CURSOR'S FURY

“Think they’ll win?”

“Not unless Marcus and all his men have heart attacks and drop dead during the bout.” Max glanced over his shoulder and met Tavi’s eyes for a moment. “The fish can’t win. But that isn’t the point. They just need to put up a decent fight.”

Max meant more than the words were saying. Tavi nodded at his friend. “Don’t count the fish out yet, Max,” he said quietly. “You never know how things are going to turn out.”

“Maybe,” Max said. “Maybe.” He gave Tavi a token salute as he lowered the screen, nodded, and walked back out onto the practice field. “Crows, Scipio!” he said when he was thirty paces away. “I can still smell you all the way from here. You may need a bath, sir!”

Tavi debated finding Max’s tent and rolling around in his cot for a while. He rejected the idea as unprofessional, however tempting. Tavi glanced at the lowering sun and simply headed from the practice field over to the domestics’ camp.

Camp followers were as much a part of a Legion as armor and helmets. Six thousand or so professional soldiers required a considerable amount of support, and the domestics and camp followers provided it.

Domestics were by and large childless, unmarried young women serving a legally required term of service with a Legion. They saw to the daily needs of the legionares, typically consisting mostly of food preparation and laundry. Other domestics helped repair damaged uniforms, maintain spare weaponry and armor, handled the delivery of packages and letters, and otherwise assisted in the duties required by the camp.

While the law required nothing more than labor, placing that many young women in close proximity to that many young men inevitably resulted in the growth of relationships and the conception of children-which was the point of the law, Tavi suspected. The world was a dangerous place filled with deadly enemies, and the people of Alera had need of all the hands they could get. Tavi’s mother and his aunt Isana had been serving a three-year term of service with the Legions when he had been born, the illegitimate son of a soldier and a Legion domestic.

Other followers of the Legion included domestics who had decided to remain in a more permanent capacity-often as the wife to a legionare in every sense but the legal one. While legionares were not permitted to marry legally, many career soldiers had a common-law wife in the camp following or a nearby town or village.

The last group was those folk who sensed an opportunity near the Legion. Merchants and peddlers, entertainers, craftsmen, doxies, and dozens of others followed the Legion selling their goods and services to the regularly paid and relatively wealthy legionares. Still others simply lurked nearby, intending to follow the Legion and wait nearby until the conclusion of a battle, hoping to loot whatever could be had in the fighting’s aftermath.

The camp followers formed in a loose ring around the wooden fortifications of the Legion, their tents ranging from surplus Legion gear to garishly colored contraptions to simple lean-tos and shelters made of a sheet of canvas and rough-cut wooden poles. Lawless folk abounded, and there were parts of the camp where it would be very foolish for a young legionare to wander after dark-or a young officer, for that matter.

Tavi knew the safest routes through the camp, where legionares’ families tended to gather for mutual protection and support. His destination was not far past the invisible boundary of the “decent” side of the camp.

Tavi walked up to Mistress Cymnea’s Pavilion, a ring of large, garishly colored tents, pitched together to form a large circle around a central area like a courtyard, leaving only a narrow walkway between tents to allow entry. He could hear the sound of music, mostly pipes and drums, inside, as well as the sound of laughter and raucous voices. He slipped into the open ring of well-trampled grass around a central fire.

A man the size of a small bull rose from his seat as Tavi entered. He had weather-reddened skin and no hair, not even eyebrows or eyelashes, and his neck was as thick as Tavi’s waist. He wore only tooled-leather breeches and boots, and his hairless upper body was heavy with muscle and old scars. A weighty chain around his neck marked him as a slave, but there was nothing like mildness or submission in his expression. He sniffed, made a face, and gave Tavi a steady glower.

“Bors,” Tavi said politely. “Is Mistress Cymnea available?”

“Money,” Bors rumbled.

Tavi already had his money pouch off his belt. He dumped several copper rams and a few silver bulls into his palm and showed them to the huge man.

Bors peered at the coins, then nodded politely at Tavi. “Wait.” He lumbered off toward the smallest tent in the circle.

Tavi waited quietly. In the shade beside one of the tents sat Gerta, a vagabond Mistress Cymnea had taken in and something of a fixture outside her tents. The woman wore a dress that looked more like a shapeless sack than clothing, and smelled none too clean. Her hair was a dark, brittle bush that clung together in mats and stuck out at improbable angles, showing only a part of her face. She wore a binding across her eyes and nose, and beneath the grime on her skin, Tavi could see the angry red pockmarks of a recent survivor of the Blight or one of the other dangerous fevers that could strike down the folk of Alera. Tavi had never heard the simple woman speak, but she sat in place playing a small reed flute in a slow, sad, and haunting melody. A beggar’s bowl sat on the ground before her, and as he always did, Tavi dropped a small coin into it. Gerta did not react to his presence.

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. 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?”

“Just a bath.”

She made a mock-severe expression at him. “So serious for a man so young. Zara, darling, run and prepare the good Scipio’s bath.”

“Yes, Mama,” the girl said. She got up and scampered out, taking her book with her.

Tavi waited a moment, then said, “I hate to be too forward but…”

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

Tavi bowed his head, half-apologetically. “Were you able to learn anything?”

“Of course,” she said. “But there is a matter of price to consider.”

Tavi winced, but said, “I can go somewhat higher than yesterday’s amount, but for more than that…”

Cymnea waved a hand. “No. This isn’t about money. The information has the potential to be dangerous.”

Tavi frowned. “How so?”

“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 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?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She sighed. “Honestly. It isn’t as though I mind your business, but Gracchus seems to be taking your chastisement a bit far.”

“I’ll manage,” he said. “As long as I can get a bath at the end of the day.”

“Then I’ll not keep you from it,” she said, and smiled.

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 gu