Tarsh coughed out a growling laugh. “You will accept it, Varg. I am pack leader here.”

“A storm approaches,” Varg said. “Many of my vessels are damaged. Lives will be needlessly lost if they are not given the shelter of the harbor.”

“What are they to Shuar, Narashan ape? My warriors have their orders. If your ships attempt to sail up the fjord, we will destroy them.”

Varg’s lips peeled back from his fangs. “Is this Shuaran hospitality, then? Shuaran honor?”

“If you do not care for it,” Tarsh suggested, his voice openly mocking, “seek elsewhere.”

Varg’s eyes narrowed further. “Were I not honor-bound to take up quarrels with Lararl instead of with his pack leaders, I would have your throat.”

Tarsh’s leering snarl seemed to grow more self-satisfied. “Many decrepit old creatures have used such an excuse to hide their weakness.”

Varg, instead of answering, glanced aside, just for an instant, at Tavi.

Tavi blinked.

Insults like those Tarsh was offering Varg were more than a mere invitation to a challenge to a fight-they were practically demanding it. Under any normal circumstance, any Cane who spoke to another that way could expect an instant and violent response. Varg, in particular, was not one to gladly suffer either insults or fools, and from what Tavi had seen, he didn’t know how to back down from a fight. Which meant that for whatever reason, something to do with the Canim concept of honor, Varg couldn’t act against this windbag.

But perhaps Tavi could.

It seemed that this was the moment for diplomacy.

“Varg is correct,” Tavi said calmly, stepping forward. “There is no time for this foolishness. His people and mine seek safety from the winter and give you our word that our intentions are peaceful. We need to work out the best way to get them all into the harbor before the storm arrives.”

Every set of eyes on the pier swiveled to Tavi and hit him like a physical weight.

“Oh bloody crows,” Maximus whispered, somewhere behind him.

“This creature,” Tarsh said after a moment. “It is the Aleran leader?”

“I am,” Tavi said.

Tarsh growled and turned to the warriors behind him. “Kill it.”

Oh, bloody crows, Tavi thought.

Uncle Bernard had been right after all.

The nearest Cane, a particularly muscled brute, drew and threw his axe in the same underhanded motion, a smooth and professional cast that sent the weapon through a single tumble before its razor edge sliced at Tavi’s face.

Tavi had both of his short blades free of their sheaths before the axe had begun to fly. Rather than dodging aside, he deflected the heavily tumbling weapon back upward and over his head. Tavi had time for the brief thought that most sensible men would, at that point, dive for the boat and run like mad for the Slive.

Instead, Tavi borrowed speed from the cold wind circling the cauldron of Molvar’s harbor, and as time seemed to slow, he launched himself toward Tarsh.

The warriors on the dock tried to stop him. Two more axes tumbled toward him, spinning gracefully. Tavi rolled his shoulder from the path of one weapon, though its blade cut a perfectly straight slice from the hem of his cloak. The other he deflected with a sweep of his armored forearm. The shock of impact shook him hard enough to rattle his teeth, but he simply tightened his jaw and moved on.

The heavily muscled warrior who had first thrown his axe managed to step in front of Tarsh, but Tavi was on him before he could get his secondary weapon into a proper guard position. As he closed, Tavi could sense the strange midnight blue metal of the warrior’s sword, and instinctively sensed a flaw in its manufacture, a weak point a few inches above the tang. He thrust high, forcing the Cane to lift the weapon to protect his throat and face. Tavi then swung with his other weapon, striking the weak spot of the sword, shattering it.

The Cane reeled as flying shards of steel cut into his face. Tavi laid a whipping slash across one of the warrior’s thighs-painful, but not deadly, forcing him to put his weight upon his other leg. Then, with a single, powerful motion, he called upon the earth for strength enough to sweep that foot from beneath the Cane with his own leg, toppling the wolf-warrior to the ground.

The sweep likely saved the Cane’s life. Tarsh’s wavy-bladed sword thrust straight for Tavi’s throat, and would have transfixed the Canim warrior’s left lung had he still been standing.

Tavi never lost his forward momentum, dropping under the thrust, reversing his grip on one blade as he went. He fended off the Cane’s sword with the blade in his left hand, while with fury-assisted strength, he drove the sword in his right hand down like a spike through Tarsh’s paw-foot and into the stone of the pier.

Tarsh howled in agony and hacked down at Tavi with his blade. The blow was swift and as powerful as any earthcrafter’s-but it was not nearly as skilled as Tavi would have expected. It lacked the instantaneous reflex response that would have made it a deadly counterattack, and Tavi was able to strike it aside with his gladius, then surge to his feet and shove the point of his weapon up and into the soft underside of Tarsh’s throat.

“Do not move!” Varg thundered in a voice whose raw authority rang from the stones and echoed around the harbor. And as swiftly as that, the dock was motionless, the other warriors, one in the very act of drawing his arm back to throw his weapon, holding their positions as if frozen in a sudden arctic gale.

Tavi had already stopped his motion, even before Varg had spoken. The very tip of his sword, no more than a quarter of an inch of steel, lay buried in Tarsh’s throat. A tiny rivulet of blood trickled from it and down the shining steel of Tavi’s weapon. Tarsh stood frozen, hardly daring to breathe. His sword clattered from his hand and to the pier.

Without taking his eyes from Tarsh, Tavi gave Varg an acknowledging nod. “I appreciate the courtesy.”

“Of course, gadara,” Varg rumbled.

Tarsh’s ears quivered in shock and his eyes widened.

“Hear me, pack leader,” Tavi said quietly-too quietly for the nearby Canim warriors to hear, he hoped. “Varg has named me gadara, and I have responded in kind. I will not permit you to take advantage of his sense of honor in order to abuse it and thus cheapen his reputation.” He narrowed his eyes. “I wish it to be intact when I kill him. Do you understand me?”

Tarsh continued to look shocked for a few seconds. Then his lips quivered on one side of his muzzle, briefly baring his fangs.

Tavi promptly stomped on the foot that his gladius held pinned to the stones.

It took Tarsh several moments to regain his breath.

“I asked you a question,” Tavi said.

Tarsh bared his fangs in earnest. “I understand.”

“Good,” Tavi said. He reached down and jerked his gladius clear of the stone and the luckless Tarsh’s foot. Then he withdrew his blade from the golden-furred Cane’s throat and stepped two quick paces back from Tarsh. He raised his voice, and said, “Now. Pick up your sword.”

Tarsh just stared at Tavi for a blank second.

“Did you lose your hearing with your ear, Tarsh?” Tavi asked tartly. “Pick up your sword.”

The Cane let out a snarl and snatched up his weapon-careful, Tavi noted, to keep his weight off his injured foot.

“Out of respect for Lararl, who holds the respect of Varg, I have not killed you out of hand,” Tavi said. “Instead, I give you this choice. Behave honorably toward Varg, as you know Lararl would have you act-or face me, here and now, in front of everyone, to the death. And after I’ve killed you, I will give your second the same choice.”

Tarsh’s eyes glittered. “What makes you think that you are worthy of my attention, Aleran scum?”