Marcus couldn't pinpoint the exact location of his pursuer, but he did get a good general sense of the direction. He turned to face whoever it was, and said, quietly, "If your intentions are peaceful, show yourself."
After a moment of silence, Magnus stepped out from between two tents and faced the First Spear.
"We can speak inside your tent," Magnus murmured.
"The crows we can," Marcus growled back, as quietly, letting his annoyance show in his voice. "I'm going to my bloody cot. And I don't like being followed like that. A mistake in judgment on anyone's part could make things turn ugly."
Magnus walked closer. The old Cursor looked weary and stiff, and he studied Marcus with watery eyes. "Only if you get spotted by the mark. I'm getting old for this kind of work, First Spear. But I've got no one else to do it."
Marcus tried to sound annoyed. "To spy on me?"
"You don't add up," the old Cursor said. "There are some mysteries hanging around you. I don't like that."
"There's no mystery." Marcus sighed.
"No? There's some reason you are apparently so skilled in Cursor fieldcraft?" Marcus ground his teeth. One wouldn't absolutely have had to be a Cursor to notice old Magnus following him - but he hadn't made any mistakes, and there were few others who would have sensed Magnus's presence. In the absence of other factors, it wouldn't be suspicious for a veteran centurion to have done so. But with Magnus's suspicions aroused, the First Spear had provided him with one more point of confirmation that Valiar Marcus was not who he appeared to be.
"After all we've been through," he said quietly, "do you really think I'm out to harm the captain?"
"I think the captain has too high an opinion of his own cleverness," Magnus replied. "He's young. He doesn't know how the world works. Or how cold-blooded it can be."
"All right." Marcus sighed again. "Assume you're right. I've had plenty of chance to do something bad before now. And I haven't."
Magnus gave him a brittle smile. "If your intentions are peaceful, show yourself."
Marcus stared at him, tempted again to confess. But that wouldn't serve the best interests of the First Aleran or the Princeps. If he revealed himself to Magnus, he would certainly be arrested, assuming he was not executed immediately once his true identity was known. Of course, if Magnus worked things out, that would happen anyway.
But he hadn't done it yet.
Marcus growled a well-used obscenity beneath his breath. "Good night, Magnus."
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?"