Furies of Calderon ca-1

  Furies of Calderon

  ( Codex Alera - 1 )

  Jim Butcher

  The course of history is determined not by battles, by sieges, or usurpations, but by the actions of the individual. The strongest city, the largest army is, at its most basic level, a collection of individuals. Their decisions, their passions, their foolishness, and their dreams shape the years to come. If there is any lesson to be learned from history, it is that all too often the fate of armies, of cities, of entire realms rests upon the actions of one person. In that dire moment of uncertainty, that person's decision, good or bad, right or wrong, big or small, can unwittingly change the world.

  But history can be quite the slattern. One never knows who that person is, where he might be, or what decision he might make.

  It is almost enough to make me believe in Destiny.

  From the writings of Gaius Primus First Lord of Albra

  Jim Butcher

  Furies of Calderon

  (Codex Alera - 1)

  The course of history is determined not by battles, by sieges, or usurpations, but by the actions of the individual. The strongest city, the largest army is, at its most basic level, a collection of individuals. Their decisions, their passions, their foolishness, and their dreams shape the years to come. If there is any lesson to be learned from history, it is that all too often the fate of armies, of cities, of entire realms rests upon the actions of one person. In that dire moment of uncertainty, that person's decision, good or bad, right or wrong, big or small, can unwittingly change the world.

  But history can be quite the slattern. One never knows who that person is, where he might be, or what decision he might make.

  It is almost enough to make me believe in Destiny.

  From the writings of Gaius Primus First Lord of Albra

  PROLOGUE

  "Please, Tavi," wheedled the girl in the predawn darkness outside the stead-holt's kitchen. "Just this one little favor?"

  "I don't know," said the boy. "There's so much work today."

  She leaned in closer to him, and the boy felt her slender body mold against his, soft and lower-scented and delightful. She pressed her mouth to his cheek in a slow kiss and whispered in his ear, "I'd be very grateful."

  "Well," the boy said. "I'm not sure if, um."

  She kissed his cheek again and whispered, "Please."

  His heart pounded more quickly, and his knees felt weak. "All right. I'll do it."

  Chapter 1

  Amara rode atop the swaying back of the towering old gargant bull, going over the plan in her head. The morning sun shone down on her, taking the chill out of the misty air and warming the dark wool of her skirts. Behind her, the axles of the cart squeaked and groaned beneath their loads. The slave collar she wore had begun to chafe her skin, and she made an irritated mental note to wear one for a few days in order to grow used to it, before the next mission.

  Assuming she survived this one, of course.

  A tremor of nervous fear ran down her spine and made her shoulders tighten. Amara took a deep breath and blew it out again, closing her eyes for a moment and blocking out every thought except for the sensations around her: sunlight on her face, swaying of the pungent gargant's long strides, creaking of the cart's axles.

  "Nervous?" asked the man walking beside the gargant. A goad dangled from his hand, but he hadn't lifted it in the entire trip. He managed the beast with the lead straps alone, though his head barely came to the old bull's brown-furred thigh. He wore the plain clothes of a peddler: brown leggings, sturdy sandals, with a padded jacket over his shirt, dark green on homespun. A long cape, tattered green without embroidery, had been cast over one shoulder as the sun rose higher.

  "No," Amara lied. She opened her eyes again, staring ahead.

  Fidelias chuckled. "Liar. It's not a brainless plan. It might work."

  Amara shot her teacher a wary glance. "But you have a suggestion?"

  "In your graduation exercise?" Fidelias asked. "Crows, no. I wouldn't dream of it, academ. It would cheapen your performance."

  Amara licked her lips. "But you think that there's something I should know?"

  Fidelias gave her a perfectly guileless look. "I did have a few questions."

  "Questions," Amara said. "We're going to be there in a few moments."

  "I can ask them when we arrive, if you prefer."

  "If you weren't my patriserus, I would find you an impossible man," Amara sighed.

  "That's sweet of you to say," Fidelias replied. "You've come a long way since your first term at the Academy. You were so shocked when you found out that the Cursors did more than deliver missives."

  "You love telling that story even though you know I hate it."

  "No," Fidelias said with a grin. "I love telling that story because I know you hate it."

  She looked down at him archly. "This is why the Cursor Legate keeps sending you away on missions, I think."

  "It's a part of my charm," Fidelias agreed. "Now, then. My first concern-"

  "Question," Amara corrected.

  "Question," he allowed, "is with our cover story."

  "What question? Armies need iron. You're an ore smuggler, and I'm your slave. You heard there was a market out this way, and you came to see what money could be made."

  "Ah," said Fidelias. "And what do I tell them when they ask where I got the ore? It isn't just found by the roadside, you know."

  "You're a Cursor Callidus. You're creative. I'm sure you'll think of something."

  Fidelias chuckled. "You've learned delegating skills, at least. So, we approach this renegade Legion with our precious ore." He nodded back toward the squeaking cart. "What's to stop them from simply taking it?"

  "You're the harbinger of a smuggling network, representing several interests in the business. Your trip is being watched, and if the results are good, others might be willing to bring supplies as well."

  "That's what I don't understand," Fidelias said, his expression innocent. "If this is indeed a renegade Legion, as rumors say, under the command of one of the High Lords, in preparation for overthrowing the Crown-aren't they going to object to any word about them getting out? Good, bad, or indifferent?"

  "Yes," Amara said. She glanced down at him. "Which works in our favor. You see, if you don't return from this little jaunt, word is going to spread all around Alera about this encampment."

  "Inevitable, since word would get out anyway. One can hardly keep an entire Legion secret for long."

  "It's our best shot," Amara said. "Can you think of anything better?"

  "We sneak in close, furycraft ourselves into the camp, obtain evidence, and then run like the crows were after us."

  "Oh," Amara said. "I considered it. I decided it was too brainless and predictable."

  "It has the advantage of simplicity," Fidelias pointed out. "We recover the information, give solid evidence to the Crown, and let the First Lord launch a more comprehensive antisedition campaign."

  "Yes, that's simpler. But once whoever is running this camp knows that they have been observed by the Cursors, they will simply disperse and move their operations elsewhere. The Crown will simply spend money and effort and lives to pin them down again-and even then, whoever is putting out the money to field their own army might simply get away."

  Fidelias glanced up at her and let out a low whistle. "So you want to get in and out undetected, get word to the Crown and-then what?"

  "Lead a few cohorts of Knights Aeris back down here and crush them where they lie," Amara said. "Take prisoners, have them testify against their backers, and wrap it all up right here."

  "Ambitious," he commented. "Very ambitious. Very dangerous, too. If they catch on to us, they'll kill us. And i
t's reasonable to expect that they'll have Knights as well-and that they'll be on the lookout for a Cursor or two."

  "That's why we don't get caught," Amara said. "We play the poor, greedy smuggler and his slave, haggle for all the money we can get from them, and leave."

  "And keep the money." Fidelias frowned. "On general principle, I like any mission that involves a profit. But, Amara-there's a lot that could go wrong with this one."

  "We are the First Lord's messengers, are we not? His eyes and ears?"

  "Don't quote the Codex at me," Fidelias snapped, annoyed. "I was a Cursor before your mother and father had called their first furies. Don't think that because the First Lord has taken a shine to you that you know better than I do."

  "You don't think it's worth the risk?"

  "I think there's a lot you don't know," Fidelias said, and he looked very old for some reason. Uncertain. "Let me handle this, Amara. I'll go inside. You stay here, and I'll pick you up on the way out. There's no reason to risk both of us."

  "No," she said. "In the first place, this is my mission to run. In the second, you will need your full attention to play your role. I'll be able to make observations-especially from up here." She slapped the gargant's broad

  back, and the bull snorted up a small whirlwind of trail dust in response. "I'll also be able to watch our backs. If I get the impression that they're onto us, we can get out of there."

  Fidelias muttered, "I thought we'd just use this guise to pose as travelers. Get close and slip into the camp after dark."

  "When no one else is coming in and when we're certain to arouse suspicion if we're seen?"

  He blew out a breath. "All right," he said. "All right. We'll do it your way. But you're gambling yourself with the crows."

  Amara's stomach fluttered again, and she pressed a hand to it, trying to will the fear away. It didn't leave. "No," she said. "I'm gambling both of us."

  Though the gargant's plodding steps seemed slow, each covered many strides of a man. The great beast's thick-clawed feet ate the miles, though it stripped the bushes and trees of leaves along the way, adding to the layers of blubbery fat beneath its hide. If allowed, the humpbacked beast would wander into the richest forage and graze, but Fidelias handled it with a sure and calm hand, keeping the beast moving along the road, while he marched at the quickstep beside it.

  A mile more, by Amara's estimation, and they had come within picket distance of the insurgent Legion's camp. She tried to remind herself of her role- that of a bored slave, sleepy and tired from days of travel-but it was all she could do to keep the mounting tension from rising in her shoulders and back. What if the Legion turned out to be nothing more than rumor, and her intelligence gathering mission, so carefully outlined and planned, turned out to be a costly waste of time? Would the First Lord think less of her? Would the other Cursors? It would be a paltry introduction into the ranks, indeed, if she stepped forth from the Academy and straight into a monumental blunder.

  Her anxiety grew, like bands of iron stretching across her shoulders and back, and her head started to pound from the tension and the glare of the sun. Had they made a wrong turn? The old trail they followed seemed too well-worn to be an abandoned lumber track, but she could be wrong. Wouldn't they be seeing the smoke of a Legion's fires? Wouldn't they hear something, by now, if they were as close as she suspected?

  Amara was on the verge of leaning down to call to Fidelias, to ask his advice, when a man in dark tunic and leggings and a gleaming breastplate and helmet melted into view beneath the shadows of a tree on the road no more than ten strides in front of them. He appeared without a warning of any

  kind, without a flicker of movement-furycrafting involved, then, and a fairly skilled woodworking at that. He was a giant of a man, nearly seven feet tall, and he bore a heavy blade at his side. He lifted one gloved hand and said, his tone bored, distant, "Halt."

  Fidelias clucked to the gargant bull, slowing the beast to a stop after several steps. The wagon creaked and groaned, settling onto its wheels beneath the weight of the ore.

  "Good morning to you, master," Fidelias called, his voice oozing nervous, obsequious good cheer. The senior Cursor doffed his hat and clutched it in his slightly trembling hands. "And how are you doing on this fine autumn morn?"

  "You're on the wrong trail," said the dark giant. His tone was dull, almost sleepy, but he laid a hand on the hilt of his weapon. "This land is not friendly to travelers. Turn around."

  "Yes, master, of course we will, master," Fidelias simpered. "I am but a humble peddler, transporting his cargo in the vain hope of finding a ready market. I have no desire for trouble, good master, only for the chance to attempt to recoup my losses on this most excellent but lamentably ill-timed bounty of-" Fidelias rolled his eyes skyward and dragged one foot through the dust of the trail. "Iron." He shot the giant a sly smile. "But, as you wish, good master. I'll be on my way."

  The dark man stepped forward and said, "Hold, merchant."

  Fidelias glanced back at him. "Master?" he asked. "Can I perhaps interest you in a purchase?"

  The dark man shrugged. He stopped a few feet from Fidelias and asked, "How much ore?"

  "Nearly a ton, good master. As you can see, my poor gargant is all but done in."

  The man grunted, eyeing the beast, and swept his gaze up it, to Amara. "Who is this?"

  "My slave, good master," Fidelias said. His voice took on a cringing, wheedling tone. "She's for sale, if you like the look of her, master. A hard worker, skilled at weaving and cooking-and more than capable of giving a man an unforgettable night's pleasure. At two lions, she's surely a bargain."

  The man snorted. "Your hard worker rides while you walk, merchant. It would have been smarter for you to travel alone." He sniffed. "And she's as skinny as a boy. Take your beast and follow me."

  "You wish to buy, master?"

  The soldier gave him a look and said, "I didn't ask you, merchant. Follow me."

  Fidelias stared at the soldier and then swallowed, an almost audible gulp. "Aye, aye, master. We'll be only a pace or three behind you. Come on old boy." He picked up the gargant's lead straps in shaking fingers and stirred the great beast into motion again.

  The soldier grunted and turned to start walking back down the road. He let out a sharp whistle, and a dozen men armed with bows appeared from the shadows and brush on the sides of the trail, just as he had a moment before.

  "Keep the men here until I return," the man said. "Stop anyone from coming past."

  "Yes, sir," one of the men said. Amara focused on that one. The men all wore the same outfits: black tunics and breeches with surcoats of dark green and dark brown. The speaker, in addition, wore a black sash around his waist-as the first soldier had. Amara checked around, but none of the other men wore a sash-only those two. She made a mental note of it. Knights? Possibly. One of them had to have been a strong woodcrafter, to have hidden so many men so thoroughly.

  Crows, she thought. What if this rebel Legion turns out to have a full contingent of Knights to go with it? With that many men, that many powerful furycrafters, they could he a threat to any city in Alera.

  And, as a corollary, it would mean that the Legion had powerful backing. Any furycrafter strong enough to be a Knight could command virtually what price he wished for his services. They could not be casually bought by any disgruntled merchant set to convince his Lord or High Lord to lower taxes. Only the nobility could afford the cost of hiring a few Knights, let alone a contingent of them.

  Amara shivered. If one of the High Lords was preparing to turn against the First Lord, then there were dark days ahead indeed.

  She looked down at Fidelias, and he glanced up at her, his face troubled. She thought she could see the reflection of her own thoughts and fears there in his eyes. She wanted to talk to Fidelias, to ask him for his thoughts on the matter, but she couldn't break her role now. Amara ground her teeth and dug her fingers into the pad of the gargant's riding saddle and tried to calm hers
elf again, while the soldier led them to the camp.

  Amara kept her eyes open as the gargant's plodding steps brought them

  around a bend in the trail and over a small hill, into the valley beyond and behind it. There, the camp spread out before them.

  Great furies, she thought. It looks like a city.

  Her mind took down details as she stared. The camp had been constructed along standard Legion lines: a stake-wall and ditch fortification built in a huge square, surrounding the soldier's encampment and stores. Tents of white fabric had been erected within, row after row of them, too many for easy counting, laid out in neat, precise rows. Two gates, opposite one another, led into the camp. The tents and lean-tos of the camp's followers spread out around it in ragged disarray, like flies buzzing around a sleeping beast.

  People were everywhere.

  On a practice field beside the camp, entire cohorts of men were drilling in formation combat and maneuvers, ordered about by bawling centurions or men in black sashes mounted on horseback. Elsewhere, archers riddled distant targets with their arrows, while furymasters drilled other recruits in the application of their basic warcraftings. Women moved among the camp, as well-washing clothes at a stream that passed by, mending uniforms, tending fires, or simply enjoying the morning sunlight. Amara saw a couple of women wearing sashes of black, on horseback, riding toward the practice field. Dogs wandered about the camp and set up a tinny racket of barking upon scenting the gargant as it came over the hill. To one side of the camp, not far from the stream, men and women had established what looked like a small market, vendors hawking wares from makeshift stalls and spreading them upon blankets on the ground.

  "You're here between breakfast and lunch," said the soldier. "Or I'd offer you some food."

  "Perhaps we'll take lunch with you, master," Fidelias said.

  "Perhaps." The soldier stopped and looked up at Amara, studying her with quiet, hard eyes. "Get her down. I'll send out a groom or two to care for your beast."