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“You money. Marceas go free.”

TWENTY-THREE

It had all gone so perfectly, and so horribly wrong. The guard at the gate not only believed him, but had helped arrange everything—taken Eavus straight to the tireni-at-watch, who just so happened to be Tireni Parlus who Eavus had served under in Pinay, the same Tireni that had written such a glowing cara propita that a full year had been shaved off Eavus’ required service. Parlus had not only believed every word, he had congratulated Eavus for having such good fortune and loyal friends—friends that had been wise enough to take care of the girl quickly, before the prefect awoke. Parlus had even gone to the slave market himself to collect her belongings, so the slave master couldn’t take a cut of the proceeds, made sure that Eavus’ name was properly listed on Revni’s bill of sale. He had directed Eavus to a tent, where half his old tent party was already stationed, having been recalled to Lordinius for re-assignment after the incident with the invaders in the Middle Marshes. Eavus found himself, before the sun rose, fully restored: back among soldiers he knew, a purse full of coin with the promise of more tomorrow, and a meeting with the prefect in the afternoon. Tireni Parlus assured him it was only perfunctory.

How in Viduus’ name had it all happened so fast? One minute, he had been ready to let her go, and then in the next, she had proved her worth without him even lifting a finger. He had been right, about all of it—She hadn’t only been the evidence he’d needed to convince the guard at the gate, she had been the key to newfound fame and fortune. He might even get another commendation. That freedom on the horizon—it was close enough to touch.

So why couldn’t he focus on the man in front of him? He kept thinking of Revni, that was why, of the horrified look on her face when they’d dragged her away. He should have said something. He should have done something. But if he had…he wouldn’t be here.

“Legionary.” The barking tone shook Eavus out of his thoughts.

“Sir.” He shifted his stance. That shoulder she’d stabbed still tweaked.

The prefect leaned back in his chair. His squint caused a tightening to Eavus’ spine. He kept his focus on the chip in the wall above the prefect’s head. Could it be possible that he’d only be sent to the quartermaster and a reassignment, like Parlus suggested? A chastisement, he could handle. A quick thwack to his knuckles or the back of his knees, a few days of soreness and bruising. He was certainly used to that already. His shoulder nipped at a nerve again, like agreement.

Of course, it could be the lash. The back of Eavus’ neck prickled with other possibilities. Reduction in rations, when his stomach still clawed at him. Reduction in pay? He’d rather take the lash. His palms itched with the phantom of stolen coin.

“What are they like?”

Surprised, Eavus flicked his gaze. The prefect’s stubble was flecked in gray.

“Sir?”

“You met the natives, I heard. On your journey.” The prefect rubbed his thumb over each of his fingertips, like he was playing an instrument. Pinkie, fourth, middle. “What are they like?”

Eavus almost shrugged, but caught himself. What are they like? How to explain. Dirty, was his first thought, though he certainly couldn’t judge on that front. Confusing. Sneaky. Frightening, though he’d never admit that to a superior.

“They’re…” Eavus worked his jaw. How to explain? Why did it make his heart hurt to think about it? Scrabbling out their existence in a land that was theirs by rights. The warmth of the little Dinaeii camp, the wattled huts trapping heat, the children. Rast’s hollowed out eyes, Kena pressing a whole loaf of bread into his hands, the same way the old Dinaeii woman had, her fingers crooked from arthritis. “…Tribal,” he settled on. True enough.

The prefect snorted. The music in his fingers changed—second, third, fourth, fourth, fourth, fourth. Eavus could practically hear it.

“Could you tell the difference, do you think?”

“The difference between what, sir?”

“Tribes. Catavarrus, Caerdeneii, Sculpae. They all look alike to me,” he admitted, finally shifting forward to rest his elbows on the camp table. A breeze chilled Eavus’ back and made the papers sigh.

“There are differences. The patterns of their clothing, for instance. They speak different languages, but they’re all so similar you might not know it—” Eavus cut himself off abruptly. Revni’s smug smile had somehow filled his whole brain, her laugh, the dig of her shoulder into his back when they squared off against the Blue Men. He shook his head again. “I don’t think I could, sir. They’re all barbarians.”

His ears got hot, but thankfully, no other part of his visage betrayed the twist of disloyalty in his stomach.

Which was ridiculous. A few nights’ meals, a few bandaged wounds, did not a loyalty make.

“Still.” The prefect’s chair scraped against the floor when he stood. “You’ve encountered them, seen their territory, and lived to tell the tale.”

All thoughts of the Dinaeii and Oditi, of Revni, of the stinging in his shoulder, suddenly fled. The prefect was looking him up and down, like he was a piece of meat in a market, his thumb back to tapping his fingertips. Eavus wondered if in fact he was the instrument after all.

“Yes, sir,” he replied warily.

The prefect clasped his hands behind his back and looked Eavus in the eye. “Could you do it again?”

Eavus suspected it wasn’t a question. It was better when he was being reprimanded. He wanted that chip in the wall to stare at instead of the prefect’s unblinking gaze.

“I’m not sure what you’re asking, sir.”

“I need a man to take a message to Norbucum.” Eavus wrinkled his brow, but the prefect anticipated his question and put up a hand. “We’ve always used locals because they know the land, but this particular message is too important. I can’t risk it being read, so the cipher is to be delivered verbally. And I certainly can’t trust one of the locals to do so.”

Eavus wanted to simply say, No thank you, and ask to go back to the barracks. He wanted food, a bath, a haircut. His head itched, likely from dirt, but it felt like crawling and if it was lice, he was going to be angry at Revni for making him take the blanket.