The captain frowned and leaned forward intently. "Contest?"
Marcus grunted in the affirmative. "Apparently a Marat woman has the right to demand a trial by contest of her prospective groom. Or maybe it was a trial by combat. He wasn't real clear on the point."
Octavian arched a raven black eyebrow. "You're kidding."
The First Spear shrugged. "All I know." That much was true. Even the Cursors had known little apart from the barbarians' military capabilities. Information on Marat society was fairly scanty. The two peoples had, for the most part, practiced avoiding one another. It had been sufficient to know the threat that they represented, so that the Legions could counter them effectively.
Certainly, no one had ever ordered a Cursor to find out how to propose to a Marat woman.
"Trial by combat," Octavian muttered darkly under his breath. Marcus thought he might have said, "Perfect."
Marcus kept a straight face. "Love is a wonderful thing, sir."
Octavian gave him a sour look. "Did you get the reports from Vanorius?"
Marcus opened up a leather case on his belt and passed a roll of papers to the captain. "Thanks to Magnus, yes, sir."
The captain took the papers, leaned his hip against a sand table, and started reading. "You've read them?"
"Aye."
"Your thoughts?"
Marcus pursed his lips. "The vord exist in overwhelming numbers, but they don't appear to be all that bright without a queen to guide them. There's always some fighting at the city sieges, but the besieged High Lords' problems and solutions more closely resemble being trapped in a heavy blizzard than waging war."
Octavian flipped a page, his green eyes rapidly scanning the next. "Go on."
"The enemy has a large force on the move, toward Riva. They should have gotten there already, but Aquitaine burned all the ground between Riva and the old capital right down to the bloody dirt. It appears to have slowed them down."
The captain grimaced and shook his head. "How long before they engage Aquitaine?"
"Tough to say. Assuming their pace remains as slow as it is now, another twelve to fourteen days." Marcus frowned, and said, "Even if they assault the Legions and lose, they could strike us a death blow unless we've taken out the Queen. If she tells them to, they'll fight to the last wax spider. They'll take the lion's share of our strength with them."
"And she'll simply make more," Octavian said.
"Yes, sir."
"I'd say our best option is to be there in twelve to fourteen days, then. Wouldn't you?"
Marcus felt his eyebrows try to climb up to his hairline. "That isn't going to happen. We don't have causeways. We'll never cover that distance in time to join the battle. We don't have enough fliers to shuttle in a viable number of ground troops."
Octavian's eyes glittered, and he smiled. The expression transformed the features of the normally serious young man. It was the grin of a boy with a good prank in mind. "Did you know," he said, "that Alera reached a peace agreement with the Icemen?"
"Sir? I heard something about it, but you hear a lot of things in a Legion rumor mill."
Tavi nodded. "You know Lord Vanorius?"
"Aye, somewhat. We spoke regularly when I was serving Antillus. Always on Legion business."
"Go to him," Tavi said. "We need woodcrafters. I want every Knight Flora, every Citizen with woodcrafting, and every professional woodworker in Antillus to report to this camp by dawn."
"Sir?" Marcus said. "I'm not sure I understand."
"Really?" Octavian said, that smile flickering to life again, if briefly. "Because I'm quite certain that you don't."
"Woodcrafters."
"Yes," said the captain.
Marcus lifted an eyebrow warily as his fist rose to his heart in salute. "What do you want me to tell Vanorius when he asks why you need them?"
"Operational security," the captain said. "And if that doesn't work, inform him that disobeying a lawful order of the Crown in time of war is considered treason." His eyes hardened. "I am not making a request."
"Yes, sir," Marcus said.
Outside the tent, a sentry called a challenge, and a rumbling basso voice replied in snarling tones. A second later, one of the sentries leaned into the tent, and said, "Pair of messengers from the Canim, Captain."
Octavian nodded and beckoned with one hand. "Show them in, please."
Marcus wasn't familiar with the two Canim who entered the tent a moment later, stooping slightly to keep their ears from brushing the ceiling. One, a dark-furred brute, was dressed in battered old warrior-caste armor that was missing two or three pieces. The other, a lean and golden-furred individual with beady eyes, wore the riveted-steel jacket that had become the main armor for the now-veteran Canim militia.
Marcus felt a little shock of realization go through him. Varg would never send a warrior on courier duty at all, much less one who presented such a slip-shod appearance as this one. And the golden-furred Cane was, most likely, a Shuaran, the only Canim any Aleran had ever seen with that shade of fur. The Shuaran Canim had not come to Alera with Sarl's invasion force. They had never left Canea. They could therefore never have become members of Nasaug's war-trained militia - and it would have been as good as asking to be torn to pieces for a nonmilitia Cane to falsely claim membership in those ranks. Canim pride was ferocious, jealous, and bloodily decisive.
Perhaps a shoddily armored warrior could have been sent on a message run. Perhaps the golden-furred Cane had been in the ranks all along, and Alerans had simply never noted his presence. Either of those things was remotely possible.
But both of them?
Marcus scratched at his nose with a fingertip, and when he lowered his hand again, it came to rest within an inch of his sword's hilt. He flicked a glance at Octavian, hoping to warn him.
There was no need. The captain had evidently reached the same conclusions as Marcus, and though he remained outwardly calm, he surreptitiously hooked a thumb through his belt, which placed it in close proximity to the handle of the dagger sheathed at the small of his back.
"Good morning," Octavian said politely, tilting his head very slightly to one side in a salute of superior to subordinate. "Did you gentlemen have something for me?"
The armored Cane shuffled forward a few steps, reaching into a pouch at his side.
His paw-hand emerged clenching a stone knife. The armored Cane roared, in Canish, "One people!"