“Marcus,” murmured Varg, his basso growl as threatening and familiar as it always was. “I expect you want an explanation for the attack.”

“You have a young officer who would be promising if he wasn’t an insufferably arrogant fool, convinced of the invincibility of your kind and, by extension, his own.”

Varg’s ears flicked back and forth in amusement. His eyes went to Nasaug-a Cane who was a shorter, brawnier version of his sire. Nasaug’s mouth dropped open, white fangs bared and tongue lolling in the Canim version of a smile.

“Told you,” Varg said, in Canish. “Huntmasters are huntmasters.”

“Sir?” Marcus asked. He understood the separate meanings of the words, but not their combined context.

“Senior warriors,” Nasaug clarified, to Marcus. “They are given command of groups of novices. Long ago, they would form hunting packs, and teach the young to hunt. The teacher was called the huntmaster.”

“These days,” Varg growled, “the word means one who trains groups of young soldiers and prepares them for their place in the order of battle. Your Legions have something like them as well.”

“Centurions,” Marcus said, nodding. “I see.”

“The pup would not have killed you,” Nasaug said.

Marcus faced the younger Cane squarely and calmly. “No, sir,” he replied, his voice steady. “He would not have. And out of respect for the Princeps’ desire for a peaceful journey, I did not kill him.”

“Why would you have done so, huntmaster?” growled Varg, his voice quietly dangerous.

Marcus turned back to face him without flinching. “Because I would far rather leave a dead fool behind me than a live enemy who has gained a measure of wisdom. In the future, I would take it as a courtesy if I was not used as an object lesson beyond those I have already been commanded to give.”

Varg bared his fangs in another Canim smile. “It is good to see that we understand one another. My boat is prepared to take you back to your ship, if you are ready, Valiar Marcus.”

“I am.”

Varg bowed his head and neck, Aleran-style. “Then go your way, and find good hunting.”

“And you, sir.”

Marcus had just turned to the door when it opened, and a lean Cane, reddish-furred and small for his kind, entered the cabin. Without preamble he bared his throat slightly to Varg and said, “A severe storm approaches, my lord. We have half of an hour or less.”

Varg took that in with a growl and dismissed the sailor with a jerk of his head. He glanced at Marcus. “No time to send you back and recover our boat,” he said. “It looks as though you’re staying for a time.”

“Sire,” growled Nasaug. There was a note of warning in his tone, Marcus thought. It was not difficult to guess at its source. Marcus had come to the immediate conclusion that he did not relish the notion of being effectively trapped within the hectic conditions of a ship under a storm with the angry young officer still smarting from his learning experience.

“The foremost cabin,” Varg said.

Nasaug’s tail lashed in a gesture that Marcus had come to recognize as one of surprise. The younger Cane quickly controlled himself and rose. “Centurion,” he rumbled, “if you would come with me. It would be best to have you out of the way so that the sailors may do their work. We will do our best to keep you comfortable.”

Marcus thought, with a dry amusement, that in this case comfortable was synonymous with breathing. But one learned rather quickly that the Canim had a viewpoint distinct from that of Alerans.

He followed Nasaug onto the Trueblood’s deck. Its timbers had all been painted black-something that would never have happened to an Aleran vessel. Quite the opposite, in fact. Ships were generally whitewashed. That made it easier for the crew to see what they were doing at night, particularly during bad weather, when few reliable light sources were to be had. All the black wood around them gave the ship a grim, funereal appearance, which was certainly imposing, particularly when combined with the black sails. A Cane’s night vision, though, was far superior to an Aleran’s. They likely had no trouble operating at night, whatever color the ship was tinted.

Nasaug led him to the foremost cabin on the ship-the one generally considered to be the least desirable, Marcus knew. On a sailing vessel, the wind generally blew in from the stern, and whoever was farthest downwind received the benefit of every unpleasant odor on board-and there were generally plenty to be had. The door to the cabin was low, barely Marcus’s own height, but rather than simply entering, Nasaug paused and knocked first-then waited for the door to be opened.

When it did, the cabin beyond was completely unlit, windowless and dark. A quiet voice asked, “May we serve, son of Varg?”

“This Aleran huntmaster is under Varg’s protection,” Nasaug said. “My sire bids you to safeguard him until he can be returned to his people after the storm.”

“It will be done,” the voice said. “He may enter, son of Varg.”

Marcus arched an eyebrow at that and glanced at Nasaug.

The Cane gestured toward the doorway with his snout. “Your quarters, centurion.”

Marcus glanced at the dark doorway, then at Nasaug. “I’ll be comfortable here, will I?”

Nasaug’s ears flicked in amusement. “More so than anywhere else on the ship.”

One of the critical things the Alerans had learned about dealing with the Canim, largely thanks to the Princeps himself, was that they placed a far higher priority on body language than humanity did. Words could be empty, and statements of motion and posture were considered to be a great deal more reliable and genuine indicators of intention. As a result, one did not display physical signs of fear before the predatory wolf-warriors, if one wanted to avoid being, for example, eaten.

So Marcus firmly clubbed down the instinctive apprehension the unseen speaker had awakened in him, nodded calmly to Nasaug, and stepped into the cabin, shutting the door behind him. In the darkened cabin, he became acutely aware of how thin his tunic and trousers were, and for the first time since the ships had left port, more than a month ago, he missed the constant burden of his armor. He did not put his hand to his sword-the gesture was too obvious. The knives he had concealed on his person would doubtless be of more use in any fight in such blackness, in any case. It would all happen in terrible proximity.

“You are no huntmaster,” said the unseen Cane after a moment. It let out a chuckling snarl. “No, no warrior.”

“I am a centurion of the First Aleran Legion,” he responded. “My name is Valiar Marcus.”

“Unlikely,” replied the voice. “It is more likely that you are called Valiar Marcus, I should judge.”

Marcus felt the tension sliding into his shoulders.

“We have been watching your spies, you know. They are largely untrained. But we had no idea that you were one of them until only yesterday-and even that was the result of an accident. The wind parted a curtain, and you were seen reading one of Varg’s scrolls when he was out of the cabin.”

A second voice, this one to the right and higher up, spoke. “Only chance revealed you.”

A third voice, low and to his left, added, “The mark of an adept of the craft.”

Marcus narrowed his eyes in thought. “Varg didn’t bring in that pigheaded brat to use me to teach him a lesson,” he said. “He did it to delay my departure until the storm stranded me here.”

“At our request,” confirmed the first speaker.

Marcus grunted. But Varg had played the entire situation out as if it had been his usual planning intersecting with chance, all the way through. It meant that for whatever reason, Varg wanted to keep this conversation concealed, even from his own people. It implied dissension in the ranks-always useful information.

It also meant that his current hosts could only be one thing. “You’re Hunters,” he said quietly. “Like the ones who tried to assassinate the Princeps.”