Cursor's Fury (Codex Alera #3)(2)

Tavi frowned down at the board. He had considered the Cane's move in his planning, but had deemed it too unorthodox and impractical to worry much about it. But the subtle maneuvers of the game had altered the balance of power at that single point on the ludus board.

Tavi regarded his responses, and dismissed the first two counters as futile. Then, to his dismay, he found his next dozen options unpalatable. Within twenty moves, they would lead to a series of exchanges that would leave the Cane and his numerically superior forces in command of the ludus board and allow them to hunt down and capture Tavi's First Lord at leisure.

"Crows," the boy muttered quietly.

Varg's black lips peeled away from his white teeth, an imitation of an Aleran smile. Granted, no Aleran would ever look quite so... unabashedly carnivorous.

Tavi shook his head, still running down possibilities on the game board. "I've been playing ludus with you for almost two years, sir. I thought I had your tactics down fairly well."

"Some," Varg agreed. "You learn quickly."

"I'm not so sure," Tavi said in a dry tone. "What is it I'm supposed to be learning?"

"My mind," Varg said.

"Why?"

"Know your enemy. Know yourself. Only then may you seize victory."

Tavi tilted his head at Varg and arched an eyebrow without speaking.

The Cane showed more teeth. "Is it not obvious? We are at war, Aleran," he said, without any particular rancor beyond his own unsettling inflections. He rolled a paw-hand at the ludus board. "For now the war is polite. But it is not simply a game. We match ourselves against one another. Study one another."

Tavi glanced up and frowned at the Cane. "So that we'll know how to kill one another come the day," he said.

Varg let his silence speak of his agreement.

Tavi liked Varg, in his own way. The former Ambassador had been consistently honest, at least when dealing with Tavi, and the Cane held to an obscure but rigid sense of honor. Since their first meeting, Varg had treated Tavi with an amused respect. In his matches with Varg, Tavi had assumed that getting to know one another would eventually lead to some kind of friendship.

Varg disagreed.

For Tavi, it was a sobering thought for perhaps five seconds. Then it became bloody frightening. The Cane was what he was. A killer. If it served his honor and his purposes to rip Tavi's throat out, he wouldn't hesitate for an instant-but he was content to show polite tolerance until the time came for the open war to resume.

"I've seen skilled players do worse in their first few years in the game," Varg rumbled. "You may one day be competent."

Assuming, of course Varg and the Canim did not rip him to pieces. Tavi felt a sudden, uncomfortable urge to deflect the conversation. "How long have you been playing?"

Varg rose and paced across the room in the restless strides of any caged predator. "Six hundred years, as your breed reckons it. One hundred years as we count them."

Tavi's mouth fell open before he could shut it. "I didn't know... that."

Varg let out another chuckling growl.

Tavi pushed his mouth closed with one hand and fumbled for something relevant to say. His eyes went back to the ludus board, and he touched the square where Varg's gambit had slipped by him. "Urn. How did you manage to set that up?"

"Discipline," Varg said. "You left your pieces in irregular groups. Spread them out. It degrades their ability to support one another, compared to adjacent positioning on the board."

"I'm not sure I understand."