Varg restored the table to its game positioning, flicking his tail in emphasis with his words. “It is the same principle as when your Legions face our raiding parties. Their discipline mitigates their physical weakness. No amount of rage can match discipline. Unwisely employed aggression is more dangerous to oneself than any enemy, cub.”
Tavi frowned at the board and grunted.
“Concede?” Varg asked.
“Game isn’t over yet,” Tavi said. He couldn’t see how to defeat Varg’s positioning, but if he pressed on, he might find an opportunity, or Varg might make some kind of mistake Tavi could capitalize upon. He pushed a Knight to Varg’s Steadholder, taking the piece and beginning the vicious exchange.
After a dozen moves, Tavi did not find a way to beat the Cane. His defeat looked inevitable, and he grimaced and lifted a hand to knock his First Lord onto its side in capitulation.
Someone pounded on the door to the cell-really, Tavi thought, it was more like a Spartan apartment than a prison, a large suite that included a bed large enough to suit even the Cane as well as a sitting area and a reading area-and a guard opened the wooden door outside the prison suite. “Excuse me young man. A courier from the Citadel is here upon the Crown’s business. He wishes to speak to you.”
“Hah,” Tavi said, and flashed Varg a smile as he lowered his hand. “Duty calls. I suppose we’ll have to call this one a draw.”
Varg let out another amused growl and rose as Tavi stood to face him. The Cane tilted his head slightly to one side. Tavi mimicked the gesture, though a little more deeply. “Until next week, then. Please excuse me, sir.”
“Duty neither makes nor needs excuses, cub,” Varg said. He flashed his fangs in another smile at the guard. The man didn’t precisely flinch, but it seemed to Tavi that he had to fight not to do so.
Tavi withdrew to the barred door that faced the cell, never turning his back on Varg. He slipped through the door after the guard unlocked it, then followed him down two flights of stairs to a small, private office. It was a very plain affair, its walls lined with shelves of books, an unadorned table and chairs of gorgeously polished dark wood, a ledger desk, and a writing desk. A plain white porcelain pitcher sat on the table, beaded with droplets of water.
A small, stout, and somewhat myopic man sat in one of the chairs. He wore the red-and-blue-trimmed tunic of a senior functionary in the Citadel. The guard nodded to the man and withdrew into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.
Tavi frowned, studying the messenger. There was something familiar about him. Tavi did not recognize his face, but that meant little in the teeming mass of Alera Imperia’s Citadel.
The messenger’s head tilted slightly, and he remained silent.
Then Tavi grinned and swept into a formal bow. “Your Majesty.”
The messenger let out a bark of a laugh, a pleased sound. As he did, his form wavered and shifted, sliding into a larger, leaner frame, until Gaius Sex-tus, First Lord of Alera and the mightiest of its furycrafters, sat before Tavi. His hair was thick, well trimmed, and silver-white, though it and the lines at the corners of his eyes were the only features about the man that made him look older than a well-preserved forty years or so. There was an aloof, wolfish quality to the way he held himself, confident in his power, his intelligence and experience. Tavi idly noted that the First Lord had evidently altered his clothing when he changed, as it still fitted him despite Gaius having added six inches of height.
“How did you know?” Gaius murmured.
Tavi frowned. “The eyes, sire,” he said, finally.
“I changed them,” Gaius countered.
“Not their shape or color,” Tavi explained. “Just… your eyes. They were yours. I’m not sure how I knew.”
“Instincts, I suppose,” Gaius mused. “Though I wish it weren’t. If you had some kind of innate talent we could define, perhaps we could teach your technique to the rest of the Cursors. It could prove extremely valuable.”
“I’ll work on it, sire,” Tavi said.
“Very well,” Gaius said. “I wanted to speak to you. I read your analysis of the reports you’ve been tracking.”
Tavi blinked. “Sire? I thought those were for Captain Miles. I’m surprised they reached you.”
“In general, they wouldn’t. If I tried to read every paper in the Citadel, I’d be smothered within a day,” Gaius said. “But Miles thought enough of your argument that he passed it on to me.”
Tavi took a deep breath. “Oh.”
“You make a convincing case that now is the time for action against the more ambitious High Lords.”
“Sire,” Tavi protested. “That wasn’t necessarily my position. Miles wanted me to write in opposition to his preferred strategies. I was just advocating it to help him find weaknesses in his own planning.”
“I’m aware,” Gaius said. “But that makes your conclusions no less credible.” He frowned, eyes on one of the plain bookcases. “I think you’re right. It’s time to make the High Lords dance to my tune for a change.”
Tavi frowned again. “But… sire, it could escalate into a real disaster.”
Gaius shook his head. “The escalation is coming regardless of what we do. Sooner or later, Kalare or Aquitaine will move on me in force. Best to move now, on my own schedule, rather than waiting for them to prepare.”
“Optionally, sire,” Tavi pointed out. “It could fall flat, too.”
Gaius shook his head, smiling. “It won’t.”
“How do you know?”
The First Lord bobbed an eyebrow. “Instinct.”
Tavi chuckled despite himself. “Aye, sire.” He straightened. “What are my orders?”
“We still need to see to your military training,” the First Lord mused, “but none of the Legions I prefer are due to begin a training cycle until next year.” Gaius drew a leather letter case from within his tunic and tossed it to Tavi. “You’ll need something to fill your time. So you’re going on a trip.”
Tavi frowned down at the case. “Where?”
“The Vale,” Gaius replied. “To the ruins of Appia, to be precise, to study with Maestro Magnus.”
Tavi blinked and stared. “What?”
“You’ve finished your second term as an academ, and great furies only know what you might find to amuse yourself if left to your own devices here. I read your paper on the Romanic Arts. So did Magnus. He needs a research assistant,” Gaius said. “I suggested you, and he jumped at the chance to have you for six months.”
Tavi gaped. “But… sire, my duties…”
Gaius shook his head and said, “Believe me, I’m not handing you a gift, Tavi. I may need you in position there, depending on how matters fall out. Unless, of course, you do not wish to go.”
Tavi felt his mouth curve into a slow, disbelieving smile. “No, sire! I mean, uh, yes, sire! I’d be honored.”
“Excellent,” Gaius said. “Then pack to leave before dawn. And ask Gaele to deliver those letters for you.”
Tavi drew in a sharp breath. Gaele, a student and classmate of Tavi’s, had never really been Gaele. The true student had been murdered, doubled, and coldly replaced before Tavi had the chance to get to know the real Gaele. The spy who had done it, a Kalaran Bloodcrow called Rook, had been Tavi’s friend for two years before he’d discovered her murderous true identity.
Instead of turning her in, though, Gaius had decided to allow her to remain in her role, in order to use her to feed disinformation to her master. “You think she’ll pass this to Kalare?”
“This? Absolutely,” Gaius said.
“May I ask…?” Tavi said.
Gaius smiled. “The envelope contains routine mail and one letter to Aquitaine, informing him of my intention to adopt him legally and appoint him my heir.”