Cursor's Fury (17 page)
“Mother,” the young Knight said quietly, “he looks like death. Shouldn’t we . . . do something? Take care of him?”
“Of course, we—”
“No,” Captain Cyril said, overriding her with his own voice.
Lady Antillus stared at Cyril in shock. “Excuse me?”
The captain bowed slightly toward her. “Beg pardon, lady. I ought to have said, ‘not yet.’ The centurion has endured a great shock, but his injuries have been ably closed. I judge that he needs rest, first. Any further crafting could tax whatever strength remains in him and do more harm than good.”
“Right,” the young Knight said, nodding. “He’s got a point, Mother—”
p. 83
“Crassus,” Lady Antillus snapped, her voice cool and edged.
The young Knight dropped his eyes and shut his mouth at once.
Lady Antillus turned back to Cyril. “In good conscience I must ask: Are you actually arrogant enough to think you know better than a trained watercrafter? Are you a Tribune Medica, Captain?”
“I am the Tribune Medica’s commanding officer,
Tribune
,” Cyril said in a perfectly calm voice. “I am the man who can tell the Tribune Medica either to follow her orders or depart the service of this Legion.”
Lady Antillus’s eyes widened. “Do you dare speak to me so, Captain?”
“Leave this tent. That is my order, Tribune.”
“Or what follows?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“Or I will discharge you in dishonor and have you escorted from this camp.”
Lady Antillus’s eyes flashed with anger, and the air of the tent suddenly became stiflingly warm. “Beware, Cyril. This is foolishness.”
The captain’s mild tone never changed. “This is foolishness,
what,
Tribune?”
Heat rolled off the High Lady as if from a large kitchen oven, and she spat, “Sir.”
“Thank you, Tribune. We’ll discuss this again when Maximus has had the chance to rest.” Then his own eyes and expression hardened for the first time, and the captain’s face looked harder than the steel of armor or sword. His voice dropped to barely a murmur. “Dismissed.”
Lady Antillus spun on her heel and stalked from the tent. The heat of her anger lingered, and Tavi felt his face beading with sweat.
“And you, Sir Crassus,” Cyril said, his voice assuming its more usual, brisk tones. “We’ll take care of him.”
Crassus nodded once without lifting his eyes, then hurried out.
Silence fell over the tent. Cyril let out a long breath. Tavi mopped at the sweat now running into his eyes. The only sound was that of droplets of water falling from the crafting tub as Max breathed, the slight motion overflowing the tub’s edge, here and there.
“Someone’s never getting promoted ever again,” observed Foss from his place on the floor.
Cyril showed the exhausted healer a fleeting smile before shrugging his shoulders and straightening his spine, reassuming his usual air of detached command. “There’s not much trouble she can cause for me by accusing me of issuing orders to a lawful subordinate.”
p. 84
“Not official trouble,” Tavi said quietly.
“What are you saying, Subtribune?”
Tavi glanced at his friend, silent in the tub. “Accidents happen.”
Cyril met Tavi’s eyes and said, “Aye. They do.”
Tavi tilted his head. “You knew. That’s why you welcomed Max to the staff meeting. To warn him that she was here.”
“I simply wanted to make an old friend welcome,” Cyril said.
“You don’t think that recruit hurt Max. You knew that she was outside. That was for her benefit, to make her think that you didn’t realize what was happening.”
The captain’s frown deepened. “Excuse me?”
“Captain,” Tavi began. “Do you think that Lady—”
“No,” Cyril said, sharply, raising warning a hand. “I don’t think that. And neither do you, Scipio.”
Tavi grimaced. “But it’s why you didn’t want her close to Max.”
“I simply gave her an order and made sure she followed it,” Cyril said. “But be careful with your words, Scipio. Should you say the wrong thing and be overheard, you’ll find yourself in
juris macto
with the High Lady. She’d burn you to cinders. So unless you get something solid, so solid that it will stand up in a court of law, you keep your mouth shut and your opinions to yourself. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Tavi replied.
Cyril grunted. “Foss.”
“I never hear or remember or repeat anything, sir.”
“Good man,” Cyril said. “When Maximus wakes up, we need to have a familiar face here. He’s going to be confused, disoriented. As strong as he is, he could do some damage if he panicked.” Cyril drummed his fingers idly against the hilt of his sword. “I’ve got an hour or so. Scipio, go tell Gracchus that I’m giving you special duty for a day or two. Get a big meal. Bring some food with you. I’ll spell you, or send the First Spear in my place.”
Tavi swallowed. “Do you really think he’s in danger, sir?”
“I’ve said everything I intend to. The important thing now is to prevent any further accidents. Now move.”
“Yes, sir,” Tavi said, and saluted.
But then he paused at the door to the tent. Max was helpless. It was a horrible, cynical thought, but what if the captain’s confrontation with the High Lady had been staged for Tavi’s benefit? What if by walking away from Max, Tavi was in fact condemning his friend to death?
p. 85
Tavi looked over his shoulder at the captain.
Cyril stood over the tub. He looked up at Tavi and arched an eyebrow. Then the captain frowned, and Tavi had the uncomfortable impression that Cyril had seen the direction of Tavi’s thoughts.
Cyril met Tavi’s gaze, his eyes steady. Tavi could see the strength in the man—not the raging strength of storms that underlay Gaius’s rage, or the smoldering fire of Lady Antillus’s anger. This strength was something older, humbler, as steady and sure as the rolling hillsides of the Vale, as set in place as the ancient, worn old mountains around it, as unchanging in the face of turmoil as waters of a deep well. Tavi couldn’t have said how he knew it, but he did: Cyril respected the power of those like Lady Antillus, but he did not fear them. He would neither bow his knee nor stain his honor for her or her like.
“Maximus is Legion,” the captain said, chin lifted proudly. “If harm comes to him, it will be because I am dead.”
Tavi nodded once. He touched his fist to his heart and nodded to the captain. Then he turned and hurried from the tent to follow Cyril’s orders.
Chapter 9
Tavi spent the day and most of the night in the tent by his friend’s side. Valiar Marcus had spelled him for time enough to bathe and eat a cold meal. Captain Cyril himself had come in the hours before dawn, and Tavi had simply thrown himself down on the floor and slept, armor and all. He awoke stiff and sore in midmorning, and stretched the kinks out, doing his best to ignore the complaints of his body. The captain had waited until Tavi was fully awake before departing, leaving him to resume his watch over his friend.
Foss came in now and again, checking up on Max.
“Shouldn’t we get him into a bed?” Tavi asked.
Foss grunted. “Take his armor off. Water is better, so long as he doesn’t get cold.”
p. 86
“Why?”
“M’ fury’s still in it,” Foss said. “Doin’ what she can to help ’im.”
Tavi smiled. “She?”
“Bernice. And don’t give me no mouth, kid. I know you Citizens make fun of us pagunus types for giving them names. Back in my home, they’d look at you just as funny for sayin’ they didn’t need them.”
Tavi shook his head. “No, I’m not criticizing you, healer. Honestly. It’s the results that matter.”
“Happen to be of the same mind m’self,” Foss said, grinning.
“How’d you wind up here?” Tavi asked.
“Volunteered,” Foss said. He added hot water from a steaming kettle to the tub, careful not to let it burn the man within.
“We all volunteered,” Tavi said.
Foss grunted. “I’m career Legion. Shieldwall. Antillus to Phrygia and back, fighting off the Icemen. One hitch for one city, then one in the other. Did that for thirty years.”
“Got tired of the cold?” Tavi asked.
“Manner of speakin’,” Foss confirmed, and winked at Tavi. “Wife in Phrygia found out about the wife in Antillus. Thought I might like to see what the south was like for a spell.”
Tavi chuckled.
Max said, his voice very weak, “Don’t play cards with him, Calderon. He cheats.”
Tavi shot up off the camp stool and went to his friend. “Hey,” he said. “You decide to wake up, finally?”
“Got a hangover,” Max said, his voice slurred. “Or something. What happened to me, Calderon?”
“Hey, Max,” Tavi said, gentle urgency in his voice, “don’t try to talk yet. Wake up a little more. Let the healer see to you.”
Foss knelt by the tub and peered at Max’s eyes, telling the young man to follow his finger when he waved it around. “Calderon?” he asked. “Thought you were Rivan.”
“Yes,” Tavi said smoothly. “My first hitch was in Riva. I was in one of the green cohorts they sent to Garrison.”
Foss grunted. “You was at Second Calderon?”
