"Men are going to die, regardless of what we do," Arnos shot back.
"Granted," Cyril said. "I simply prefer that we avoid killing them unnecessarily. As a matter of professional principle."
Arnos narrowed his eyes at Sir Cyril.
"I might point out, sir," Tavi added, "that even a temporary cessation of hostilities would provide us with more time to gather intelligence and maneuver to better advantage."
"And more time for the enemy to build attack vessels and become a far more mobile threat. More time for the traitor-slaves to train and equip. More time for them to fortify their positions." Arnos turned a gimlet gaze on Tavi, and said, "There will be no negotiation, Captain."
"Sir," Tavi said, "if you would only give me a little time to contact the First Lord and-"
Arnos's face flushed red, and his voice became harsh, hard. "There will be no negotiation, Captain!"
"But-"
"One more word out of your mouth," Arnos spat, "and I will suspend you from duty and have you flogged. Do you understand? Captain?"
Tavi clenched his jaw shut on an utterly unwise answer and gave the Senator a single, sharp nod instead.
Arnos glared at him for a few seconds, and nodded. His voice dropped back into a calmer register, and he rose. "Thank you for your report, Captain," he said, as he went to the front of the room. "That will be all."
Tavi stalked over to take his seat at Sir Cyril's right hand. "Crows take it," he muttered under his breath.
"It hardly came as a surprise," Cyril replied.
Tavi growled in his throat.
"Easy," Cyril cautioned him. "You've pushed enough for today. I think we might have gotten through to Nalus, at least."
Tavi glanced aside, to the Guard captain. Nalus was frowning thoughtfully at the rough map, as Senator Arnos made a little speech about defending Alera from the Canim scourge.
A shiver ran down Tavi's spine, and he looked past Nalus to find Navaris staring at him with blank eyes. The cutter held his gaze for a moment, then gave him an unsettling smile.
Tavi looked away and suppressed a shudder of discomfort.
"Gentlemen," Arnos was saying, "we have been on the defensive for too long. We've stood upon walls and bridges for too long. It is high time that we went forth to meet this threat, and show them what it means to cross the Legions."
That won a lot of murmurs of approval from the room-again, from everyone except the officers of the First Aleran.
"And so as of right now," Arnos continued, "our offensive has begun." He turned and drew a bold stroke on the slateboard, from the Elinarch straight down to Mastings. "We bring their main body to battle and wipe them out before they can get these ships built. We march at dawn, two days hence. Prepare your men. Dismissed."
The room broke out into noise as the men stood, already talking, and began shuffling toward the exit. Within a moment or two, Tavi and Cyril sat alone.
Cyril stared at the map on the slateboard for a moment, and then rolled his eyes. "Of course. March directly toward the objective in a straight line." He sighed. "How many strong points does Nasaug have to work with along that route?"
"Three, maybe four," Tavi said. "Plus a lot of opportunity to hit our supply lines as we march. And then the city itself."
"Can we force through them?"
"Depends," Tavi said. "If Nasaug is willing to take heavy losses, he could stop us cold."
Cyril shook his head. "He won't. He'll hit us as hard as he can while keeping his own losses to a minimum."
Tavi nodded. "Bleed us all the way to Mastings. Then bring the hammer down."
"How long will that take?"
Tavi shook his head, calculating. Thanks to Ehren's hard work, he'd had detailed maps to work with in his own planning, and he was familiar with the territory they'd be fighting their way through. "Call it ten weeks, unless we get lucky." Tavi squinted at the map. "And I'm not feeling all that lucky."
"A lot can happen in ten weeks," Cyril replied.
"I should talk to him again," Tavi said. "Privately. He might be more receptive to the notion of negotiating if he isn't surrounded by people."
"He's always surrounded by people," Cyril said. "And it won't do any good, Captain."
"But it's so stupid. Nasaug is willing to talk."
"You don't know that," Cyril said. "He's never sent any kind of word suggesting it."
"It isn't their way," Tavi replied. "To a Cane, talk is cheap. Actions are what speak loudest. And Nasaug's actions are clearly stating his intentions. He's willing to work with Alerans, rather than simply slaughter them-and he wants to leave."
"Perhaps," Cyril said. "Perhaps you're right. If I was in charge, I'd give what you're saying some serious thought. You've earned that." He shook his head. "But I'm not, and neither are you. If you bring it up again, he'll have an excuse to replace you. Don't give it to him."
Tavi exhaled through his clenched teeth. "There's got to be a way."
"Then find it," Cyril said, pushing himself up out of his chair. "But do it in your spare time. Keep your focus on the here and now. They might not know it, but a lot of people are depending on you for their lives."
"Yes, sir," Tavi said.
They exchanged a mutual salute, and Cyril limped out, leaning on his cane. A moment later, Maximus leaned his head in the door. "Hey there, Captain. What's the word?"
"We're marching," Tavi replied, rising to walk to the door. "Send Tribune Cymnea to my office, please, so we can start on logistics. Put the men on notice." He looked up and down the hallway, frowning. "Hngh. I would have expected Marcus to be here. Have you seen him?"
"Not today."
"When you do," Tavi said, "send him to my office, too."
"Yes, sir," Max said.
Tavi went to the slateboard and swiped a damp cloth over it until the markings had been erased. It was sloppy of Amos to leave his marching orders- such as they were-displayed for any idiot to wander by and see. "All right, Tribune." He sighed. "Let's get to work."
Chapter 7
Marcus looked around the shabby tent-tavern, one of many that had sprung up in the refugee camp. He hadn't been to this particular establishment before, but he'd seen many like it in his day. Admittedly, few of them had been quite this squalid. The canvas of the tent was sloppily patched with tar rather than being properly repaired. The floors, which could at least have been swept smooth and laid with rushes, were simply mud. The legs of the trestle tables had sunk six inches into it, and their surfaces would have been too low if the benches in front of them hadn't sunk down as well.