He stalked into his tent and tossed the flap back with unnecessary force. It was as close as he could come to slamming a door. Then he kept his attention on the ground and waited until the old Cursor’s footsteps had retreated.

He reached for the lacings of his armor with a sigh and was startled half out of his wits when a Cane’s basso voice rumbled quietly, from the blackness at the back of his tent, “It is good that you did not let him in. It would have been awkward.”

Marcus turned and muttered his lone little furylamp to life at its weakest intensity. By its dim golden glow, he made out the massive form of a Canim Hunter, crouching on his cot, making the suspended canvas mattress sag with his weight. Marcus’s heart was racing at the surprise, and he stood with one hand on the hilt of his gladius. He faced the Cane for a few seconds, then asked, quietly, “Sha, isn’t it?”

The reddish-furred Cane inclined his head. “The same.”

Marcus grunted. Then he started unlacing his armor again. If Sha had meant to do him harm, it would have happened already. “I take it you aren’t here on a hunt.”

“Indeed,” the Cane said. “There are facts it would be advantageous for Tavar to have.”

“Why not go tell him then? Or write a letter.”

Sha flicked his ears casually to one side, a gesture reminiscent of an Aleran’s shrug. “They are of an internal nature. No Cane of honor could, in good conscience, reveal them to an enemy.” The Hunter’s teeth showed in a sudden flash of white. “And I could not reach the Tavar. He was engaged in a mating ritual and heavily guarded.”

“And you’ve passed sensitive information through me before,” Marcus said.

Sha nodded his head again.

Marcus nodded. “Tell me. I’ll be sure he knows.”

“How much do you know of our bloodspeakers?”

“The ritualists?” Marcus shrugged. “I know I don’t like them much.”

Sha’s ears twitched in amusement. “They are important to our society in that they serve the makers.”

“Makers,” Marcus said. “Your civilians.”

“They make food. Homes. Tools. Weapons. Ships. They are the heart and soul of my people, and the reason that warriors like my lord exist. It is they whom the warriors like my lord truly serve, they whom he is pledged to nurture and protect.”

“A cynical man,” Marcus said, “would make mention of how much serving your people seems to resemble ruling them.”

“And a Cane would call cynicism in this context nothing but a form of cowardice,” Sha replied without rancor, “a decision to think and react without integrity based upon the assumption that others will do the same. When have you seen Varg do anything but strive to protect his people?”

Marcus nodded. “True.”

“The warriors live by a code of conduct. It is how they judge the worth of their lives. When one warrior veers from the code, it is the duty of others to call him to task on it—and, if necessary, to kill him rather than allow him to overstep his authority. Varg honors the code.”

“What relationship do the ritualists have with the makers?” Marcus asked.

Sha showed his fangs again. “For the most part, a cowardly one. They, too, are meant to be the servants of the makers. Their skills are meant to safeguard the makers against disease and injury. To guard our children as they are born. To offer counsel and comfort in times of loss. To mediate disputes fairly and to discover the truth when it is unclear.”

“I’ve only seen them using their skills at war.”

Sha let out a low growl. “The bloodspeakers’ abilities depend upon blood. They are fueled by it. This you know already.”

“Yes,” Marcus said.

“There was a time when it was considered something monstrous for a bloodspeaker to use any blood but his own—just as it is repellent for any warrior to order other warriors into battle without being able and willing to fight himself.”

Marcus frowned. “That would rather sharply limit what a given ritualist could do, I take it?”

“Except in times of great need,” rumbled Sha. “Or when he was willing to die to do what he believed needed to be done. As such, the powers of the bloodspeakers were greatly respected. Their acts and sacrifices were deeply honored, even by their enemies. The depth of commitment and sincerity of a bloodspeaker was unquestionable.” Sha was silent for a moment. Then he spoke in a more detached, businesslike tone. “Some generations ago, the bloodspeakers discovered that they could greatly expand their powers by using the blood of others—the more individuals, the more potent the blood. At first they asked for volunteers—a way for makers to share in the honor and sacrifice of the bloodspeakers’ service. But some of them began to do so in war, taking the blood of their enemies and turning the power gained from it to the service of their own war powers. It was argued that the Canim had thus outgrown the need for warriors. For many years, the bloodspeakers attempted to control the warriors—to use them to frighten and intimidate others where possible, and to serve as blood gatherers in times of war. In some ranges, the bloodspeakers were successful. In some, they were less so. In some, they were never able to gain power.”

“Why didn’t the warriors simply act against them?”

Sha looked shocked at the very suggestion. “Because they are the servants of the makers, as we are, demon.”

“Apparently not,” Marcus said.

Sha waved a hand. “The code forbids it, unless they are guilty of the grossest excesses. Many bloodspeakers did not embrace the New Way. They remained faithful to their calling, their limits. The followers of the Old Way continued to serve the makers and do great good. They worked to convince their brothers of the integrity of their point of view.”

“I take it that didn’t go well,” Marcus said drily.

“A bloodspeaker remaining faithful to his calling has little time left to spend upon politics, especially in these days,” Sha replied. He leaned forward slightly. “Those who scorn the Old Way have all the time they need to scheme and plot and speak half-truths to the makers to gain their support.”

Marcus narrowed his eyes. “I take it that one of these followers of the New Way is behind the attack on Octavian.”

“Likely,” Sha said. “Two makers were convinced to make the attempt.” His lips peeled away from his fangs in what looked to Marcus like revulsion and anger. “It is an inexcusable offense.”

Marcus shucked out of his armor, stacking the four shell-like pieces of it upon one another and tucking it under his cot. “But Varg cannot act on it?”

“Not while honoring the code,” Sha replied. “There are still followers of the Old Way among the bloodspeakers, worthy of respect. But they are few, and do not have the power necessary to call their own to task—assuming the person in question would stand for what he has done instead of denying it.”

“If this person died, what would result?” asked Marcus.

“If his killer were known, it would cause outrage among the makers, who do not clearly see how he has betrayed them. One of his lickspittles would likely take his place.”

Marcus grunted. “Interchangeable corruption is the worst kind of problem of any office. We know that here, as well.” He thought on it for a moment. “What does Varg wish of Octavian?”

“My lord does not wish anything of his enemy,” Sha said, stiffly.

Marcus smiled. “Please excuse my unfortunate phrasing. What would be an ideal reaction, for someone like Varg, from someone like Octavian in this situation?”

Sha inclined his head in acknowledgment. “For now, to ignore it. To carry on as if the threat was of no particular concern. More demon-slain Canim, no matter how guilty or well deserved, would only give the bloodspeakers more wood for their fires.”

“Hmmmm,” Marcus mused. “By doing nothing, he helps to undermine this bloodspeaker’s influence while Varg looks for an internal solution.”