Tavi.
"He isn't talking about fortune-telling, Tribune," Tavi said. "Sailors over deep water can guide their course by taking a measurement of the positions of the stars."
"Oh," Maximus said, chagrined. "Well. One of our Knights Aeris could take someone up above the cloud cover. It lifts a couple of thousand feet up."
"There isn't a windcrafter alive that could hold steady enough for an accurate measurement, Tribune," Demos said, without rancor. "Besides, we use points of reference on the ship to accomplish it. So unless they can take the Slive with them..."
"Oh," Max said. "Probably not."
"In any case, we can't afford to wait, my lord," Demos said. "This time of year, another storm is only a matter of time. We might have a few days. We might have hours."
Magnus cleared his throat. "If I may, Your Highness. While we are not sure of our precise position, our general location is much more easily determined." He offered a folded piece of paper to Tavi.
Tavi took it and unfolded it to reveal a map of what was labeled as the coastline of Canea. A cursory scan of the drawing showed him what Magnus was driving at. "We know we were bound for Narash, Varg's home," Tavi said. He traced his finger north along the coast. "And the only Canim realm along the coast to the north of Narash is this one. Shuar."
"Pronounced with a single syllable," Magnus corrected him absently. "It's another of those words one has to growl from between clenched teeth to speak properly."
"Does it really make a difference?" Max asked.
"Since it seems we will be making landfall there," Kitai said tartly, "perhaps we should make it a point to pronounce the name of our hosts' home properly, as opposed to offering them an insult every time we speak it."
Max's spine stiffened, and the muscles along his jawline tightened.
"Chala," Tavi said quietly.
Kitai's nostrils flared as she gazed steadily at Max. But she glanced aside at Tavi, nodded to the Antillan in a vaguely conciliatory gesture, and settled farther back into the shadows beneath the lower bunk.
Another worry. The storm and the length of the trip, plus the condition of the ships, the distance from home, and the pure uncertainty of the situation would be putting tremendous pressure upon his people-and if it was showing that overtly between Kitai and Maximus, who had been friends for years and who lived in the comparatively roomy conditions of the Slive, it would be a far-more-intense problem on the more crowded ships of the fleet. He wasn't sure it would be a problem he could do anything about, either. It was only natural, after all, for men to worry when they were far from home, in strange circumstances, and uncertain if they would return.
After all-some of them wouldn't.
Eleven ships.
"The point is," Tavi said, "that if we're to land within a clear-weather window of hours or days, with a fleet that can barely make half its usual pace, then we'll be landing somewhere in Shuar." He made the effort to speak the word properly. "Do we know anything about this... realm? Is it a realm, Magnus?"
"The word the Canim use for their states translates more accurately to 'range,' " Magnus replied. "The range of Shuar. The range of Narash."
"Realm, range," Tavi said. "What do we know about it?"
"That it occupies an enormous and highly defensible mountain highland," Magnus said. "It is one of the three largest ranges in terms of pure area, along with Narash and Maraul-and it has only a single port city, which is called Molvar."
"Then it would appear that we're bound for Molvar," Tavi said. He smiled. "I wonder if we're going to have to take the city to be able to land."
"Ugh," Max said. "Do you think it will come to that?"
"I don't think it's impossible," Tavi said. "If the ranges really are hostile to one another, Varg might have to take the port to be able to land there. Even if they aren't openly hostile, I can't imagine that they'll be overjoyed to see a force of this size come over the horizon."
"If that's the case, maybe we should land elsewhere. It isn't as though we need a shipyard to make repairs," Max said. "Once the ship is together, we should be able to craft hulls back together again-we just need some time and quiet for our crafters to work in. Right, Demos?"
Demos frowned pensively for a moment and nodded. "Yes, for the most part. Masts are more difficult, but they can be remounted even without a yard."
Magnus frowned. "Marcus sent me a very interesting report. He was approached by a group of Hunters, who evidently delivered a covert message on behalf of Varg."
Tavi pursed his lips. "Go on."
"The Hunters indicated to Marcus that while you had Varg's respect, he might not be able to protect you from other Canim once we reached Canea. He suggested that you might consider turning back rather than continuing the rest of the way."
"A warning," Kitai murmured. "But one he could not deliver personally."
"Possibly," Tavi said.
"Then let's take him up on it," Max said. "No offense, Tavi, but there's a big difference in fighting an expedition of Canim on our home ground and taking them all on in their house. Especially if there are as many of them as it looks like there are."
Tavi scratched absently at his chin. "Exactly. Exactly." He shook his head. "I don't think it's a warning."
Kitai tilted her head. "What else would it be?"
"A test," Tavi said. "To see if I was serious about dealing with them in good faith."
"What?" Magnus spluttered. "You have amply demonstrated that already. We built them a fleet of ships, for goodness' sake."
"If you'll remember, they were well on the way to building the fleet all on their own," Tavi said. "And while the Legions most likely would have destroyed them before they could have completed the task, you and I would have not have been alive to see it, Magnus. Nasaug had the First Aleran and the Guard at his mercy, and we all know it."
"Regardless, you settled with them peaceably and abided by your word," Magnus said.
"Which means nothing," Kitai said. "It was simply the swiftest, most certain, and least costly way to be rid of the enemy."
"If I turn back now," Tavi said, "then the trust that the Canim extended to us goes unanswered. It sends them the message that while we may be good to our word, we are uninterested in building faith."
"Or," Max said, "you could avoid being eaten. And all of us being eaten with you."
Tavi took a deep breath. "Yes. There is that." He pointed a finger at Max. "But as you pointed out, Max, there would appear to be a lot more Canim than we ever imagined. Perhaps more than we could fight, should they ever decide that we need to be destroyed. What do the rest of you think?"
"What else do we not know about them?" Kitai asked.
"We don't know what the insides of their bellies look like," Max said. "We could go home, and we'd never know, and I think I'd never lose a moment's sleep over it."
Tavi grinned at him. "Magnus?"
"I think this would be an excellent opportunity for someone else to pursue, Your Highness," Magnus said. "If you proceed, I urge you to do so with extreme caution."
"Demos?"
The captain shook his head. "Don't ask me about politics, my lord. I can tell you this much-our ships won't make it back across the open sea, and even if we found all the materials needed to repair them, it would be dangerous to cross before spring. I also think we don't have time to sit around chatting about it. The weather won't wait."
Tavi nodded once. "Get word to our captains. We make for Molvar with Varg. Any port in a storm."
Chapter 10
Gradash stood beside Tavi at the Slive's prow and watched with him. The lookout in the crow's nest had spotted land several moments before, so they waited for it to come into sight from their position on the deck. Tavi finally spotted the dark, solid shadow on the horizon.
Gradash squinted forward, but it was another minute or more before the greying old Cane grunted and flicked his ears in satisfaction. "Ah."
"Glad to be home?" Tavi asked him. "Or at least, back in the general area."
Gradash grunted. "We are not there yet. You will see."
Tavi arched a brow at the old Cane, but Gradash did not elaborate. It was almost an hour later before Tavi understood. The Slive drew even with the "land" the lookout had spotted-and it proved to be an unthinkably large slab of what looked like muddy ice. The fleet had to change formation to maneuver around it. The thing was the size of a mountain, fully as big as the city of Alera Imperia.
"Glacier spawn," Gradash said, nodding toward the ice mountain. "Come winter, more ice starts forming, and there are a couple of spots that push those mountains of ice into the sea."
"That must be a sight," Tavi murmured.
The Cane gave him a brief, speculative glance. "Oh, aye. Not one to be seen from up close, though." He waved a paw at the ice. "They're dangerous. Sometimes they spread out, beneath the surface. Sail too close, and it will rip out the belly of your ship like it was made from lambskin."
"Are they common, then?"
"In these waters," Gradash said, flicking an ear in agreement. "Leviathans don't care for them, so any Cane who has sailed in the northern regions for any time at all has spent some time sailing close to one to get away from a rogue or to cross a beast's range."
"I've always wondered," Tavi said, "how your folk deal with the leviathans. I mean, crossing the first time, I'm given to understand that the storm that pushed you moved you very quickly, kept them from gathering on you, and that there were so many of you that you only lost a few ships. But you could hardly provide all those conditions on a regular basis in your home waters."
Gradash's battle-scarred, stumped tail swished once in mild amusement. "No great secret to it, Aleran. We chart their ranges throughout the waters near our homes. And then we respect them."
Tavi lifted his eyebrows. "And that's all?"
"Range is important," Gradash said seriously. "The territory one claims and defends is important. We understand that. The leviathans understand it. So we respect their claim."
"It must make for some complex sailing routes."
Gradash shrugged. "Respect is elder to convenience."
"And besides," Tavi said drily, "if you didn't respect them, they'd eat you."
"Survival is also elder to convenience," Gradash agreed.
The lookout shouted from high above again, a second cry of, "Land!"
The Cane grunted, and the pair of them returned to gazing ahead.
"There," Gradash growled. "That is Canea."
It was a bleak, black land-or so it seemed from Tavi's viewpoint aboard the ship. The shoreline was an unbroken wall of dark stone that rose from the sea like the ramparts of some vast fortress. Above the bluffs of dark granite rose the shadowy forms of cloud-veiled mountains, covered to the hips in snow, and higher than any Tavi had ever seen. He let out a low whistle.
"Shuar," growled Gradash. "Their whole bloody crowbegotten range is one frozen rock." The grizzled Cane had learned his Aleran curses from Maximus, and used them fluently. "Makes them all bloody insane, you know. They spend both days of summer getting ready for winter, and then all bloody winter chasing things around frozen mountains so that their hunters can fall to pointless deaths in some crevasse. When they get the meat home, their females prepare it in spices that would set these ships on fire, and tell the surly bastards it's for their own good."
Tavi found himself grinning, though he kept himself from inadvertently showing his teeth. The gesture carried different connotations with the Canim than it did with Alerans. "You don't care for them, then?"
Gradash scratched under his chin with the dark claws of one paw-hand. "Well. I will say this much for the snow-addled, crow-eating slives in Shuar-at least they aren't the Maraul."
"You don't care for the Maraul, then?" Tavi asked.
"Mud-loving, swamp-crawling, tree-hopping fungus-eaters," Gradash said. "Not one of them has been born that doesn't deserve to go screaming to his death in the jaws of a mad leviathan. But I will say this for the Maraul-at least they are not Alerans."
Tavi barked out a sharp laugh, and this time he did show Gradash his teeth. The Cane had, he thought, just made an obscure joke. Or perhaps he had paid the Alerans a backhanded compliment, by comparing them to enemies whom Gradash obviously respected, to spend such time and attention on his insults.
Likely, he had been doing both at the same time. Among the Canim, a respected enemy was as valued as a friend-perhaps more so. To the Canim way of thinking, while a friend might one day disappoint you, an enemy could be relied upon to behave as an enemy without fail. To be insulted in company with already-respected foes was no insult at all, from the Canim perspective.
Tavi scanned the tops of the bluffs as the fleet turned to follow them southward, perhaps half of a mile off the coast. "We're being watched," he noted.
"Always," Gradash agreed. "The borders between ranges are always watched, as are coastlines and rivers."
Tavi frowned, peering at the cliff tops, and wished yet again that his limited mastery of furycraft had included the ability to craft wind furies into a farseeing. "Those are... riders. I didn't realize your people employed cavalry."
"Taurga," Gradash supplied. "They are unsuited to sea voyages and have not come to Alera."
A shadow stirred on the deck, and Tavi glanced up to see Kitai lounging in the rigging on the nearest spar, apparently balanced like a cat and asleep. But a flash of green through her silver-white eyelashes told him that she was awake, and the faintest curve of her mouth betrayed her satisfaction. Already, they had learned something else of interest by continuing on.
Tavi mouthed the words, "I know. You told us so," toward her.
Her mouth opened in a silent laugh, and her eyes closed again, perhaps into genuine sleep.
"How far is it to the port from here, elder brother?"
"At our pace? Two hours, perhaps."
"How long will it take Varg to get an answer from the Shuarans, do you think?"
"As long as it takes," Gradash said. He glanced back down at his tail. "It would be better if it was soon, though. We have less than a day before the next storm is upon us."
"If they have dry ground to land upon, some of my people can probably do something about the storm," Tavi said.
Gradash gave Tavi an oblique look. "Truly? Why did they not do so during the previous storm?"
"A windcrafter needs to be up there within the storm to affect it. The wind they use to fly would kick up a lot of spray from the ocean whenever they were near the ship," Tavi replied. "Seawater carries a great deal of salt, which damages and inhibits their wind furies. In rough weather, it makes takeoffs dangerous and landings all but suicidal."
Gradash let out a coughing grunt. "That is why your fliers will bear messages in calm seas, then, but you use boats when there is any swell."
Tavi nodded. "They can land safely on the deck, or if there is a chance bit of spray, they can fall into the sea and be taken up by the crews of the ships with minimal risk. I won't take chances with them, otherwise."
"Your people can stop the storm?"
Tavi shrugged. "Until they've seen it and can judge its size and strength, I have no way of knowing. They should, at the least, be able to slow and weaken it."
Gradash's ears flipped back and forward in acknowledgment. "Then I would suggest that they begin their work. It may be of use to your people as well as mine."
Tavi mused over that statement for a moment, and came to the conclusion that Gradash was speaking of negotiations. The Shuar would hold a much stronger bargaining position for making demands of the Narashan Canim and the Alerans if the storm was breathing down their necks.
"That might not be a bad idea," Tavi agreed.
"This is a terrible idea," Antillar Maximus growled. "I'd even go so far as to call it insane-even by your standards, Calderon."
Tavi finished lacing up his armor, squinting a little in the dimness. The sun had not yet set, but for the first time in several weeks, the mass of the land to the west meant an actual twilight rather than the sudden darkness of a nautical sunset, and the shadows were thick inside his cabin.
He leaned down to peer out one of the small, round windows. The enormous, dark granite walls of the fjord rose above the ships on either side, and what looked a great deal like the old Romanic stone-throwing engines he and Magnus had experimented with back in the ruins of Appia lined the top cliffs on either side at regular intervals. The approach to the port of Molvar was a deadly gauntlet should their hosts decide to take umbrage with any visitors.
Only the Slive and the Trueblood had been permitted to enter the fjord itself. The rest of the fleet still waited in the open sea beyond the fjord-vulnerable to the weather threatened by the darkening skies.
"The Shuarans haven't left us with many options, Max. They won't even discuss landing rights until they've spoken to the leaders of both contingents of the fleet, alone. We've got too many ships out there that aren't going to make it if we don't find a safe harbor."
Max muttered the cabin's sole furylamp to life and folded his arms, frowning. "You're walking into a city full of Canim by yourself. Just because it's necessary doesn't make it any less insane. Tavi..."
Tavi buckled his belt and began fastening the heavy steel bracers to his forearms. He gave his friend a lopsided smile. "Max. I'll be all right."
"You don't know that."
"The Canim are good about one thing-they don't make any bones about it when they want to kill you. They're quite direct. If they wanted me dead, they'd have started dropping rocks on the ship by now."
Max grimaced. "You shouldn't have sent the Knights Aeris out. We'll wish we had them if those stone throwers start up on us."
"Speaking of which," Tavi said. "Has your brother reported back yet?"
"No. And the wind is rising. We're going to lose men to the sea when they come back if they don't have solid ground to land on."
"All the more reason for me to go now," Tavi said quietly. "At least we know that they're slowing the storm. Crassus wouldn't keep them up there if they weren't doing any good."
"No," Max admitted. "He wouldn't."
"How long can they stay aloft?"
"Been there since noon," Max said. "Another three or four hours at most."
"Then I'd better hurry."
"Tavi," Max said, slowly. "What happens if they come back and we haven't worked something out with the Shuarans?"
Tavi took a deep breath. "Tell them to land onshore within sight of the fleet. Take some earthcrafters, create a way to the top, and get them back aboard."
"You want them to land on a hostile shore, while we craft a dock and an assault stairway in what is obviously intended to be an impregnable defense." Max shook his head. "The Shuaran Canim might call that an act of war."
"We'll be as polite about it as we can, but if they do, they do. I'm not letting our people drown over protocol." He finished buckling on both bracers and rose to slip the baldric to his gladius over one shoulder. Then, after a moment's consideration, he picked up the strap to Kitai's gladius and hung its baldric the opposite way, so that the additional weapon lay against his other hip.
Max looked pointedly at the second weapon and arched an eyebrow.
"One for the Shuarans," Tavi said. "And one for Varg."
Tavi and Max were the only ones to climb into the longboat.
"Are you sure about this, Aleran?" asked Kitai, her eyes worried.
Tavi looked across the short distance to the Trueblood, where a larger longboat was being lowered to the water. He could recognize Varg's enormous figure in the prow. "As sure as I can be," he said. "Making a good first impression might do more to head off trouble than anything else we could do." He met Kitai's gaze. "Besides, chala, the ships are going to be back at sea. If it comes to a fight, having more men with the longboat wouldn't change anything."
"It's simpler if I'm working alone, Kitai," Max assured her. "That way if there's trouble, I don't have to play gentle. If the Shuarans start treating us the way Sarl did, I can just level everything that isn't His Royal Highness."
"His Royal Highness appreciates that," Tavi said. "Where's Magnus?"
"Still furious that you would not allow Maximus to take your place," Kitai said.
Tavi shook his head. "Even if he crafted himself into my twin, Varg would have known the second he got close enough to smell him."
"I know. Magnus knows. He is angry because it is true." Kitai leaned over the side of the longboat and kissed Tavi hard on the mouth, her fingers tight in his hair for a moment. Then she broke it off abruptly, met his eyes, and said, "Survive."
He winked at her. "I'll be fine."
"Of course he will," Maximus said. "If there's a lick of trouble, Tavi will set something on fire-it's easy to set something on fire, believe me-and I'll see the smoke, knock down all the buildings between him and the dock, come get him, and we'll leave. Nothing simpler."
Kitai gave Maximus a steady look. Then she shook her head, and said, "And the truly incredible part is... you actually believe it."
"Ambassador," Max said, "in the course of my life, I have more than once been too ignorant to know that something was impossible before I did it anyway. I see no reason to jeopardize that success."
"It certainly explains your study habits at the Academy," Tavi noted. "We're ready, Captain."
Demos, who had been directing the affairs of the ship from nearby, called out an order to the crew, and the sailors of the Slive lowered the boat to the chill waters of the fjord.
Tavi flung his scarlet cloak about his shoulders and hooked it to the clasps on his armor, while Max sat down at the rear of the boat. The big Antillan thrust one hand into the water for a moment, murmured something, and a second later the longboat surged silently forward, propelled by a burbling current that pressed against its stern.
Tavi rose to stand in the prow, and the wind threw his cloak back as the longboat glided silently for the shore.
"First impressions, eh?" Max muttered.
"Right," Tavi said. "When they get close enough to get a look at you, try to look like someone who isn't impressed."
"Got it," said Max.
The longboat altered course to run parallel to the boat coming from Varg's vessel. Varg's boat was crewed by seven warrior-caste Canim, six of them pulling oars while a seventh held the longboat's tiller. Varg, like Tavi, stood in the prow of his boat. He wore no cloak, but the fading light of day managed, somehow, to glitter upon the bloodred gem hanging from a gold ring in one ear, here and there upon his black-and-crimson armor, and upon the hilt of the curved sword hanging at his side.
"Carrying a lot of bloodstone on him," Max noted.
"I get the impression that Varg hasn't made a lot of friends among the ritualists," Tavi said. "If I were he, I'd carry a lot of bloodstone, too."
"Beats being annihilated by red lightning or melted into sludge by a cloud of acid, all right. You brought your stone, right?"
"Got it in my pocket. You?"
"Crassus loaned me his," Max confirmed. "Do you really think that showing up with only two of us will impress the Shuarans?"
"It might," Tavi said. "Mostly, I feel better knowing that I'm not leaving anyone helpless to Canim sorcery standing around on the dock behind me to be taken prisoner or wounded and used to slow me down."
Max snorted. "You didn't say anything about that aboard the ship."
"Well. No."
"Just did it to impress the girl, eh, Your Highness?"
Tavi threw a sly glance over his shoulder. "It was a pretty good kiss."
Max snorted, then they fell silent until they reached the sea-gate of Molvar.
Huge bars of black iron rose from the cold sea, supported on either side by walls made from hand-hewn granite blocks. Even without the use of furycraft, the Canim had been able, somehow, to raise the seabed into something solid enough to support massive walls, built out from the sides of the fjord. Tavi could not imagine how much sheer, brute effort, how much raw sweat and muscle power had gone into their construction, or what techniques must have been used, even with the incredible strength of the Canim laborers, to maneuver the enormous blocks of stone. They made the ruins in Appia look like children's projects by comparison.
As the two boats approached, the sea-gates groaned and began to move, slowly parting. Phosphorescence flickered up and down the metal bars, and eerie, fluttering waves of light danced over the surface of the water. Metal rattled on metal, an eerie, regular thump-thump-thump as the gates opened, swirling water in their wake.
The boats passed through, and Tavi spotted several Canim on the walls above them, in dark armor and strange, long, slippery-looking cloaks, all but hidden within their garments. Each of them bore one of the steel bolt throwers in his hands, the deadly balests that had claimed the lives of so many Knights and legionares in the wars in the Amaranth Vale, and Tavi's shoulder blades developed a distinct itch as the boat passed them. A bolt hurled by one of the deadly weapons could slam through his armor's backplates, his body, and his breastplate in an instant, and still carry enough momentum to kill a second armored man on the other side of him.
Tavi did not allow himself to turn his head or alter his straight-backed, confident stance. Posture and gesture were of enormous significance among the Canim. Someone who looked as if he expected to be attacked quite possibly would be, simply as an outgrowth of unspoken, unintended, but very real statements being made by his body.
A cold trickle of sweat slid along Tavi's spine. It was no time for bungled communications to spoil an otherwise reasonably fine day. After all-he was about to get off the bloody water for the first time in weeks.
He let out a little breath of laughter at the thought and calmed himself as his boat, along with Varg's, crossed the harbor of Molvar.
It was huge-half a mile across at the least, large enough to house the whole of his fleet and the Canim's, too. Indeed, in the failing light he counted at least thirty Canim ships of war, whose designs differed subtly from those designed and built by Varg's shipwrights. Granite bluffs framed the harbor, except for a long stretch of stone piers, as large as any Tavi had seen in Alera, where warships and other vessels, built more along the lines of merchants, were docked.
One pier was set apart from the others. Torches had been lit at its end and burned scarlet with more intensity than any normal fire. It was crowded with Canim, also in their odd, wet-looking cloaks, but Tavi caught glimpses of midnight blue steel armor beneath their cloaks and similarly tinted weaponry in their hands.
Varg's longboat headed for that pier, and without being told, Max altered his heading slightly to do the same. The two longboats pulled up on opposite sides of the pier in almost-total silence. The only sound was the rattle of wood and metal fittings as the rowers in Varg's craft shipped their oars.
From there, Tavi thought, looking up at the pier, it certainly looked like a great many more Canim were present than had been there a moment before. They also looked quite a bit taller. And their weapons looked a great deal sharper. Doubtless, he thought, it was all just a trick of the light.
"No fear," he muttered to himself. Then he took a long step up to the pier and stepped out of the longboat and onto the Shuaran stone.
Opposite him, Varg was doing the same, albeit having less difficulty with the scale of the construction. He tilted his head slightly toward Tavi, who returned the gesture at precisely the same depth and timing. They turned simultaneously to face the warriors gathered on the pier.
Silence ruled.
Tension mounted.
No one stirred.
Tavi debated saying something to break the ice. His time in the Academy, both in academic studies and in training as a Cursor, had included considerable exposure to diplomacy and protocol. Both fields of knowledge offered several potential courses of fruitful action he might pursue. He mused over it for a moment, then discarded them entirely in favor of a lesson his uncle Bernard had taught him on the steadholt: that hardly a man ever made a fool of himself by keeping his bloody mouth shut.
Tavi held his tongue and waited.
A moment later, footsteps sounded, and a runner approached. He was a young adult Cane, lean and swift, running very nearly as fast as a horse might, his odd cloak flying behind him. His fur was a strange color that Tavi had never seen in the wolf-warriors, a kind of pale golden brown fading to white at the tips of his ears and tail. He loped up to the end of the pier, bared his throat deeply to one of the warriors, and growled, "It is done as agreed," in Canish.
The warrior in question flicked his ears in acknowledgment and stepped forward. He faced Varg, stopping a few inches outside the range of what Tavi judged would be the reach of Varg's sword, should he draw it.
"Varg," growled the strange Cane. "You are not welcome here. Go."
Varg's eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared for a few seconds. "Tarsh," he snarled, pure contempt in his voice. "Did Lararl lose his wits in the snow, that you are pack leader here?"
Tarsh reached up a paw-hand to rip back the hood of his cloak, revealing another golden-furred Cane. This one's muzzle was heavily scarred, including an odd-looking ridge of scar tissue across the black skin of his nose. He was missing one ear halfway up, and Tavi noted that instead of a sword, he bore at his hip an axe with a long, vicious spike protruding from the back.
"Have a care, Varg," he spat, harshly. "A word from me will spill your blood into the sea."
"Only if someone listens," Varg replied. "I do not bargain with scavenging muzzle-lickers like you, Tarsh. You will order your men to prepare to receive my people. I will give you my pledge of peace. We will debark here and camp outside the walls of your city, so that you will feel safe. You will provide me with a priority courier, that I may send word to Lararl of our presence and our need for the presence of someone with the stature to treat with me."
Tarsh bared every fang in his head. "This is not Narash, tree-runner. You have no authority here."
"I am garada to Lararl, Tarsh," Varg rumbled. "And every warrior in your range knows it. Lararl will have the throat of anyone who denies him the pleasure of spilling my life's blood."
Tarsh snarled. "I will send a courier to Lararl, of course. But that is all. You may abide here to await an answer. Your ships will stay where they are."
"Unacceptable!"
Tarsh coughed out a growling laugh. "You will accept it, Varg. I am pack leader here."
"A storm approaches," Varg said. "Many of my vessels are damaged. Lives will be needlessly lost if they are not given the shelter of the harbor."
"What are they to Shuar, Narashan ape? My warriors have their orders. If your ships attempt to sail up the fjord, we will destroy them."
Varg's lips peeled back from his fangs. "Is this Shuaran hospitality, then? Shuaran honor?"
"If you do not care for it," Tarsh suggested, his voice openly mocking, "seek elsewhere."
Varg's eyes narrowed further. "Were I not honor-bound to take up quarrels with Lararl instead of with his pack leaders, I would have your throat."
Tarsh's leering snarl seemed to grow more self-satisfied. "Many decrepit old creatures have used such an excuse to hide their weakness."
Varg, instead of answering, glanced aside, just for an instant, at Tavi.
Tavi blinked.
Insults like those Tarsh was offering Varg were more than a mere invitation to a challenge to a fight-they were practically demanding it. Under any normal circumstance, any Cane who spoke to another that way could expect an instant and violent response. Varg, in particular, was not one to gladly suffer either insults or fools, and from what Tavi had seen, he didn't know how to back down from a fight. Which meant that for whatever reason, something to do with the Canim concept of honor, Varg couldn't act against this windbag.
But perhaps Tavi could.
It seemed that this was the moment for diplomacy.
"Varg is correct," Tavi said calmly, stepping forward. "There is no time for this foolishness. His people and mine seek safety from the winter and give you our word that our intentions are peaceful. We need to work out the best way to get them all into the harbor before the storm arrives."
Every set of eyes on the pier swiveled to Tavi and hit him like a physical weight.
"Oh bloody crows," Maximus whispered, somewhere behind him.
"This creature," Tarsh said after a moment. "It is the Aleran leader?"
"I am," Tavi said.
Tarsh growled and turned to the warriors behind him. "Kill it."
Oh, bloody crows, Tavi thought.
Uncle Bernard had been right after all.