Princeps' fury (26 page)

“Not yet,” Tavi said. “But who knows? The night is young.”

Lararl’s ears quivered back and forth in a gesture of brief surprise, and his gaze shifted to Tavi. “You speak our tongue, little demon?”

“I speak it adequately. I understand it fairly well.”

Lararl narrowed his eyes. “Interesting.”

“Lararl, of Shuar,” Varg growled. “Tavar of Alera. He is
gadara
to me, Lararl.”

“As Varg is to me,” Tavi added, guessing that it was the proper thing to say.

Lararl’s ears quivered again, and he shook his head. “Tavar, is it? A demon
gadara
.” He glanced back at the table and the model there. “Sometimes I think that the world is changing. That I am too old to change with it.” He shook his head. “Varg, your word of peace for this night?”

“You have it.”

Lararl nodded. “And you mine. Will you vouch for Tavar and his pack?” Varg looked at Tavi. “Will you give your word that you and your people will abide peacefully here tonight, so long as no harm is offered to you?”

They did so. Tavi was grateful for the fire’s warmth. The interior of Lararl’s command tower was quite literally as cold as a cavern.

“My intention when I came here was to ask only for room enough to debark until our ships could be repaired to a condition suitable to return to Narash. Now . . .”

Lararl nodded. “No longer. Narash is no more. None of them are anymore, Varg. It’s all . . .” His hand lashed out behind him and struck at the table, cracking its surface and scattering green sand. “All that hideous offal. And those things. Those Vord.”

“It started in Narash,” Lararl replied. “The ritualists and their sects among the makers rose up against the Warmasters, with these Vord as their allies. But soon it became clear that ritualists from the other ranges were eagerly smuggling more Vord into their lands to help with their own uprisings. Soon, Warmasters in every range were putting down one rebellion after another.”

Tavi could see where this was leading. “And once the Vord had a solid foothold everywhere, they turned on the ritualists.”

Lararl nodded. “The stupid taurga. Now, they are all but extinct. Within days, every range was in flames. Battlepacks roamed over every portion of the countryside. There was no communication, no order. Some fought longer than others, held on longer than others—your own line, Varg, longer than any, even though the poison began in their own range. But in the end, it didn’t matter. They fell. One by one, they all fell.”

Tavi shivered and held his hands closer to the coals.

After a silent minute, Varg said, “Then I must ask you for sanctuary for the makers under my charge. And pledge my warriors to aid in your defense.”

Lararl grunted. His eyes flicked to Tavi. “And you, Tavar?”

“I would like to ask your permission to spend a few days here, resupplying my ships and repairing damage. Then I intend to sail back to my home and, with any luck, never bother you again.”

“There may not be many ritualists left,” Lararl continued. “But they are mine, now. Your people are going to die, Varg. At least I can make their deaths have meaning. At least I can give their blood to the ritualists to use to defend Shuar.”

“Lararl,” Varg snarled, rising. “Do
not
do this.”

“My people are dying,” Lararl spat. “My duty is to them. Not to you. Were our positions reversed, you would do the same, and you know it.”

Tavi rose. “And what of us? What of my people?”

Lararl turned and gave Tavi a look that was pure, cold, bloodthirsty hate.

“Demon,” he snarled. “Do you think we are so foolish that we do not
know
that the Vord came to Canea upon one of
your
ships? Do you think us so stupid that we have not puzzled out that it is
you
who unleashed this terror upon us, to destroy our people?”

“That is
not
true!” Tavi snarled.

“Aleran demon,” Lararl spat, “you have no honor. Every word from your lips is a lie. I have a range to defend, and no time to waste on your deceit. But your people’s blood will serve as well as Varg’s people’s.” He slammed open the doors. “Guards!”

A great many warrior Canim appeared in the doorway.

Lararl turned to face them. “You will go with these guards, or you will die, here and now. Choose.”

CHAPTER 18

The Shuaran guards offered them no violence or disrespect. They simply escorted Varg and the Alerans to the roof of Lararl’s dark granite tower, closed the heavy metal door, and locked it, sliding home large bolts that would make it impossible to open.

Then they left them there, on the flat, open expanse of the cubic building’s roof. It was nearly the size of a cohort’s training field, and overlooked every other structure in the fortified city. Tavi did not need to look to know that there would be no way to climb down, no other building close enough to leap onto. There was no need for bars, locks, or guards. One would need to be able to fly to escape this prison cell.

Max stared at the closed door for a moment, then said, “They can’t possibly be serious.”

Crassus nodded. “It does seem a tad ingenuous. A trap?”

“They’re trapping us into taking advantage of an opening that will give us a chance to warn our people and possibly escape?” Tavi asked. “That’s clever of them.” He shook his head and looked at Varg. “They don’t know what Alerans are capable of doing, do they?”

Varg twitched one shoulder in a shrug. “Shuarans are stubborn, proud, narrow-minded. As they must be to survive this range. They have never been to your shores. They regard our reports of Aleran demons as tall tales. They do not believe you are capable of anything beyond what our ritualists can do. Our ritualists cannot fly. Therefore, you cannot either.”

“I think it is nice that Alerans are not the only arrogant fools on Carna,” Kitai said.

Tavi gave her an arch look. “It’s a small piece of fortune that isn’t going to last,” he said. “Anag and some of the other Shuarans saw our Knights Aeris come back in from holding off that storm. He’ll tell Lararl sooner or later. They’ll realize that this is a mistake and take steps.” Tavi turned to Crassus. “How long will it take you to get there and back?”

Crassus squinted up through the chilling rain at the overcast sky, evidently thinking out loud. “Depends on the weather. I can’t see in this soup. I’ll have to follow the road to find my way back. That means flying low. That’s hard work, and slower. Also means I’ll have to veil or risk getting a balest bolt shot through me.” He nodded. “I can be back to Molvar by midmorning, and have our Knights Aeris back here by sundown tomorrow. Faster, if the weather clears.”

Tavi winked at her, and turned to Crassus. “Whatever happens, we’ve got to open up some options. Tamper with the weather if you need to—but do
not
begin action against the Shuarans unless you absolutely must. Tell Magnus and the First Spear that as well.”

Crassus nodded, saluted sharply, clapped a hand against his brother’s shoulder, and frowned in concentration. He vanished from sight behind a windcrafted veil, and a moment later a miniature gale rose, whipping droplets of falling rain into a painful, stinging mist. Then the winds faded as the young heir of Antillus took to the skies.

Max stood silently looking up into the rain for a long moment after his brother had departed, his expression blank. Perhaps it was the rain. Tavi’s ability to sense others’ emotions was nowhere near as reliable as he would like it to be, but he could clearly feel the conflicting welter of worry and affection and sadness and pride and seething jealousy that poured off his friend.

Max looked down to find Tavi watching him. He averted his eyes, and Tavi felt Max close down on his emotions, walling them away from observation.

“Wish I could do that,” Max said.

Tavi nodded. “Me too.” He put a hand on Max’s shoulder. “Max, I need your help here. The rain’s getting heavier and the night’s getting colder. If we don’t get some shelter, we could freeze to death.”

Tavi had been wearing the Legion lorica for so long that he had virtually forgotten it was there, but Kitai was right. The temperature was dropping fast. Once it was cold enough, any flesh that touched the armor would freeze to it—and besides, wearing it under those weather conditions was rather like putting on a coat made of icicles.

Tavi felt distinctly vulnerable as he shed the steel casing, and he doubted that Max and Durias liked it any better. The two men knelt at the center of the tower, bare hands flat to the dark stone, their eyes closed. Within a moment, there was a trembling vibration in the soles of Tavi’s boots, then a smooth, round half dome of stone, like a partial bubble made of solid granite, rose out of the top of the tower.

Max and Durias sat back on their heels once it was done. Then Durias rose, considered the eight-foot dome for a moment, and with casual precision drove his fist through an inch of solid rock. He ran his fingertips horizontally over the surface and did it again. Then he moved down the dome and went through the same process, until he had broken out a rough doorway leading to the dome’s interior.

Max bowed and rolled his hand in an elegant flourish. “Your summer palace awaits.”

They gathered their things and hurried out of the rain. It was not nearly the improvement Tavi had hoped for. They were out of the wet, but the inside of what was in essence a small cave was not precisely warm. At least, not until Max frowned ferociously in concentration, the tip of his tongue between his lips, and laid his fingertips on one wall of the dome. His hands shimmered with heat—not the savage white flame of a battlecrafted fire, but something infinitely more gentle, hardly visible, and within a moment or two the dome was as warm as a baker’s kitchen.