Tavi frowned. Nasaug wasn’t posturing. There was neither threat nor anger nor enjoyment in the tone of his voice. He was simply stating a fact, attaching no emotion to it, no menace. It was far more disturbing than anything else he could have said.
But Nasaug was a warrior Cane. If he was anything like Varg, his words were like blood-never loosed unless necessary. And then as little as possible. “I wonder why you bother to speak of it.”
“To offer you an alternative. Retreat and leave the bridge sound. Take your warriors, your people, your young. I will give you two days to travel, in which I will make sure no forces are sent after you.”
Tavi regarded the board for a silent moment and altered the position of a single piece. “Generous. Why offer it?”
“I do not say we will destroy you without loss, Captain. It will save lives of my warriors and your own.”
“Until we fight again another day?”
“Yes.”
Tavi shook his head. “I cannot give you the bridge. It is my duty to hold it or destroy it.”
Nasaug nodded once. “Your gesture to allow us to take back our fallen was a generous one. Especially given how Sari dealt with you. For that, I offered you what I could.” The Cane began moving his pieces in earnest, and the rapid exchange began. It took him only three moves to see what Tavi had done, and he stopped, staring at the board.
Tavi’s reckless assault had been nothing of the kind. He had spent a great deal of time thinking about Ambassador Varg’s stratagem in their last game together, and he had adapted it to his own strengths as a player. The sacrifice of some of his lesser pieces earlier in the game had given the greater pieces a far more dominant position, and within the next two moves he would control the skyboard completely and have the positioning and power he would need to strike down Nasaug’s First Lord. His pieces would take terrible losses to do it, but Nasaug had seen the trap a bare move too late, and he could not possibly escape it.
“Things,” Tavi said quietly, “are not always as they seem.”
The last of the fallen Canim had been found and borne back to the Canim camp by their unarmed fellows. A grizzled Cane nodded to Nasaug in passing.
Nasaug stared at Tavi, then tilted his head very slightly to one side in acknowledgment of the defeat. “No. Which is why my warriors will not be the first to enter the town.”
Tavi’s heart all but stopped in his chest.
Nasaug had figured out the trap. He might not yet know the details, but he knew it was there. Tavi kept all expression from his face and stared impassively at the Battlemaster.
Nasaug let out another rumbling chuckle and nodded at the board. “Where did you learn that strategy?”
Tavi regarded the Cane, then shrugged. “Varg.”
Nasaug froze.
His ears came to quivering attention, pricked forward at Tavi.
“Varg,” he growled, very low. “Varg lives?”
“Yes,” Tavi replied. “Prisoner in Alera Imperia.”
Nasaug narrowed his eyes, his ears twitching. Then he lifted a hand and beckoned.
The grizzled Cane returned, bearing a cloth bundle held upon his upraised palms. At a nod from Nasaug, the Cane set the bundle down on the ludus board and unfolded it. Tavi’s gladius, the one he had cast aside that morning, lay within.
“You are dangerous, Aleran,” Nasaug said.
Instinct told Tavi that the words were a high compliment. He kept his eyes steady, and said, “I thank you.”
“Respect changes nothing. I will destroy you.”
“Duty,” Tavi said.
“Duty.” The Battlemaster gestured at the sword. “This is yours.”
“It is,” Tavi replied. “You have my thanks.”
“Die well, Aleran.”
“Die well, Cane.”
Nasaug and Tavi fractionally bared their throats to each other once more. Then Nasaug backed away several paces before turning and striding back toward his army. Tavi folded up the ludus board back into its case, recovered both of his blades, and made his own way back to the city. He slipped in through the gates just as deep drums began to rumble and Canim war horns began to blare.
Tavi spotted Valiar Marcus and called to him. “First Spear, get the men into position! This is it!”
Chapter 42
“Very well,” Lady Aquitaine said. She nodded to Odiana, and said, “Time we got into costume.”
Odiana promptly opened a backpack and handed Amara her disguise.
Amara stared down at the scarlet silk in her hands, and said, “Where is the rest of it?”
Aldrick stood at the hostel’s window, watching the street outside. The big swordsman glanced back at Amara, made a choking sound in his throat, and turned away.
Odiana exercised no such restraint. The lovely water witch threw back her head and let out a peal of laughter, a sound too loud for the room they had rented from a surly Kalaran innkeeper. “Oh, oh, my lord. She’s blushing. Isn’t she fetching?”
To her horror, Amara realized that Odiana was right. Her cheeks felt as though she could have heated water on them, and she had absolutely no idea what to do about it. It was not the sort of situation she had been trained to handle. She turned away from Lady Aquitaine and her retainers and held up her disguise.
It consisted of a simple sheath of red silk, held up by a pair of tiny silk straps. Neckline, such as it was, was alarmingly low-and in back, the garment would leave her naked almost to the waist. The little shift’s hem would fall to the tops of her thighs if she was lucky.
“Now, now,” Lady Aquitaine chided Odiana. “Show her the rest of it.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Odiana said with a little curtsey. Then she drew out a pair of light sandals with straps that would wrap the leg to the knee, a pair of slender silver armbands wrought in the shapes of ivy vines, a beaded headdress that faintly resembled a chain coif and a plain, smooth metal band.
A discipline collar.
It was a slaver’s device, furywrought to give control of whoever wore it to the slaver. It could incapacitate its wearer with pain-and, more insidiously, it could, at the slaver’s option, provide the inverse of that sensation, and just as intensely. Discipline collars were sometimes used to restrain particularly dangerous furycrafters being held for trial in the legal system, though such cases were historically rare.
But in the past century or so, their manufacture and use had become far more widespread, as the institution of slavery deepened and darkened. Prolonged exposure to the collars could shatter the mind and will. Continually forced through agonies of torment and euphoria, victims were compelled to obey the slaver and forced to experience pleasure as they did so. Over time, often years, many such slaves were reduced to little more than animals, their humanity torn from them and replaced with the simple, irresistible compulsion of the collar. Chillingly, they were often deliriously happy to be that way.
More independent-minded individuals could often resist the extremes of dehumanization others faced-for a time, at least. But none of them survived it unscathed. Most went hopelessly mad.
“Blushing,” Odiana singsonged, and spun on her toes in a little dance step. Her silk dress changed colors, shifting from pale blue to pink. “Just this color, Cursor.”
“I’m not wearing a collar,” Amara said quietly.
Lady Aquitaine arched an eyebrow. “Why on earth not?”
“I’m aware of how dangerous they can be, Your Grace,” Amara said. “And I have certain reservations about the notion of closing one around my neck.”
Odiana covered a titter with one hand, dark eyes shining as she stared at Amara. “You needn’t be so afraid, Countess,” she murmured. “Honestly. Once the collar is on, it’s quite difficult to imagine living without it.” She shivered, and licked her lips. “You scream all the time, but it’s the inside kind. You scream and scream, but you can only hear it when you’re asleep. Otherwise it’s quite lovely.” She gave Aldrick a somewhat petulant look. “My lord won’t collar me. No matter how naughty I am.”