Cursor's Fury (Codex Alera #3)(12)

The charging rider hauled on the reins of his horse so hard that the poor beast must have bruised its chin on its chest. The horse slid to a stop in the loose earth and stone of the dig site, throwing up a large cloud of fine dust.

"Tavi!" the young man atop the horse bellowed. Equal measures of joy and anger fought for dominance of his tone. "What the crows do you think you're doing? Did you throw that stone?"

"You could say that," Tavi said.

"Hah! Did you finally figure out how to do a simple earthcrafting?"

"Better," Tavi said. "We have a Romanic war engine." He turned and glanced at the wreckage, wincing. "Had," he corrected himself.

Max's mouth opened, then shut again. He was a young man come into the full of his adult strength, tall and strong. He had a solid jaw, a nose that had been broken on several occasions, wolfish grey eyes, and while he would never be thought beautiful, Max's features were rugged and strong and had an appeal of their own.

He sheathed his weapon and dismounted. "Romanics? Those guys who you think didn't have any furycraft, like you?"

"The people were called Romans," Tavi corrected him. "You call something Romanic when it was built by Romans. And yes. Though I'm surprised you remember that from the Academy. "

"Don't blame me. I did everything I could to prevent it, but it looks like some of the lectures stuck," Max said, and eyed Tavi. "You nearly took my head off with that rock, you know. I fell off my horse. I haven't done that since-"

"The last time you were drunk," Tavi interjected, grinning, and offered Max his hand.

The big young man snorted and traded a hard grip with Tavi. "Furies, Calderon. You kept growing. You're as tall as me. You're too old to grow that much."

"Must be making up for lost time," Tavi said. "Max, have you met Maestro Magnus?"

The old man picked himself up off the ground, brushing away dirt and scowling like a thunderstorm. "This? This mental deficient is Antillus Raucus's son?"

Max turned to face the old man, and to Tavi's surprise his face flushed red beneath his tanned skin. "Sir," Max said, giving an awkward duck of his head. "You're one of the people my father bid me give his regards should I see you."

Magnus arched a silvery eyebrow.

Max glanced at the wreckage of the engine. "Uh. And I'm sorry about your, uh... your Romanic thing."

"It's a war engine," Magnus said in a crisp tone. "A Romanic war engine. The carvings we've found refer to it as a mule. Though admittedly, there seems to be some kind of confusion, since some of the earlier texts use the same word to describe the soldiers of their Legions..." Magnus shook his head. "I'm wandering again, excuse me." The old man glanced at the ruined war device and sighed. "When is the last time you spoke to your father, Maximus?"

"About a week before I ran off and joined the Legions, sir," Max said. "Call it eight years or so."

Magnus's grunt conveyed a wealth of disapproval. "You know why he doesn't speak to you, I take it?"

"Aye," Max said, his tone quiet. Tavi heard an underpinning of sadness in his friend's voice, and he winced in sympathy. "Sir, I'd be glad to fix it for you."

"Would you now?" Magnus said, eyes glinting. "That's quite generous."

"Certainly," Max said, nodding. "Won't take me a minute. "

"Indeed not," Magnus said. "I should think it a project of weeks." He lifted his eyebrows and asked Max, "You were aware, of course, that my research compels us to use strictly Romanic methods. No furycrafting."