His fingers tightened on the curve of her waist, above one hip, stroking lightly. She shivered. "Let me show you. "
"What about Giraldi? " she asked.
"He isn't invited."
She dug her elbow lightly into Bernard's ribs. "We're not leaving him alone tonight, are we?"
"No, no. He'll meet us for dinner when we pick up Isana. He's teaching some basic combat classes, meanwhile, as something of a celebrity instructor."
"Good," Amara said. "He'll get into trouble without something to keep him occupied."
"I thought you were married to me," Bernard said.
"I pick my battles," Amara said. "You're going to find trouble regardless of what I do. Perhaps it's a family trait. It would explain you and your nephew both."
"That isn't fair," Bernard said. "Tavi gets in much more trouble than I do."
"He's younger," Amara said with a sly, sideward glance, nudging him with her hip.
"I'll show you young," Bernard growled-but he glanced over his shoulder in the middle of the statement, and the smile faded from his face as he did.
"What is it?" Amara asked, leaning her head against him as if nothing had happened.
"There are two men following us," Bernard said. "But I'm not sure that they are our escort."
"What escort?" Amara asked.
He arched an eyebrow and glanced at her.
"All right." She sighed. "The Cursors have teams watching over a number of possible loyalist targets. I didn't want you to feel insulted."
She paused to straighten the hem of her skirts and called to Cirrus, spinning the fury into a new kind of crafting, one that would bend the light entirely back upon itself, blinding her to what lay before her, but letting her see what was behind. It was a difficult crafting to form and a strain to hold on to, but a quick look was all she needed.
"Those men aren't our escort," she said quietly. "I don't know them."
Bernard's eyes narrowed. "Something does not smell right, then."
"Yes," Amara said. "I don't like the way this smells at all."
Chapter 8
"Bloody crows," Cyril snarled. "Get moving, Subtribune."
Tavi grasped the outside of the ladder with his hands and slid down it, feet pressing the sides of the ladder rather than using the rungs. He hit the ground, flexed his legs to absorb the shock, and sprinted for the infirmary tents. He heard Captain Cyril land behind him, then keep pace with Tavi despite the weight of his armor.
"Make a hole!" Tavi shouted at the recruits gathered outside the tent, doing his best to imitate Max's tone, volume, and inflection when he issued orders. "Captain coming through!"
Fish hastened to stand aside, most of them throwing hasty, suddenly remembered salutes as Cyril came through. Tavi swept the tent flap aside and held it for the captain, then followed him in.
The healer within was a veteran named Foss. He was most of seven feet tall, built like a Phrygian mountain bear, and his armor was of the style of standard Legion-issue from nearly forty years ago and looked slightly different than the current design. It bore an impressive number of dents and dings, but was impeccably maintained, and the man moved in it like it was his own skin. Foss had a short, thick brush of grey hair cropped close to his head, and deep-set, narrow eyes.
"In the tub," he snarled to the fish carrying Max, gesturing them to a long wooden watercrafter's trough filled with water. "Careful, careful. Crows take it, man, do you want to tear the wound open even farther?"
They got Max into the tub, still in his armor. The water covered him up to his chin, with his head resting on a supporting incline. Muttering darkly to himself, Foss reached in and adjusted the incline, lowering it until the water covered all of Max but his lips, nose, and eyes. Then he knelt behind Max and thrust his hands into the water, closing his eyes.
"Give him room to work, recruits," Captain Cyril said in a quiet voice. He pointed at the opposite corner of the tent, and the bloodstained young men hastened to obey him.
Tavi bit his lip, staring at his friend. Max's skin looked strange-waxy and colorless. He couldn't see if Max still drew breath.
"Healer," Cyril murmured a moment later.
"Give me some quiet here," growled Foss, his rumbling basso threatening. After a good half a minute, he added, "Sir." He went on muttering to himself under his breath, mostly colorful vulgarities from what Tavi could hear. Then Foss drew in a breath and held it.
"He's been hurt before," Tavi said to the captain. "Do you think he'll be all right?"
Cyril never took his eyes from Max. "It's bad," he said shortly.
"I saw him run through. That should have killed him. But he was up and walking inside four hours."
Cyril's gaze moved to Tavi, his expression remote, hard, though his voice remained very quiet. "Your babbling might distract Foss. If you want to help your friend, put your bloody teeth together and keep them that way. Or get out."
Tavi's cheeks flushed with warmth, and he nodded, closing his jaws with an audible click. It was a physical effort to stop talking. Max was his friend, and Tavi felt terrified. He did not want to lose him. His instincts screamed at him to shout, to order the healer to work faster, to do something. But he knew that he couldn't.
Tavi hated the helpless feeling that knowledge sent through him. He'd had a lifetime to get familiar with it, when his lack of furycrafting continually put him at a disadvantage in virtually every facet of his life. He would have given anything to have a healer's skill at watercrafting, to be able to help his friend.
The captain was right. The best thing he could do for Max was to shut his mouth and wait.
There wasn't a sound for nearly two minutes, and every second of it felt like a week.
Then Foss exhaled a low, agonized groan, bearish body sagging forward over Max.
Max suddenly jerked and drew in a ragged, choking breath.
Foss grunted, still sagging, and his rumbling voice sounded unsteady. "Got him, Cap," he said after a moment. "It was real close."
Tavi heard Cyril exhale slowly himself, though he kept his face from any expression. "I thought Lady Antillus was here today," he said. "How is it that she was not here to care for Maximus?"
Foss shook his head and slowly sat up again, drawing his arms from the bloodied water to sit down immediately on the canvas floor. "Lunch with her son, she said."
"Ah, yes. Family lunch," Cyril said. "How is he?"