Varg restored the table to its game positioning, flicking his tail in emphasis with his words. “It is the same principle as when your Legions face our raiding parties. Their discipline mitigates their physical weakness. No amount of rage can match discipline. Unwisely employed aggression is more dangerous to oneself than any enemy, cub.”

Tavi frowned at the board and grunted.

“Concede?” Varg asked.

“Game isn’t over yet,” Tavi said. He couldn’t see how to defeat Varg’s positioning, but if he pressed on, he might find an opportunity, or Varg might make some kind of mistake Tavi could capitalize upon. He pushed a Knight to Varg’s Steadholder, taking the piece and beginning the vicious exchange.

After a dozen moves, Tavi did not find a way to beat the Cane. His defeat looked inevitable, and he grimaced and lifted a hand to knock his First Lord onto its side in capitulation.

Someone pounded on the door to the cell-really, Tavi thought, it was more like a Spartan apartment than a prison, a large suite that included a bed large enough to suit even the Cane as well as a sitting area and a reading area-and a guard opened the wooden door outside the prison suite. “Excuse me young man. A courier from the Citadel is here upon the Crown’s business. He wishes to speak to you.”

“Hah,” Tavi said, and flashed Varg a smile as he lowered his hand. “Duty calls. I suppose we’ll have to call this one a draw.”

Varg let out another amused growl and rose as Tavi stood to face him. The Cane tilted his head slightly to one side. Tavi mimicked the gesture, though a little more deeply. “Until next week, then. Please excuse me, sir.”

“Duty neither makes nor needs excuses, cub,” Varg said. He flashed his fangs in another smile at the guard. The man didn’t precisely flinch, but it seemed to Tavi that he had to fight not to do so.