Marcus remembered practicing it, over and over and over, back in his days at the Academy, until the motion was ingrained into the muscles of his arms and shoulders and back. It was one of the standard techniques taught to the Cursors.

Magnus had just used him for practice.

It was one form of gamesmanship among student Cursors, though Marcus had never participated himself—a way to tell the other Cursor that you could have killed him, had you wished it. Magnus’s stance, relaxed and nonchalant to the casual observer, was centered and ready for motion, a subtle challenge. Anyone trained at the Academy would have recognized that.

So. The older Cursor was fishing.

The First Spear grunted as though nothing had happened. The nearest group of laboring legionares was a good forty feet off. There was no need to guard his speech if he lowered his voice. “Wondering how long before the vord get here.”

Magnus stared at him for a silent minute before easing out of the stance and walking up to stand beside the First Spear.

Marcus noted the slight protrusion of a knife’s handle, where it was hidden up the old Cursor’s sleeve. Magnus might be long in the tooth, and his dueling days were long behind him. But that wouldn’t make him any less deadly should he choose to act. It was never the enemy’s muscle or weapons or furies that made him a true threat. It was his mind. And Magnus’s mind was still razor-sharp.

“Quite a while, one would think,” Magnus said. “The Antillans don’t expect them to make their first assaults for another two weeks or more.”

Marcus nodded. “They’re talking to us, eh?”

The old Cursor’s mouth twitched at one corner. “It was that or fight us. They didn’t seem eager to do that if they could avoid it.” He, too, stared to the south, though Marcus knew his watery eyes were nearsighted. “Octavian wishes to speak with you.”

Marcus nodded. Then he squinted at the other man, and said, “You been giving me looks, Magnus. What’s wrong with you? I steal your favorite boots or something?”

Magnus shrugged his shoulders. “Between the time you retired from the Antillan Legions and the time you came back to service with the First Aleran, no one recalls where you were.”

The First Spear felt his stomach begin to burn. Acid made a belch rise up through his throat. He covered it with a rough snort. “And that’s got your knickers in a twist? One old soldier goes back to life on a steadholt. It ain’t surprising that he don’t stand out, Magnus.”