Marcus felt a little shock of realization go through him. Varg would never send a warrior on courier duty at all, much less one who presented such a slip-shod appearance as this one. And the golden-furred Cane was, most likely, a Shuaran, the only Canim any Aleran had ever seen with that shade of fur. The Shuaran Canim had not come to Alera with Sarl’s invasion force. They had never left Canea. They could therefore never have become members of Nasaug’s war-trained militia—and it would have been as good as asking to be torn to pieces for a nonmilitia Cane to falsely claim membership in those ranks. Canim pride was ferocious, jealous, and bloodily decisive.

Perhaps a shoddily armored warrior could have been sent on a message run. Perhaps the golden-furred Cane had been in the ranks all along, and Alerans had simply never noted his presence. Either of those things was remotely possible.

But both of them?

Marcus scratched at his nose with a fingertip, and when he lowered his hand again, it came to rest within an inch of his sword’s hilt. He flicked a glance at Octavian, hoping to warn him.

There was no need. The captain had evidently reached the same conclusions as Marcus, and though he remained outwardly calm, he surreptitiously hooked a thumb through his belt, which placed it in close proximity to the handle of the dagger sheathed at the small of his back.

“Good morning,” Octavian said politely, tilting his head very slightly to one side in a salute of superior to subordinate. “Did you gentlemen have something for me?”

The armored Cane shuffled forward a few steps, reaching into a pouch at his side.

His paw-hand emerged clenching a stone knife. The armored Cane roared, in Canish, “One people!”

And slashed at the captain’s throat.

Marcus felt his heart leap into his mouth. The captain was a capable opponent when he employed his metalcrafting, but that ability would do him no good against a stone weapon. Without the forewarning of his metalcrafting of the weapon’s approach, he would be forced to pit his raw physical ability against the Cane’s—and without furycraft to aid them, no Aleran could match the power of a Cane, and only the fastest could match their speed.

Octavian jerked his head back and the slash missed by a hair. He dropped back, taking a pair of spinning steps as he drew the dagger from his belt and flung it. The weapon tumbled one and a half times and sank into an unarmored portion of the Cane’s thigh. The Cane howled in sudden pain, stumbling.