Another swift and murmured conference followed. Then they answered together again. “Blood for blood, life for life, death for death.”

Varg flicked his tail impatiently. “And if I do not do this?”

This time they all answered at once. “Call to the makers, call to the warriors, call for strength to lead us.”

“Then let Master Khral come forth to see it done!”

There was a long silence from the tent.

Tavi arched an eyebrow and glanced at Varg. The big Cane looked intent.

“Master Khral speaks for the bloodspeakers, and for the makers! So he has assured me for many months! Let him come forth!”

Again, silence.

“Then let one of honor and experience come forth to witness it! Let Master Marok come forth!”

Almost before Varg was finished speaking, the opening of the tent parted, and a tall, weathered old Cane emerged. He wore a mantle constructed from sections of vord chitin, and a misshapen warrior-form’s chitinous skull served as his hood. More plates of chitin armored his torso and legs. His fur was, like Varg’s, midnight black, though both of his forearms were so heavily laden with layer upon layer of scars that almost no fur grew there at all. He wore a sling bag across his chest. The band had been woven from what looked like the legs of many wax spiders. The bag, too, was a black chitin skull from some vord form Tavi had never seen—but instead of carrying blood, it held multiple scrolls and what might have been some sort of flute carved from bone. The old Cane also had a pair of daggers stored side by side on his belt. Their bone handles looked old and worn.

“Master Marok,” Varg rumbled. He bared his throat very slightly, the Canim version of a bow. Marok returned the gesture only a shade more deeply, acknowledging Varg’s leadership without quite recognizing his superiority.

“Varg,” Marok replied. “Has no one killed you yet?”

“You are welcome to try your luck,” Varg replied. “The bloodspeakers allowed you to speak for them?”

“They’re all afraid that if one of them steps up to the head of the pack, Khral will have them killed when he returns.”

“Khral,” Varg said, amusement in his voice.

“Or someone.” Marok eyed Tavi. “This is the demon Tavar?”

Varg’s ears flicked affirmation. “Gadara, this is Marok. I respect him.”

Tavi lifted his eyebrows and gave Marok a Canim bow, which was returned in precisely equal measure. The old Cane watched him through narrowed eyes.

“You killed two of my people,” Marok said.

“I’ve killed more than that,” Tavi replied. “But if you mean the two false messengers who attacked me in my tent, then yes. I killed one, and a soldier under my command killed another.”

“The tent was the Tavar’s,” Varg said. “He did not seek the makers out for murder. They trespassed upon his range.”