Captain's Fury (11 page)

She was also, if Tavi judged rightly, quite insane.

He dragged his eyes from Navaris back to the Senator. "Pardon me, Senator. I was only laying out a common point to start from."

Arnos gave him a sour look and waved an impatient hand. "Get on with it."

Sir Cyril, seated at the very end of the first row, lifted his chin, and said, "Begin with Vaucusgard."

Tavi nodded. He turned to the slateboard behind him, and in a few quick strokes drew out a rough map of the region, marking the Elinarch, the Tiber, and Founderport. "Vaucusgard is a timber-cutting steadholt that's grown into a small town," he told the room. He marked its position, about thirty miles south of the Elinarch. "When we were pushing the Canim from their positions in Founderport, they fought like mad to hold Vaucusgard."

One of the captains beside Arnos, a man named Nalus, grunted. "Walls?"

"No," Tavi said. "No serious fortifications at all in fact. Not much in the way of defensible geography, either. But we brought them to battle there for two days before they finally ran."

"Why'd it take them that long to break?" Nalus asked.

"They didn't break," Tavi said. "They retreated in good order, and after two days of fighting, we weren't in any shape to argue with them about it.

"Since then, most of our clashes have been more like heavy skirmishes than a pitched battle, while the Canim consolidated their positions. During that time, several of the Crown's Cursors who had been sent to assist the First Aleran infiltrated the occupied territory and began gathering intelligence."

"What did they learn?" Arnos asked.

"First, sir, that the Canim aren't letting everyone leave peaceably as we first thought. They've been holding back members of two professions, refusing to let them leave: carpenters and shipwrights."

Arnos frowned heavily. "Then… their defense of the timber-cutting stead-holt had a definite purpose."

Tavi nodded. "They were taking materials. Wood that had been seasoning in storage, mostly."

"Seasoned wood?" Tribune Tactica Kellus was standing against a side wall, not far from Tavi. "Why seasoned wood, sir?"

"Because, Tribune," Arnos said in a tight voice, "you can't build ships out of green wood."

Tavi nodded, a little impressed despite himself. Arnos's mind worked swiftly—when he chose to use it. "Exactly, sir." He turned and marked a point on the rough map, at the very bottom of the slateboard, a distance of perhaps a hundred miles. "And we think they're building them here, at a town called Mastings. It has a long inlet from the sea, and already had the facilities in place to support the building of a dozen ships at a time. We think that its capacity has been expanded."

"You
think?"
Arnos said.

"It's conjecture, sir, but it stands up pretty well. The Canim have set up defensive positions at the mouth of the inlet, and they're turning away or appropriating any ships that try to sail to Mastings. Their patrols in the area are three times as thick as they are elsewhere, and the main body of their troops is located somewhere in the area. It's difficult to be sure, because they are refusing to let any Alerans into the city, unless they're one of the shipwrights or carpenters being pressed into service."

"Then how do you know their main body of troops is there?" Arnos demanded.

"The agents in question tracked food shipments, sir," Tavi said. "Either Mastings is playing host to an extremely large number of Canim, or its people have decided to abandon life as a seaport and take up the cattle trade."

"Ships," grunted Captain Nalus again. "What do they want with bloody ships?"

Tavi answered. "The Cane who led the initial incursion, Sarl, ordered their ships burned behind them when they landed. You could see the fires lighting up Founderport from five miles away."

Arnos scratched at his chin, studying the rough map. "Ships will give them a number of options they don't have now," he said. "They'll be able to move swiftly up and down the coastline—the dogs can sail, I'll give them that. If they build enough of them, they'll be able to move their entire force to support Kalare in the south, or to keep us running in circles up here."

"Or, sir," Tavi said. "They might… go home."

Arnos turned a look of pure disbelief upon Tavi.

"It's possible, sir. The majority of the Canim now in Alera did
not
want to be stuck here. That's why Sarl had to burn the ships. And they have their dependents to think about, too. They want what any of us would want in a similar situation." He shrugged. "They want to go home."

Arnos simply stared at Tavi, saying nothing.

Tavi ground his teeth. The good Senator was offering him plenty of rope to hang himself with, and he knew it—but he also knew that he had to at least try. So he took a deep breath, and pressed on. "Given how static the conflict has been over the past several months, we might have an opportunity here."

"Senator, we want the Canim gone. The possibility exists that they want to
be
gone. I think it's worth exploring."

"Negotiate," the Senator repeated. "With the Canim."

"They
do
have an ambassador, sir," Tavi pointed out. "Alera has parleyed with them before."

"An ambassador who infiltrated a band of Canim warriors and trained beasts into the capital itself and attempted to
murder
the First Lord, yes," Arnos agreed. "An ambassador who is currently imprisoned and awaiting execution."

"Trial," Sir Cyril said in a very mild voice. "Awaiting trial. His guilt has not been proven."

Arnos gave Cyril a scornful glance. "His troops. His people. Even if he didn't plan it, he
should
have known about it and stopped it. Either way, the fault lies with him."

"Nonetheless, it may be an option worth looking at."

"I see," Arnos said quietly. "After the Canim have invaded, killed thousands of Alerans, displaced hundreds of thousands, burned cities, and conspired with a rebel in a plot to help him ascend to the throne we should… what? Give them room and board while we build ships for them? Fill their ships with provisions and gifts? Then send them home, with our blessings?"

"Sir—" Tavi began.

"I can see the advantages," Arnos continued. "They would return home and tell their entire race that Alera was so cowardly and weak that not only could we not defend our own lands against them, we were frightened enough to pay them tribute to get them to leave us."

"That isn't what—"

"And in a year, or two years, or five, they'll come again, and in far greater numbers. They will demand another round of tribute." Arnos shook his head. "No. We stop them here. Now. We scour them from the face of Alera. Every last one of them. We show the Canim that there is a price to be paid for such things as they have done."

Several low growls of approval vibrated through the room. None of them, so far as Tavi could tell, from anyone in the First Aleran.

"We might be able to beat them," Cyril put in. "But it's going to cost us a lot of men. Men well need in the south, when we move against Kalare."

"Men are going to die, regardless of what we do," Arnos shot back.

"Granted," Cyril said. "I simply prefer that we avoid killing them unnecessarily. As a matter of professional principle."

Arnos narrowed his eyes at Sir Cyril.

"I might point out, sir," Tavi added, "that even a temporary cessation of hostilities would provide us with more time to gather intelligence and maneuver to better advantage."

"And more time for the enemy to build attack vessels and become a far more mobile threat. More time for the traitor-slaves to train and equip. More time for them to fortify their positions." Arnos turned a gimlet gaze on Tavi, and said, "There will be no negotiation, Captain."

"Sir," Tavi said, "if you would only give me a little time to contact the First Lord and—"

Arnos's face flushed red, and his voice became harsh, hard. "There will be
no
negotiation, Captain!"

"But—"

"One more word out of your mouth," Arnos spat, "and I will suspend you from duty and have you flogged. Do you understand? Captain?"

Tavi clenched his jaw shut on an utterly unwise answer and gave the Senator a single, sharp nod instead.

Arnos glared at him for a few seconds, and nodded. His voice dropped back into a calmer register, and he rose. "Thank you for your report, Captain," he said, as he went to the front of the room. "That will be all."

"Easy," Cyril cautioned him. "You've pushed enough for today. I think we might have gotten through to Nalus, at least."

Tavi glanced aside, to the Guard captain. Nalus was frowning thoughtfully at the rough map, as Senator Arnos made a little speech about defending Alera from the Canim scourge.

A shiver ran down Tavi's spine, and he looked past Nalus to find Navaris staring at him with blank eyes. The cutter held his gaze for a moment, then gave him an unsettling smile.

Tavi looked away and suppressed a shudder of discomfort.

"Gentlemen," Arnos was saying, "we have been on the defensive for too long. We've stood upon walls and bridges for too long. It is high time that we went forth to meet this threat, and show them what it means to cross the Legions."

That won a lot of murmurs of approval from the room—again, from everyone except the officers of the First Aleran.

"And so as of right now," Arnos continued, "our offensive has begun." He turned and drew a bold stroke on the slateboard, from the Elinarch straight down to Mastings. "We bring their main body to battle and wipe them out before they can get these ships built. We march at dawn, two days hence. Prepare your men. Dismissed."

The room broke out into noise as the men stood, already talking, and began shuffling toward the exit. Within a moment or two, Tavi and Cyril sat alone.

Cyril stared at the map on the slateboard for a moment, and then rolled his eyes. "Of course. March directly toward the objective in a straight line." He sighed. "How many strong points does Nasaug have to work with along that route?"

"Three, maybe four," Tavi said. "Plus a lot of opportunity to hit our supply lines as we march. And then the city itself."

Tavi shook his head, calculating. Thanks to Ehren's hard work, he'd had detailed maps to work with in his own planning, and he was familiar with the territory they'd be fighting their way through. "Call it ten weeks, unless we get lucky." Tavi squinted at the map. "And I'm not feeling all that lucky."

"A lot can happen in ten weeks," Cyril replied.

"I should talk to him again," Tavi said. "Privately. He might be more receptive to the notion of negotiating if he isn't surrounded by people."

"He's always surrounded by people," Cyril said. "And it won't do any good, Captain."

"But it's so
stupid
. Nasaug is willing to talk."

"You don't know that," Cyril said. "He's never sent any kind of word suggesting it."

"It isn't their way," Tavi replied. "To a Cane, talk is cheap. Actions are what speak loudest. And Nasaug's actions are clearly stating his intentions. He's willing to work with Alerans, rather than simply slaughter them—and he wants to leave."

"Perhaps," Cyril said. "Perhaps you're right. If I was in charge, I'd give what you're saying some serious thought. You've earned that." He shook his head. "But I'm not, and neither are you. If you bring it up again, he'll have an excuse to replace you. Don't give it to him."

Tavi exhaled through his clenched teeth. "There's got to be a way."

"Then find it," Cyril said, pushing himself up out of his chair. "But do it in your spare time. Keep your focus on the here and now. They might not know it, but a lot of people are depending on you for their lives."

"Yes, sir," Tavi said.

They exchanged a mutual salute, and Cyril limped out, leaning on his cane. A moment later, Maximus leaned his head in the door. "Hey there, Captain. What's the word?"

"We're marching," Tavi replied, rising to walk to the door. "Send Tribune Cymnea to my office, please, so we can start on logistics. Put the men on notice." He looked up and down the hallway, frowning. "Hngh. I would have expected Marcus to be here. Have you seen him?"

Tavi went to the slateboard and swiped a damp cloth over it until the markings had been erased. It was sloppy of Arnos to leave his marching orders— such as they were—displayed for any idiot to wander by and see. "All right, Tribune." He sighed. "Let's get to work."

Chapter 7

Marcus looked around the shabby tent-tavern, one of many that had sprung up in the refugee camp. He hadn't been to this particular establishment before, but he'd seen many like it in his day. Admittedly, few of them had been quite this squalid. The canvas of the tent was sloppily patched with tar rather than being properly repaired. The floors, which could at least have been swept smooth and laid with rushes, were simply mud. The legs of the trestle tables had sunk six inches into it, and their surfaces would have been too low if the benches in front of them hadn't sunk down as well.