Treason's Shore

  Fulla had stilled. He was listening.

  So she babbled on, telling him nothing new—some of it he’d told her—but she had to anchor him back in this world. “That fool Dyalf Balandir would lead the pack of wolves. He thinks being young, handsome, and first-born son of an old House entitles him not just to be your second in command, but to anything. Loc would try again, despite what happened to his brother. Because of it. Lefsan would try to regain their old influence. Hadna House is always conspiring. They’re raised that way. Don’t you see? If they find out about Rajnir, then at least five, probably seven, Houses would throw all their treasure and men into securing the city, after talking themselves into thinking it’s for Drenskar and the Golden Tree.”

  Durasnir had not moved.

  Brun tucked her hands up under her armpits. “So far, you have managed to prevent seven Houses from tearing one another apart, right down to their thralls. And you know they would do that. How has that betrayed your vows?”

  Durasnir said slowly, “The fleet is not ready, except in outward form. Like Rajnir, it is a semblance. Half the new ships are cobbled together with unseasoned wood. Their holds are crammed with old men forced back into service, or very young men—some scarcely men—with little or no training because the Houses were forced to call to service far more than they could afford. Erkric knows it. Brun, I would swear an oath before the Tree he was gloating over it. Does he want us to fail?”

  “No. Oh, it takes no penetration to assume he wants you wearing yourself to death. He may even hope that you will take that unseasoned navy to battle, because he wants you to call upon him for magical help. He can figure as savior of the kingdom. And gain the power he craves. Gain immortality through Norsunder.”

  Durasnir’s shoulders dropped; that release of tension signaled she’d won.

  She said, “I know the circumstances are terrible. I know Erkric blocked the promotion of the right men and put forward the wrong ones, all to strengthen his control. But the Oneli looks to you to lead them.”

  Durasnir said to the unseen, hissing sea, “I cannot escape the fact that we are going to a war we never should fight.”

  “The Oneli will go whether you are there or not,” Brun said. “It is up to you. You, Fulla. To see that a semblance of honor remains, a living twig caught in the deluge. You must replant the tree, because poor Rajnir cannot. His ability has been taken away along with his life.”

  Durasnir lifted his head, and peered into her anxious face. “Do you believe that Drenskar exists?”

  “I believe,” she said steadily.

  “And I believe . . . in you. I’m sorry, Brun.” He fumbled for the latch of the door.

  They walked together down the mossy steps and to their rooms, where he sank into the chair Ulaffa had vacated; the dag was gone.

  Brun ordered dry clothing and some warm spice milk for Fulla to drink, then went to change her own sodden clothing. Why did he shut me out? No, that was the wrong question, because she knew the answer. He’d talked himself into thinking he’d spare her the pain he was in. What is it about honor that makes men think they must hide their pain? She paused at the door behind which slumbered her seven-year-old son Halvir. What can I say to Halvir as he grows to teach him that honor is not just earned by bearing pain or giving it to enemies, but by preventing it?

  One of the most famous poems in the long history of the Land of the Venn was written by a poet shivering on the heights of the tenth tower the morning after Fulla Durasnir nearly walked off Saeborc’s heights.

  Despite his numbing nose and toes, the poet captured in singing phrases the sight of the ancient Banner of the Tree belling in the wind like the sails of the great drakans filling Twelve Towers Harbor.

  With a skirr of wings a flock of seabirds jetted upward from the rocks below the pier as the royal party paced out to the flagship. Once again, the king was going a-viking, a phrase so long unused it resonated down to the bone with portent and power.

  The poem is justly famed for its guesses about what the king thought that day—such a range nearly everyone could at least imagine, if not feel, what the poet wrote. The poet never knew that the handsome king pacing so slowly down the dock behind the banner, and before his military leaders, remembered nothing about that day. His mind was locked in a strange space surrounded by fragmented mirrors and windows. Inside the prison of his mind he turned and turned, straining to catch the glimpse of an eye, a hand, catch the whisper of a word, or even part of a word, and put them together into meaning.

  Despite wind and rain people lined all the towers and walls, singing mightily, young ardent voices mixing with the croak of oldsters as King Rajnir, dressed in white and gold, stepped up the ramp into the Cormorant, and after a soft word from Erkric, gave the signal to set sail.

  The loosened courses snapped home, filled with wind, and the king’s flagship sailed slowly out to sea, pulling the flagships of the Battlegroups after him, and after that—in order—the chief warships of all the subordinate groups.

  Here were the Oneli, Lords of the Sea, Firstborn of the Venn. For the first time in generations all four great fleets were together: Eastern, Western, Northern, and Southern.

  As the mighty armada began to sail away to the south, Durasnir forced himself to turn to Rajnir. He made his obeisance and said, “May I signal the captains to assemble, my king?”

  Erkric contemplated Durasnir’s haggard face above the rich pinky gold gleam of his copper torc. The Oneli sea lord had aged, too, the stiff-necked reprobate. With the king’s speaking nine words—“The Golden Tree will again go a-viking to glory”—Erkric had worked Fulla Durasnir right down to the bone—the Oneli Stalna, his House, and the eleven other Houses. Try causing trouble now! The Twelve Houses were beggared and would be for several years to come, but they had met the king’s demand for ships and men.

  The king.

  Erkric whispered the word that would release Rajnir to speak his assent.

  “Make it so, Oneli Stalna my Commander,” Rajnir said.

  Durasnir made his obeisance to the king, then walked across the deck to speak to the signal ensign. Then he vanished down the causeway to the old captain’s cabin where he now lived.

  Nine Erama Krona stood at silent guard surrounding the king and the Dag of the Venn. Durasnir’s own Drenga guard must take second station amidships; Erkric narrowly watched as Durasnir passed the former Drenga captain, Byoren Henga, at his post. As always, no sign passed between Oneli sea lord and his once favored captain.

  Erkric could not comprehend that relationship at all, and it made him restless and angry. He still had no one inside Durasnir’s House, due to the vigilance of that woman Brun. With Henga’s surprising demotion after the invasion, he’d thought he had a perfect opportunity to get ears inside Durasnir’s command. But the Dag’s interviews with Henga had produced utterly nothing.

  Former Captain Henga was certainly brave, and an excellent commander. Erkric caused Rajnir to award him a gold arm torc for the left arm, the sign of honor in battle, for his speed and effectiveness in breaking Andahi Castle for the invasion. It was a waste of gold; Henga never wore it.

  Bone stupid, Erkric thought and swept the fleet with his glass. Away from all the prying eyes and interfering fools in Twelve Towers! Away to glory and power.

  “The king goes a-viking to glory,” Rajnir said.

  Startled, Erkric lowered the glass. He peered into Rajnir’s face, which was reassuringly blank. Maybe Rajnir heard one of the signal words in the deck chatter.

  Time to go inside the cabin anyway, for the captains would soon be arriving.

  Erkric had Rajnir settled to a long meal when the horns began blatting the captains’ longboats: Petrel, Auk, Katawake, and Blackgull in the lead.

  On the king’s orders, Erkric was now part of all military meetings. When the last Battlegroup captain sat on his bench around the long table, winged helm on his knee, Durasnir lifted his gaze from the chart of the western coast of Drael.
br />   “Here is our plan, as approved by the king.” His face and voice were as expressive as wood. “We will land at Nathur and spend the winter there in training and in reinforcing our drakans. Drenga Captain Vringir will board each of you with specifics, the better to be prepared when we do land. Questions?”

  “Why don’t we go straight to Halia?” the new Battlegroup Chief asked with a smirking glance toward Erkric.

  Several of the older captains stirred. Whatever their political leanings, they all knew that Balandir had no experience. Yet he’d been promoted over all their heads to Battlegroup Chief, the rank directly behind Durasnir—which Seigmad of the Petrel should have had.

  Erkric was silent. He almost never spoke at military meetings. Half the time he didn’t listen. He was there for two reasons: to make certain that Rajnir’s orders were carried out and to remind them all that magic would strengthen their efforts in war.

  “Not until we’ve secured the strait,” Durasnir said. “As you are perhaps aware, we carry no Hilda.”

  A couple older men chuckled, and Balandir flushed then sat back, one fist on his thigh, his other hand absently stroking the scaling engraved on his copper torc.

  To reinforce his point, Durasnir continued on to tell them what they already knew, what Balandir should have known. “Commander Talkar remains in Goerael, where the king has placed him as interim governor over our lands there. When we have secured the strait, and assured lines of the supplies we will need, the king has spoken of recommencing our efforts in Halia.”

  Seigmad showed his disgust at Balandir’s stupidity by returning abruptly to the former subject, as if Balandir’s interjection did not exist. “So our first launch will be against Llyenthur, I take it?”

  “Yes. We’ll make certain of the little harbor at Granthan, then proceed to Llyenthur Harbor, which we will retake and establish as our mid-strait base.” Durasnir brushed his fingers over the carefully drawn scattering of rocky islands off the gaping fish-mouth of Llyenthur Harbor. “If Llyenthur is going to resist, it will probably be here, and not at Granthan. That’s where I’d take my stand. They can hide some of their fleet behind the islands, and the rest up the river, which we can’t navigate, as some of you remember when we were stationed there. Currents are against ships with deep draught.”

  “Take us in the back when we’re busy with the islands,” Seigmad said.

  “Exactly. We will offer Llyenthur peace—and the old terms—and if they refuse, we will smash them so thoroughly that the rest of the strait will think the better of our offer.” And to young Balandir, who now sat with his strong arms crossed, his handsome brow furrowed, “A peaceful resumption of the strait leaves us the stronger for when we take up matters again with the Marlovans, yes?”

  No one had any objection to that.

  The captains left again, in strict order of rank.

  Chapter Four

  EVRED left the scroll-case in his desk.

  Though he could not see it, sometimes he heard it rattle when he shut the drawer. Every reminder unsettled him, as if any words he might write and send by magic would diminish his control over events. He knew that magic was not the cause, or the single cause—he’d been using his father’s locket since 3912. He had learned through his reading that resistance to change could be defined as fear of loss of control. That was a lifelong battle for him.

  Besides, it would create an avalanche of new work to monitor all the military or money-related communication if he opened the border to the guilds.

  So . . . he would think about it on the morrow.

  Next week.

  After the academy was settled for the season.

  After he and Inda finished their review of the dragoon training, now that Inda insisted that dragoons as well as the King’s Runners should learn the Fox drills . . .

  After the Summer Games.

  After Inda took the dragoons into the plains of Hesea to drill with the new training.

  After Convocation.

  And so the sun rolled on its daily courses toward the north and then back again, every day rising higher in the sky. Evred had learned to hold as tightly to moments of peace as he did to his semblance of control.

  There were even spikes of euphoria, such as when he observed the academy boys going to and from activities, how generally happy they seemed. Even Gand had noticed it. Not that there weren’t problems, but the problems were fewer, and smaller, than before Inda had come. More secret happiness when Inda brought up the old topics of discussion at dinner, just like when they were boys. Where did the idea of honor come from? How did tradition turn into law?

  Outwardly, the kingdom flourished for the first time in ten years. The harbor cities were a fair way to being rebuilt at last. Evred’s gratitude was the more intense for how little he trusted the sensation.

  Convocation came and went in an orderly manner. Again Horsebutt Tya-Vayir conducted himself with uncharacteristic cooperation. Evred still did not trust that. Once or twice he caught himself wondering if Horsebutt had somehow got hold of magical cases. If one person could get them, why not another? There is no sign of conspiracy. I will not invent one.

  I am not insane.

  As the new year’s winter days at last gave way to a late spring the first sign of the passes opening was a mud and travel-stained courier from the east bringing two letters. By chance Han Tlen had drawn office duty again, but this year she was in charge of a thirteen-year-old and a twelve-year-old; Goatkick had been promoted and was at that moment laboring through a late snowdrift with messages to Parayid Harbor.

  Han had grown into a weedy, gangling colt of a girl with a quick grin. Inda, Tdor, and the royal couple had all noticed how sometime during the past year she’d gone from isolation to becoming the mascot of the King’s Runners-in-Training.

  “Shall I take it?” Han asked the messenger.

  “I’m to put it in your king’s hands,” the messenger said.

  “It won’t be long,” Han said in her careful Sartoran. “Then you’ll get something hot to drink.”

  When Evred’s door opened, Han stood by so that the messenger could hand the king his packet, as he’d promised. That done, Han sent the twelve-year-old to take the messenger downstairs for refreshments.

  Evred shut his door again. He sent the duty Runner on an errand, ensuring he was alone. His heart hammered, but he would not postpone whatever lay therein.

  From Wisthia to Evred:

  My dear son. Only a Dei could leave his role as the lover and decorative house steward of a famed player and return as a diplomat and leader of aristocratic fashion. My house is now the place everyone in royal circles must be. Prince Kavna, a dear young man, practically lives here, and Princess Kliessin takes care to grace us with her presence at least once a week. I give large parties every night, all the details seen to by Tau—it was after meeting him on his tour as new king last autumn that your cousin Valdon doubled my ambassadorial allowance.

  Tau’s success surprises me. I believe there is more to it than his golden hair, black velvet and lace, or his skilled conversation. Most have conversation, and many have beauty, but they do not come near his popularity. Part of it could be his reputation, and also his famous name, but the truth lies closer, I believe, to the fact that he has no ambition. Taumad is no Sarmord Dei, and people do sense such things.

  The result is we hear everything. I will leave it to Taumad to make his report, and once again I will pay the enormous sum to hire someone to risk his life traveling across the mountains. Yes, that is a hint. I will be more forthcoming if I need not rely on a year of back-and-forth travel (and how trustworthy are the mountain passes anyway?) but you must do your part and communicate.

  Sarmord? Kingmaker, Evred translated. Adamas of the Black Sword had also been called “Adamas Dei Sarmord.”

  Taumad Dei. Once Evred had likened the tightly intertwined pain and pleasure of Inda’s straight-on gaze to gazing into the sun. Tau’s sudden laugh, his touch, affected Evred
the same way; the discovery that Tau was a direct descendant of Adamas Dei was like discovering that the sun had fallen out of the sky and burned directly outside the door.

  Evred opened Tau’s letter which, like Wisthia’s, was written with Sartoran lettering, but unlike hers was in the Marlovan language.

  Since half a year has passed between the time I thought my letter and gift would reach you and now, I’m not certain if my messenger was waylaid or you tossed the scroll-case into the nearest horse pond. I even had a wager going with myself. The benefit of betting against yourself is that you never have to pay up.

  So here’s my second try, with entirely frivolous chat, that I trust you will pass on to our mutual friend Estral.

  Estral? The only person Evred knew with that name was the Idayagan assassin who’d posed as a poet. Friend?

  Just after I sent you the gift, I continued my search for the best foreign food. Alas for our trade! My shipment of pickled cucumbers was bought at a better price by the Zhaer Ban brothers . . .

  Evred frowned, and reread the letter. Was Taumad drunk when he wrote that?

  Of course he would not go to the expense of sending a drunken scrawl on a six-month journey—and this was no scrawl. Pickled?

  Pickles. The vinegar-stinking Venn—

  He read the words more slowly. Estral Mardric, pickles—then he flushed at the obviousness of what he had missed. When he was ten years old, his father had encouraged his studies in Sartoran by telling him, The easiest diplomatic code begins with a personal synecdoche, and once you know its context, you can determine the real meaning of seemingly innocent messages.

  So, if the pickled cucumbers were the Venn, and highest price was either betrayal or death, what did bringing in the Zhaer Ban brothers mean? They were the biggest saddlers in the royal city, their main building on the river a stone’s throw from the castle. Were they traitors?