Tavi wheeled Acteon as Kitai mounted her own barbarian-bred steed, a dappled grey mare who could run more tirelessly than any Aleran horse Tavi had ever seen. Enna turned and loped swiftly over to her own roan, equipped with the minimal amount of tack the Marat called a saddle, and sent it into an immediate run. There would be little point in attempting to keep pace with her-no riders on the face of Carna could match the pace set by the Horse Clan of the Marat.
He didn't need to say anything to Kitai. The two of them had ridden out so often that by now, it was a matter of routine to send both their horses leaping into a run at the same moment, and together they thundered back toward the First Aleran's fortifications at the Elinarch.
"I know there haven't been orders yet," Valiar Marcus thundered, scowling at the stable master. "Even if they never come, it's good practice for my men. So you bloody well get those mounts prepared for the Battlecrows, and you do it now, or I'll have your lazy ass on a whipping post."
The stable master for Alera's first mounted infantry cohort gave the First Spear a surly salute and hurried away, bawling orders at the grooms who cared for the extra mounts. Marcus scowled at the man's back. You practically had to kick the man all the way to his job to get him to fulfill his responsibilities, and he was getting too old to spend that much energy on fools. Good help, it seemed, remained hard to find, regardless of the fact that the Realm was fighting for its life against the greatest threat to its integrity in at least four hundred years.
Marcus stalked through the lines of the First Aleran, their tents stretched in ruler-straight rows within the sheltering walls of the town at the Elinarch, the enormous bridge that stretched over the broad Tiber River. He stopped to have a quick word with a number of senior centurions along the way, putting them on alert that something was happening in officer country. As often as not, a stir in officer country meant that the rank and file of the Legion was about to be ordered to hurry up and wait, but it was always good for the centurions to look prepared and unfazed, no matter how sudden or urgent the news.
Marcus strode through the town. It had grown considerably in the two years the First Aleran had been using it as a base of operations. In fact, the southern half of the town had been rebuilt from the paving stones up and made into a fortress that had withstood two ferocious assaults from the Canim's elite warriors and twice as many tides of their howling raiders-before the captain had taken the initiative and begun carrying the battle to the Canim invaders, hard enough to teach them to keep their distance from the Elinarch. The streets were crowded with refugees from the occupied territory to the south, and in the marketplaces the price of food had climbed to outrageous levels-there simply wasn't enough to go around, and the demand had driven prices to unheard-of heights.
Marcus marched through all of it without slowing his pace. No one hampered his progress. Though he wasn't a tall man, and though he did not look particularly more formidable than any other legionare, the crowd seemed somehow to sense his purpose and determination. They melted out of his path.
Marcus reached the command quarters just as hooves began to make rhythmic thunder on the paving stone. Half a dozen of the First Aleran's Marat auxiliaries rode down the street, clearing the way for the captain and the Marat Ambassador, returning early from their daily ride, and six more brought up the rear. Ever since those deadly Canim assassins that had come to be known as Hunters had tried their luck against the captain and his woman, the young man had never been left unguarded.
Marcus frowned. The captain's singulare, his personal bodyguard, normally a shadow rarely seen more than a few paces away from his back, was still missing from the camp. There was no explanation as to why, or where the man had gone. Marcus, though, had no business querying the captain on the matter. As the First Spear, the senior centurion of the Legion, he had unparalleled access to the command structure, when compared to any other foot soldier of the First Aleran-but even his comparatively broad authority had limits, and he dared not press them.
It would make people begin to ask dangerous questions.
Marcus shook off the unpleasant line of thought and the uneasy quiver that ran through his stomach whenever he allowed it to occupy his attention.
"Marcus," the captain said. The two traded a quick salute. "What have you heard?"
"Just got here, sir," Marcus replied.
The captain nodded. "I've sent orders to have the auxiliaries ready to ride, as well as the Battlecrows."
"Already done, sir," Marcus said.
"Good man!" The captain flashed Marcus a quick grin, startling for its boyishness. The past two years had made even Marcus occasionally forget how young the captain really was. His poise, courage, and intelligence had guided the now-veteran Legion through a deadly war of maneuver with an unforgiving foe, and he had stood front and center, facing the danger with his men every step of the way. They loved him for it. The young captain wore the mantle of command as naturally and capably as if he had been born to it.
Which was only natural, because, of course, he had.
Marcus's stomach twisted again.
It was easier to think of him as the captain. Whatever else the young man might be, in time, right now he was the captain-and a captain worthy of Marcus's loyalty. Worthy of his respect.
Worthy of your honesty, whispered a poisonous little voice in his heart.
"Come on," the captain said, his eyes and his thoughts both clearly focused on the command building. "If Ehren's back this soon, it means he's got something that can't wait. Let's find out what."
Valiar Marcus, whose true name was not Valiar Marcus, followed Captain Rufus Scipio, whose true name was not Rufus Scipio, into the fortified stone command building, and struggled with the sudden instinct that the days of pretending he was someone else were only too numbered.
Steadholder Isana of the Calderon Valley grimaced as the wagon hit a rough spot in the road and made her blur a digit in the column of numbers she was tabulating on the little lap desk. She spared a moment to take a breath and calm down, reminding herself firmly that the frustration was a result of long weeks of labor and travel, and not the ineptitude of the wagon's builders, driver, the beasts pulling it, or the engineers who originally constructed the road.
She reached for a fresh piece of paper but found the wooden box empty. "Myra," she called to the cart driver's daughter. "Have you any more paper?"
"Yes, my lady," called a young woman's voice. The wagon creaked as someone moved about the front seat for a few moments, then the curtain to the covered back of the wagon parted, and a scrawny, frizzy-haired darling of a girl appeared, holding out a fresh sheaf.
"Bless you, child," Isana said, taking the paper.
"Of course, my lady," Myra said, beaming. "Did you know that we're in the refugee territory now? The guard showed me and Papa the sight of a scare-mish with the Canim that happened right here by the road."
"Skirmish, dear," Isana corrected her. "And yes, I know that there's been fighting on both sides of the river, on and off."
Myra nodded, her dark eyes intent, her young face serious. "This caravan is very important, isn't it, my lady?"
Isana began the botched page anew. The eagerness she felt in the girl's presence was undermined by a sense of slowly dawning worry, an emotion Isana felt as clearly as she felt her own weary impatience, thanks to the constant, steady presence of her water fury, Rill. "Yes, it is," she said, keeping her tone steady and calm to reassure the girl. "That's why we're so well protected. The food and supplies we're bringing to the refugees will help them survive the coming winter."