“Then I advise you to choose someone else,” Magnus said.

Octavian shook his head. “The First Spear is right, Magnus. Max and Crassus, between them, have all the furycraft anyone could need. Kitai is one of the better scouts and trackers in the Legion. I’d trust her to be able to find her way back to the ship if the Canim blindfolded her and tossed her in a sack for the journey to visit their Warmaster.” He thumped a finger against the side of his head. “What’s more valuable to us now than any number of swords or furies is knowledge-all we can get. Durias has it. We need it. So we need him.”

“And what makes you think he’ll cooperate?” Magnus said.

Octavian smiled. “I did him a good turn once.”

Maximus snorted. “Aye. His nose never did heal up straight from your good turn, either.”

“Leave Durias to me,” the Princeps said, his tone confident. “Magnus, would you see to it that he gets a message. Invite him to come see me at his earliest convenience, please.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Good. Gentlemen, if you would excuse me, I would speak with the First Spear for a moment.”

The others took their leave and departed the cabin, leaving Marcus alone with the Princeps.

“Sir?” Marcus said, once they were alone.

“Sit down, please,” Octavian said, gesturing at the other chair in the cabin.

Marcus pulled up the chair and did so, frowning. “You about to demote me or something, sir?”

Octavian’s mouth turned up into a quick grin. “Something like that. Magnus tells me that you did some excellent work gathering intelligence during the voyage. That you managed to get a look at several of their charts-and that you were the one the Hunters contacted when they wanted to pass information along to us.”

Marcus shrugged. “The Trueblood is their largest vessel, and their flagship. It’s got the most people coming and going, the most traffic, the most activity. I imagine anyone could have done what I did.”

“Nevertheless, you were the one who did it,” Octavian said. “You went beyond anything you could reasonably have been expected to do, Marcus.” He folded his hands and frowned. “And I’m about to ask you to go even further.”

Marcus frowned and waited.

“I’m leaving you in command of the Legions,” Octavian said.

Marcus lifted his eyebrows. “Sir? You can’t do that.”

“The crows I can’t. I’m the Princeps of bloody Alera and the commander of this expedition. I can establish whatever chain of command I think appropriate.”

Marcus shook his head. “Sir, there are a number of Tribunes in the First who outrank me-and I’m not at all sure that the Captain of the Free Aleran is going to like the idea of a centurion in the First Aleran giving him orders.”

“You’ve got more field experience than any two Tribunes in either Legion,” the Princeps replied. “And there aren’t many men alive who are members of the Crown’s House of the Valiant. Even in the Free Aleran, the name of Valiar Marcus carries respect.”

Marcus frowned and looked down at the scarred knuckles of his hands.

“It’s more or less an open secret by now,” Octavian continued. “Magnus isn’t really a mere valet.”

“Cursor?” Marcus asked, purely for form. Valiar Marcus would need to confirm a suspicion, after all. He wouldn’t be one hundred percent certain.

The Princeps nodded. “My grandfather appointed him my advisor in political matters. I intend his decisions to guide the expedition in diplomatic matters while I am gone. You have authority over security or military decisions. In the end, though, Marcus, I expect you to keep everything together until I get back.”

Marcus exhaled slowly. “Understood, sir.”

“I’ll be meeting with the Tribunes shortly, to let them know how I expect things to run in my absence-and with the officers of the Free Aleran, after that. All things considered, I think they’ll be nervous enough at being surrounded by hostile Canim to be willing to be cooperative, provided they’re treated with respect.”

“I’ll break enough heads to get that point across, sir,” Marcus promised.

“Good,” Octavian said, rising, and Marcus mirrored the gesture.

“Sir?” Marcus asked. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Do you really expect to come back from this meeting with the Shuaran Warmaster alive?”

The young Princeps’ face became an expressionless mask. “You don’t think he’s going to meet with me in good faith?”

“Your Highness,” Marcus said, “from what I’ve heard, there is a bloody idiot in charge of the warrior caste here.”

“Yes,” the Princeps said. “That’s true.”

Marcus grimaced. “Then they’re hiding something, sir.”

“Why do you say that, First Spear?”

“Think about it. If you had one bloody fortified port on your entire shoreline, would you leave an incompetent in charge of it? Or would you put the best commander you could find in that position.”

Octavian frowned, his brow furrowing.

“Doesn’t make any sense,” Marcus said. “There’s got to be some kind of pressure forcing that kind of appointment. Which says to me that this Warmaster doesn’t have the kind of control he would like to have. If I were you, sir, I’d want to know why not. Might be important.”

“You’re right,” Octavian said quietly. “I hadn’t thought of it in quite those terms, but you’re right. Thank you.”

Marcus nodded. “Sir.”

“I’ll be departing within two hours,” Octavian said. “In that time, I want you to make me a list of anything you think you’ll need my approval to get done. Draw them up as separate items, and I’ll sign off on them before I go.”

“Yes, sir,” Marcus said. “Best of luck on your journey, sir.”

“To both of us, Marcus. Though I’d rather neither of us needed it.”

The journey from Molvar to Shuar took four days, all of them along a stretch of hilly, windy country that supported little but yellowed grass, peeking up through early snows, and rounded black stone. By the end of the third day, the taurg Tavi was riding had only tried to kill him twice-since lunchtime. By the standards of Canim cavalry, the beast was behaving admirably.

The taurg most closely resembled a bull, Tavi had decided. It was a bit bigger, and considerably humpier about the shoulders. Its rear quarters were much more heavily muscled, as well, and its legs were longer, springier, more in proportion to a hare’s than to anything so large as it was. The beast was covered with thick, curly fur that ranged from deep grey on its blunt muzzle to blue-black on its shoulders and haunches. Its neck was thick, its head was rather tiny, and its brow was half-encircled by a massive, bony ridge that was capable, so the Canim claimed, of smashing through stone walls. Its eyes were tiny and pink and hostile, its wide nostrils drooled a constant stream of slobbery mucus, and its cloven hooves struck at a speed that rivaled that of any warhorse in Alera-and hit with several times the power.

Anag raised a hand and signaled for the group to halt near a circle of standing stones beside the road-the campsite for the night. Forty taurga drew off the road at their long-legged, swaybacked walk, in a maneuver as familiar to them as making camp was to any legionare, and began filing into a circle within the standing stones, three beasts to each. Three blued-steel rings had been set into each stone, each to tether a single taurg.

Tavi slid down from the saddle, keeping a hand on it to control his descent to the ground. He winced at the shock to sore muscles as he landed. The first couple of days in the strange saddles, made for large Canim riders, had been nightmarish, but his body had finally begun to adjust.

The taurg promptly whipped its head at Tavi in an effort to crush his windpipe with the heavy ridge of bone on its skull.