Cursor's Fury (23 page)

Bors reappeared and grunted at Tavi, tilting his head toward the tent behind him. “You know the one.”

“Thank you, Bors.” Tavi put his money away and headed for the smallest of the tents—though even so, it was larger than even the captain’s tent within the fortifications.

The interior of the tent was carpeted with rich rugs, the walls hung with fabrics and tapestries to make it look almost like a real, solid chamber. A young girl, perhaps twelve years old, sat in a chair near the door reading from a book. Her nose wrinkled, and without looking up from the book she called, “Mama! Subtribune Scipio is here for his bath!”

A moment later, the curtains behind the child parted, and a tall woman entered the front chamber. Mistress Cymnea was a dark-eyed brunette taller than most men, and looked like she could pick an armored legionare off the floor and throw him out of her tent, if there was a need. She was dressed in a long gown of wine red silk, worn with an intricately embroidered corset of black and gold.
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The gown left her broad shoulders and arms bare, and emphasized the curves of her figure.

She swept into a graceful curtsey, and smiled at Tavi. “Rufus, good evening. I would say that this is a pleasant surprise, but I could time my baking on your arrival if I had a mind.”

Tavi bowed his head in reply and smiled back at her. “Mistress. Always nice to see you.”

Cymnea’s smile widened. “Such a charmer. And I can, ah, see that you are still in disfavor with Tribune Gracchus. What can the Pavilion provide for you this evening?”

“Not at all,” Cymnea said. She wrinkled her nose. “Given your fragrant circumstances, the less time spent in close quarters, the better.”

“Powerful men might not appreciate potential enemies learning more about them. If I share the information, I might pay a price for having done so.”

Tavi nodded. “I understand why you might be concerned. I can only assure you that I will keep the source of the information confidential.”

“Yes? And what guarantee do I have of that?”

“You have my word.”

Cymnea burst out into a merry peal of laughter. “Really? Oh, young man, that is just so . . . so very charming of you.” She tilted her head at Tavi. “But you mean it, don’t you.”

“I do, Mistress,” Tavi said, meeting her eyes.

She stared at him for a moment. Then she shook her head, and said, “No, Scipio. I haven’t done as well as I have by taking foolish chances. I’m willing to
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trade for the information, but only in kind. Something that might protect me in return.”

“Such as?” Tavi asked.

“Well. Such as who
you
are working for. That way, if you talked about me, I’d be in a position to talk about you.”

“Sounds fair,” Tavi said. “But I can’t.”

“Ah,” she said quietly. “Well. There we are, then. I’ll return your silver.”

Tavi held out his hand. “Don’t. Consider it a retainer. If you come across anything juicy that offers you less risk, perhaps you’d pass it along.”

Cymnea tilted her head and nodded once. “Why would you trust me to do that?”

Tavi shrugged a shoulder. “Call it instinct. You run an honest business, in its way.” He smiled. “Besides. It isn’t my money.”

Mistress Cymnea laughed again. “Well. I haven’t done as well as I have by turning away silver, either. Zara should have your bath ready by now. I believe you know the way?”

Tavi bowed his head to her and left the tent. He crossed the little green courtyard, where the blind woman played her reed pipe. The tent where wine and girls were served erupted into a louder round of roars and shouts than were normal this early in the evening, drowning out the reed pipe for a time. Bors turned his head toward the sound, the motion reminding Tavi of a dog taking note of activity in its territory.

Tavi walked to another tent, this one bright blue and green. Inside, several alcoves had been partitioned with heavy drapes, each one containing a large, round wooden tub large enough to fit two or three people comfortably. Loud splashing and a woman’s giggles came from one of the curtained chambers. In another, a man slurred out a quiet song in a drunken voice. Zara appeared from behind another curtain and nodded to Tavi. Then she emerged, holding a gunny-sack, and wrinkled her nose at the smell as he entered.

Tavi slipped into the alcove and drew the curtain shut. He removed his filthy clothing and passed it out through the curtain to the waiting girl. She took it from him with brisk motions, tucked it into the gunnysack, and carried
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it out at arm’s length, to have it laundered, swiftly dried, and brought back to him.

A large bucket of lukewarm water sat beside the tub, a washcloth upon it. Tavi used it to wipe the worst of the grime from his body before testing the steaming water. He added a bit more hot water from a large container on a swinging arm next to the tub, then sank into it with a sigh. Warmth enfolded him, and he luxuriated in it for a time. The work Gracchus had assigned him was as strenuous and tiring as it was distasteful, and he looked forward to soaking tired muscles in hot water at the end of each day.

He thought about his family for a moment and felt bad to have missed their reunion in Ceres. He had to admit, though, that it would have been awkward speaking to his aunt now that she had thrown her support to Lord and Lady Aquitaine. So long as the conversation didn’t come anywhere near politics, things might have been all right—but Tavi’s training as a Cursor meant that he was involved with politics nearly every waking moment, in one fashion or another.

He’d missed his uncle, too. Bernard had always shown Tavi the consideration and respect that he’d never realized were all too uncommon. Tavi felt proud that his uncle had proven himself a hero of the Realm, and on more than one occasion, and he had been looking forward to Bernard’s reaction upon seeing Tavi after his years of education and training. Bernard had worked hard to make sure Tavi had the raw materials to build an honorable life for himself. Tavi wanted Bernard to see with his own eyes what his nephew had made with them.

And Kitai . . .

Tavi frowned. And Kitai. She would have been there. If Tavi had not felt the little lonely pangs that had plagued him since leaving her in Alera Imperia, it was not because he no longer desired her company. She was often in his thoughts, especially her laughter and her pointed wit, and if he closed his eyes he could picture her face—exotic and arrogantly lovely with her canted Marat eyes, white silken hair, her long, strong limbs, tight with shapely muscle, skin softer than . . .

In the other alcove, the woman’s giggles segued into quite different high-pitched sounds, and Tavi’s body reacted to the thoughts of Kitai and the sounds of the nearby doxy with an almost-violent enthusiasm. He ground his teeth, suddenly sorely tempted to follow Max’s advice. But no. He needed all of his focus and attention to be on his duty, to be alert for even the smallest scrap of intelligence he could report back to the First Lord. The last thing he wanted to do with his time was to undermine his own effectiveness with foolish—if undeniably alluring—distractions.

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Besides. He didn’t want one of Cymnea’s girls there with him. He wanted it to be Kitai.

His body made its agreement with the sentiment uncomfortably clear.

Tavi groaned and sank under the water for as long as he could hold his breath. When he surfaced, he seized the nearby bowl of soap and a clean washcloth and scrubbed his skin until he thought it might slough off, struggling to turn his thoughts to something less involving. Clearly, he missed Kitai. Clearly, he wanted to be near her as much as he ever had. But if so, then why had the odd, uncomfortable sensations of loneliness that had spurred him to speak about her ceased?

He had always felt the pangs when he thought about . . . her presence, he supposed. Her voice, her touch, her features all felt like something perfectly natural to his world, as much a part of it as sunshine and air. When he had been touching her, even only so much as holding hands, there had been a kind of peaceful resonance in the touch, something warm, reassuring, and deeply satisfying. It was the memories of their loss that had brought on the unpleasant sensation of loneliness. Even now, the memories should, by all rights, have brought on more of the same.

But they didn’t. Why?

He had just finished rinsing himself of the soap when it hit him, all at once.

Tavi snarled a muted curse, heaved himself out of the tub. He seized a towel, quickly swiped it over his body, and snatched up a plain robe folded on a nearby chair, shoving his still-damp arms into it. He stalked out of the bathing tent into the central yard.

The wine tent was in an uproar of one kind or another, and Tavi emerged in time to see Bors lumber up to its entrance and go inside. He spotted the blind woman beside one of the tents, still playing her reed pipe, and stalked toward her.

“What are you
doing
?” he hissed at the woman.

The blind woman set her pipe down and her mouth quirked into a smile. “Counting the days until you realized who I was,” she replied. “Though I was about to start counting the weeks.”

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Tavi grimaced. Now that he knew who “Gerta” truly was, the disguised elements of Kitai’s appearance seemed painfully obvious. She had dyed her fine, silvery white hair to crude black and let it grow matted and tangled deliberately. The pockmarks on her face were doubtless some kind of cosmetics, and the blind woman’s bandage covered her exotic, canted eyes.

“If you recall,” she said, smiling, “I have very good ears, Aleran. And as I sit here, I learn much. Few guard their words near a madwoman.”

“You’ve just been sitting
here
?”

She reached up and squeezed his hand with hers, her fingers fever-warm, and she made a small, pleased sound. “I did not enjoy your absence,
chala.
”

There was a shriek from the far side of the Pavilion, then a mussed, besotted legionare flew out of the wine tent. Bors came out after him a second later and applied sweeping kicks from his great booted feet to wherever he could reach upon the drunk, until the man had been driven from the Pavilion.

Kitai withdrew her hand from Tavi’s, and the spot felt peculiarly cool in the absence of her heated skin. “Now, Scipio Rufus. It will be strange for you to be seen conversing with a simpleton. Go away. You’ll scare off the game.”

“We must speak again,” Tavi said. “Soon.”

Kitai’s lips curled up into a sensual little smirk. “There are many things we must do, soon, Aleran. Why ruin them with talk?”

Tavi flushed, though the sunset was particularly red tonight, which might have hidden it. Kitai lifted her reed flute to her lips again, hunching down once more into her role. Bors returned from evicting the rowdy drunk and settled
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down into his spot by the fire. Tavi shook his head and returned to the bath tent to await the return of his laundered clothing.

He closed his eyes and sat listening to Kitai’s flute as he did, and found himself smiling.