Princeps’ Fury

Outside the cabin, the ship’s bell began to ring frantically. Demos began bellowing orders. A few moments later, the captain himself knocked, then opened the cabin door.

“Magnus,” he said, nodding to the old Cursor. “My lord,” he said, nodding to Tavi. “The old sea dog was right. There’s a storm coming up on us from the south.”

Tavi winced, but nodded. “How can we help you, Captain?”

“Tie down anything that isn’t bolted to the floor,” Demos said, “including yourselves. It’s going to be a bad one.”

CHAPTER 2

Valiar Marcus debated the proper way to inform the proud young Canim officer that there was, in fact, a considerable distinction between telling an Aleran that he had a poor sense of smell and informing him that he smelled bad.

The young Cane, Marcus knew, was anxious to make a good showing in his language lessons in front of no less personages than both Varg, the undisputed commander of the Canim fleet, and his son and second-in-command, Nasaug. If Marcus made the young officer look foolish, it would be an insult that the Cane would carry stubbornly to his grave-and given the enormous life span of the wolf-folk, it meant that Marcus’s actions could cause repercussions, good or ill, for generations yet unborn.

“While your statement is doubtless accurate,” Marcus replied, in careful, slow, clearly pronounced Aleran, “you may find that many of my countrymen will respond awkwardly to such remarks. Our own sense of smell is, as you note, a great deal less developed than your own, and as such the use of language that bears upon it will carry a different degree of significance than it might amongst your own folk.”

Varg growled under his breath, and muttered, “Few, Aleran or Canim, care to be informed that their odor is unwelcome.”

Marcus turned his head to the grizzled old leader of the Canim and inclined his head, in the Aleran fashion. “As you say, sir.”

He had only a split second’s warning as the embarrassed young officer let out a snarl and lunged at Marcus, his jaws snapping.

Marcus had recognized the signs of brittle pride, which, it seemed, were as common and easily noted amongst ambitious young Canim as they were amongst their Aleran counterparts. Marcus was nearing sixty years of age, and would never have been fast enough to have met the Cane, had he been relying upon his senses alone to warn him-but foresight had always proven a far-more-effective defense than speed alone. Marcus had been anticipating the flash of temper and instant violence.

The Cane was eight feet of coiled steely muscle, fangs and hard bone, and weighed two or three of Marcus-but as his jaws darted forward, he was unable to twist away when Marcus seized his ear in one callused fist and hauled to one side.

The Cane twisted and rolled with the motion, letting out a snarl that rose to a high-pitched yelp of agony as he instinctively moved toward the source of the pull against his sensitive ear, to reduce the pressure on it. Marcus took advantage of the motion, breaking the Cane’s balance, building momentum, and dropped his entire weight as well as the young Cane’s full onto his furry chin, slamming him to the deck with a skull-jarring crack of impact.

The young Cane lay there stunned for a moment, his eyes glazed, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, bleeding from a small cut.

Marcus rose and straightened his tunic. “An inferior sense of smell,” Marcus said, as if absolutely nothing of significance had happened, “is distinct from being told that one smells unpleasant. It’s possible that someone sensitive might think you intended an insult. I personally am only an old centurion, too slow to be dangerous in a fight anymore, and find nothing insulting in either statement. I am not at all angry, and could do nothing about it even if I were upset. But I would hate for someone less tolerant and more capable to do you harm when, clearly, you are only trying to be friendly. Do you understand me?”

The young officer stared at Marcus with glazed eyes. He blinked a few times. Then his ears twitched in a vague little motion of acknowledgment and assent.

“Good,” Marcus said, in his rough but functional Canish, smiling with only the slightest baring of his teeth. “I am glad that you make adequate progress in your efforts to understand Alerans.”

“A good lesson,” Varg growled in agreement. “Dismissed.”

The young Cane picked himself up, bared his throat respectfully to Varg and Nasaug, then walked rather unsteadily from the ship’s cabin.