The Cutting Edge Read Free Page B

thought most popular man in the army.
    "Shandie!" they shouted. "Shandie!"
    Emshandar. The prince imperial. The imperor's grandson. Heir apparent. The most popular man in the army.
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    Never before had Ylo entered a commander's compound, but now he marched straight in and was saluted as he did so. He set the pole in the base prepared for it and spun around to face the procession he had been leading-or tried to, but his legs failed him, and he almost fell. The imperor's grandson saluted the standard, ignoring the stagger. He gave Ylo a nod that was a personal summons and headed for his tent, followed by a gaggle of shiny-helmeted officers, few of whom had likely bloodied their swords this day.
    Ylo tagged on the end. Halfway there, his way was blocked by an oak tree garbed in the uniform of a centurion. Eyes like two knotholes peered out of a face of bark.
    "Who're you, soldier?"
    Ylo was too exhausted to be humble. "The signifer!"
    The man's wooden eyes narrowed. He glanced back at the standard. "Dead or wounded?"
    "Dead. "
    The centurion again blocked Ylo as he tried to move. "Do you know who he was?" His voice creaked like falling timber. Ylo shook his head dumbly.
    "His cousin. Prince Ralpnie. Fourth in line to the throne. " Ylo stared at the arboreal face for a long moment as his beaten brain wrestled meaning from the words. Eventually he decided they were a caution. And help. He had forgotten such things, in two years of being a nonperson, a number.
    He dragged up the proper response from some deep-buried memory. "Thanks!"
    The man nodded. Then he sank down on one knee. By the time Ylo had realized that the centurion was unlacing one of his own sandals, the man had removed it and placed it in front of Ylo's bare foot. Ylo stepped into it. The big ox even fastened it for him-no matter how muddy and bloody he might be, a signifer must not go into a legate's presence barefoot if there was a spare shoe around.
    Ylo said, "Thanks," again as the centurion rose.
    Without as much as a nod, the tree shifted his roots and eased out of Ylo's way.
    Ylo dragged himself as far as the tent and then into its scented dimness. The walls were made of purple silk. He had not seen silk in two years. Carpets. Furniture. A smell of soap.
    There were at least a dozen men there, most in uniform, some not. As he entered, the muttered greetings were ending, the condolences and congratulations. He sensed the roiling dark mood-victory, but oh, the price! Triumph and loss. Heartbreak and joy. Relief and sorrow. The legate's cousin was but one of many not destined to share the victory.
    Carpets. Iron-banded chests. There was one chair, and as Ylo arrived, the legate sat down wearily, glanced in his direction, and raised a foot.
    This time the reaction came faster, fortunately. Ylo limped forward and removed the prince imperial's boots.
    Then he stepped back, and the tent fell silent. He felt the eyes on him. The stranger. The newcomer. The usurper.
    His cousin!
    These were the prince's battle companions. Some might have been with him since Creslee, and most would have been with him at Highscarp and on the bloody field of Fain. Now one of their number had fallen and here was the replacement.
    Not a cousin. Not an aristocrat. A common legionary-or so they would assume.
    And Ylo was staring at those hateful imperial features. The prince had removed his helmet. His face was a motley of mud and clean patches, his hair a sweaty tangle. Physically he was nothing special, but his eyes burned like black fire. Twenty-six years old, and the man the army worshipped.
    On his lap was a folded wolfskin. His cousin's cape. So? One cousin. This man murdered my whole family. "Your name?"
    "Ylo, sir. Third cohort, XXth Legion."
    "You have done well. Imperial Star, Second Class."
    "Thank you, sir. "
    "And signifer, of course?" Pause. Would the upstart dare? "Thank you, sir. "
    The onlookers rustled, like dry grass when something prowls. The prince nodded sadly. His hand