Tavi showed his teeth. “Not if the party who has been wronged does the bloodletting.”

Marok huffed out a harsh bark of Canim-style laughter.

Varg’s jaws lolled open in a smile. “Aye. That would stand up to usage.” He tilted his head and eyed Tavi. “You would trust me with the blade, gadara?”

“If anything happened to me, your people would be finished,” Tavi said soberly. “We would kill them all. Or the vord would kill them all. And there would never again be such an opportunity for us to build mutual respect.”

Varg watched Marok as Tavi spoke. Then he spread one paw-hand open, as though he had just proved something to the older Cane.

Marok nodded slowly. “As the observer sent by the bloodspeakers, I will consider this payment an offering of honor and restitution—and I will see to it that the makers know that it has been concluded according to the codes. Wait here.”

Marok went back into the black tent. When he returned, he held what would be a rather small vial, for a Cane, made of some kind of ivory. To Tavi, it looked nearly the size of a canteen. Marok handed the container to Varg.

Varg took it with another, deeper bow, this time reversing the roles of accorded respect with Marok. The old Cane said, “From the left arm.”

Tavi steeled himself as he pushed the arm of his tunic up past his elbow and extended it to Varg.

The Warmaster drew his dagger, an Aleran gladius that had once belonged to Tavi. Varg carried it for use when he needed a keen-edged knife. Moving with quick, sure motions, he laid a long, shallow cut across Tavi’s forearm, along a diagonal. Tavi gritted his teeth but made no other reaction to the pain of the injury. He lowered his arm to his side, and Varg bent to place the vial beneath his fingertips, catching the blood as it spilled. It slowly began to fill.

The entrance to the black tent flew open again, and a burly Cane in a pale leather mantle strode out, his fangs bared, his ears laid back. “Marok,” the Cane snarled. “You will cease this trafficking with the enemy!”

“Nhar,” Marok said. “Go back in the tent.”

Nhar surged toward Marok, seething. “You cannot do this! You cannot so bind us to these creatures! You cannot so dishonor the lives of the fallen!”

Marok eyed the other ritualist for a moment, and said, “What were their names, Nhar?”

The other Cane drew up short. “What?”

“Their names,” Marok said in that same, gentle voice. “Surely you know the names of these makers whose lives you defend so passionately.”

Nhar stood there, gnashing his teeth. “You,” he sputtered. “You.”