Furies of Calderon (Codex Alera, #1)

by Jim Butcher

The girl tossed her frizzy hair over one shoulder and sniffed at the commander’s tent. “What’s your pleasure? There’s some cheap beer, but it’s mostly water. Optionally, we could get a drink of water. And if none of that suits you, I think there’s some water.” “I’ll have the water,” Amara said. “A dry wit,” Odiana noted.

“You’ll die,” said Aldrick, rising. “I’ll die,” Amara agreed. “You and your water witch can go to the crows.” She took a breath and then raised her voice, honed it to a dagger’s edge. “And so can you, Fidelias.” She had a moment to take satisfaction in the flicker of surprise in Aldrick’s eyes, the simple gasp that came from Odiana. Then she turned her eyes to the door and narrowed them, keeping her face set in a cold, hard mask. Fidelias appeared in the doorway, his clothes still rumpled.

Bernard nodded. “There’s no shame in making a mistake, Tavi—provided you learn from it. I think you’d be smart to think of this as a lesson in priorities. So?” Tavi frowned. “So what?” Bernard kept smiling. “What have you learned this morning?” Tavi glowered at the ground. “That women are trouble, sir.”

If only a decently gifted windcrafter would settle down in the Valley, they might blunt the worst of Thara’s storms before they ever reached the steadholts — but then, any windcrafter that strong would be serving as a Knight or one of the Cursors.

It's not wrong; the one who does is zerving aas a Cursor. XD

Isana let him touch her for a moment, felt the desperate, arrogant need of the young man to prove himself in his own eyes. She reached up and seized his wrist and then said, voice cold, “Rill. Deal with this slive.” Bittan abruptly convulsed and threw himself backward onto the ground. He let out a strangled scream that cut off halfway through, as clear, foaming water burst from his mouth. He thrashed on the courtyard stones in a frantic tangle of flailing limbs. His eyes bulged, and he tried to scream again, nothing but water flooding from his mouth and nose.

Fidelias smiled. “Your Excellency, please allow me to add that you stink like a sheep, that your mouth froths with idiocy and poison, and that your guts are as yellow as a springtime daffodil.” He steepled his fingers, regarding Calix, and said, very soft and distinctly, “You . . . are . . . a . . . coward.”

A beautifully crafted insult.

Otto shook his head again. “I just can’t believe someone would do that.” “Otto,” muttered Aldo. “Use your head for something besides a dressing mirror.

Odiana sat on her horse, humming quietly to herself. The ground in front of her had, it had seemed, quite abruptly transformed into bog. Neither Marat nor herdbane could be seen, but the silt and mud before her stirred vaguely, as though something thrashed unseen beneath its surface. The water witch noticed him looking at her and commented, her tone warm, “I love the way the ground smells after a rain.”

Tavi felt his cheeks color again, and he looked down. “All right,” he sighed. “She kissed me, and my brains melted and dribbled out my ears.”

“How did you hurt your arm?” Amara used her other hand to brush at her hair, pulling it back from her face. “I fell, yesterday. I cut it.”

Technically not false, are those statements?

Isana frowned and leaned to look past her brother. Without changing expression, he moved a bit more to block her view with his body. Isana let out an impatient breath and shouldered her brother a bit to one side, looking past him. “Bernard,” she said. “Why is there a girl in your bed?” Her brother coughed and flushed. “Isana, when you say it that way —” She turned to blink up at him. “Bernard. Why is there a girl in your bed?”

“Love,” Odiana said. “We still don’t know where this boy is, do we? If you go and kill the ugly little girl right now, won’t the Steadholder object? And then you’d have to kill him as well. And anyone else upstairs. And all these people here . . .” She licked her lips, her eyes bright, and said to Fidelias, “Why shouldn’t we do this again?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll figure a way out of this.” Fade nodded, eyes watching Tavi expectantly. “Well not right this minute,” Tavi said, after a flustered moment.

“Highly irregular,” Pluvus stuttered to Gram, pages fluttering. Gram irritably took the pages from Pluvus’s hand and said, “Quit waving these under my nose.” There was a bright flash of light and heat, and then fine, black ashes drifted away on the cool wind. Pluvus let out a little yelp of distress.

“Marat stronger than Tavi,” Fade said. “Faster.” “Thank you,” Tavi said, testily. “I needed that kind of encouragement.” Fade’s eyes glittered with something like good humor, and he ruffled Tavi’s hair with one hand. “Tavi smart. There. Bag of tricks. Be smart, Tavi. Important.” Tavi tilted his head to one side, peering at the slave. “Fade?” he asked. The glitter faded from the man’s eyes, and he gave Tavi his witless grin.

“I am not a child,” Tavi hissed furiously. “I’m older than you. What are you, twelve years old? Thirteen?” Kitai narrowed his eyes. “Fifteen,” he hissed. Tavi stared at the other boy for a moment, then started smiling. He had to struggle not to break out into sudden laughter.

“Mad,” Kitai said. “You people are mad.” With that, he turned and glided deeper into the glowing forest.

Kitai blinked at Tavi and then smiled, slowly. “By The One, yes. That was his plan all along.” She blinked her abruptly shining eyes several times and said fiercely, “The problem is that Doroga does not seem to be clever. No wonder my mother loved him.”

And then he thought he saw something in the great mound in front of him move. Tavi jerked his eyes up to it, flinching, and felt an immediate, hot pain in the fingers of his hand. The thorns on the next mushroom had pierced him. He jerked his hand back, and droplets of his blood flashed out and arced through the air, sprinkling the glowing mound in front of him.

“And call me Bernard. As long as we’re stuck in a storage closet together, I think we can skip the titles. There won’t be room for all of us.”

“There’s two kinds of bad men in the world. I mean, there’s all kinds of ways for a man to go bad, but when you get right down to it, there’s only about two kinds of men who will hurt others with forethought. Premeditation. Men that don’t figure there’s anyone else alive who matters but them. And men who figure that there’s something that matters more than anyone’s life. Even their own.” He shook his head. “First one is common enough. Petty, small. They’re everywhere. People who just don’t give a scorched crow about anyone else. Mostly, the bad they do doesn’t amount to much. “The second kind is like your patriserus. People who hold something dear above their own lives, above anyone else’s. They’ll fight to protect it and kill to protect it, and the whole time they’ll be thinking to themselves that it has to be done. That it’s the right thing to do.” Bernard glanced up at her and said, “Dangerous those. Very dangerous.”

Miss, I know that you want to help, but—” “But this is man’s work?” Amara asked. “None of us have time for that, centurion.

Healer, perhaps the truthfinder needs a good bed.” “I think he does, at that,” agreed Harger cheerfully. He toted Pluvus into the cell and dumped him unceremoniously on the bare palette. “The closest bed possible.”

Amara reached for Cirrus and borrowed of her fury’s swiftness. Her arm blurred, drawing the short guardsman’s blade from its scabbard at her hip. The sword leapt across the space between them before the startled soldier could react, and Amara leaned forward enough to let it dimple his throat. The room abruptly went dead silent, but for the crackle of the fire. “I am a Cursor of the First Lord himself. I’m here on business. And I have no tolerance for drunken fools. Drop the knife.”

One of the men slipped and cut his leg, drawing, of all things, a sudden and enthusiastic discussion about how sharp the spikes were and how well they’d cut him. The loudest voice of praise was from the injured man.