Treason's Shore

  He gave Tau a rapid report of a battle that lost immediacy with every successive heartbeat. The rain sheeted at a wind-driven slant; the cold drops felt good after so long a stretch of sultry summer. But the rain was the first hint of winter on its inexorable way and the shifting of the winds and current to the east.

  Ready for Inda to sweep back down the strait, Fox thought.

  He’d finished his report. They stood at the rail, heedless of the rain. Fox permitted himself to consider the future for the first time.

  There was the pleasure of survival. Amazement, too. But that was already fading, leaving anger and frustration at Evred Montrei-Vayir’s typical, rock-solid Montrei-Vayir greed, which would get his boyhood friend killed after all. Probably not in battle. Fox suspected the entire strait would melt away before Inda’s combined force. Maybe some would fight desperately against their old friend. And though Inda would win those fights, the day he stood over Chim’s bleeding body would kill him, too, in all the ways that mattered most.

  But freely given loyalty never meant anything to the Montrei-Vayirs in days of old, Fox thought. Only gaining the crown, and land, and more land, until they ruled all of Halia now.

  And what is my place in all that? Will I be pulled back under the Montrei-Vayir rein as head of their navy?

  Tau had been speaking. Fox caught the end: “. . . and on my way here I noticed that the military are all on station, the trade volunteers in a knot.”

  Fox snorted. “The navies all know this business is far from over. What do you want to wager as soon as yon Ymarans find out that Rajnir ended the battle they’ll think they’re done, let’s go home, and who gets to sit where at the banquet?”

  Tau gave a soft laugh. “I think they’re more concerned about the coast of Drael.”

  Fox said, “My guess is that Durasnir will keep the Oneli moving. He has to know that every man, woman, child, and dog that has a stick to wave or teeth to bite will be ranged along the Ymaran coast right this moment, waiting to fight the first Venn to set foot in Jaro.”

  “You would be right,” Tau said, thinking of what the king had let slip.

  “Venn are probably on their way to Geranda. They must still have some ties there.”

  “Trade agreement. The last governor was cousin of the previous Venn king. Daughter married the king of Sarendan, and now there’s some kind of interim government until their second child grows up.”

  Fox said skeptically, “Won’t there be trouble if Durasnir just takes what he wants? That’s not trade.”

  Tau grinned. “If the regency is smart, they’ll close their eyes and see Durasnir’s back that much quicker.”

  Fox snapped up his hand, palm out. “So they refit and resupply there. Inda will ride their tail to make sure Durasnir keeps going. If the Venn round the southern tip of Toar before the ice sets in, then we’re rid of them.”

  Tau sat on the rail, turning his face up into the rain. After two days of no sleep, it felt good—soothing and bracing. “So, how did Inda manage it this time?”

  Fox gave an even shorter version of Inda’s report, ending with, “So Rajnir ordered them to go home.”

  “Just like at Andahi.” Tau whistled a low note.

  “Only this time, the fellow actually has his mind.”

  “As well.” Tau peered seaward in the strengthening light. “My guess is, he’s going to need it.”

  At first Durasnir was so busy with the most needed repairs on his ship, the necessity of proper death rites for the many who had been killed by Erkric, and the reorganization of the fleet, that he did not have time to do more than smile at Halvir, who stayed resolutely close to his side, tired as he was.

  Halvir understood he could not interrupt the flow of dispatches, and so he remained a breathing, wide-eyed shadow, watching everyone and everything. Durasnir was inclined to assign him to an ensign, if nothing else to free him to be able to speak without reserve to his most trusted aides. But within moments of the boy’s falling asleep on Durasnir’s own bed, Halvir dropped into nightmare, thrashing and crying out. Durasnir dropped a pile of reports and stalked to the inner cabin to sit with Halvir, though the press of urgent decisions was just about overwhelming.

  The imperative triple knock of the Erama Krona was the only warning Durasnir had, then in came the tension-heightened Erama Krona, clearly deeply disturbed over the summary slaughter of their number aboard the Cliffdiver. There was no one to tell the truth of events but the king, and they could not question the king.

  The three thoroughly checked the cabin, each noting Durasnir sitting empty-handed beside his bunk where Halvir lay loose-limbed in the reckless slumber of childhood, as his father slowly stroked his bright hair.

  When the cabin was deemed safe Rajnir entered, leaning on a cane, and dropped into the chair Durasnir had just risen from, as it was the only one there. “Nightmares?” he asked, indicating Halvir.

  “Yes, O my king. It seems to comfort him, my sitting here.”

  “Go right ahead, sit with him there.” Rajnir indicated the bunk. “I will tell you about our conversations, presently. Suffice it to say that my first order to him, he would not obey.”

  “What was that, O my king?” Durasnir’s neck tightened.

  “To kill me.”

  Durasnir’s hand stilled, cupped over Halvir’s head.

  “I ordered him to kill me. He wouldn’t do it because his mother’s lessons in Drenskar were specific about how the unarmed and helpless were to be treated. Even,” Rajnir sighed the word, “kings.”

  “I do not know what to say.”

  “There is nothing to say about that. Tell me instead, did you trust Dag Byarin?”

  “I heard they found him dead. I am sorry.”

  “You have been too busy to hear that he took his own life. With a dragon knife, has to be centuries old. I have no idea where he got it, he not being related to any Houses except in the third or fourth degree. And isn’t it forbidden for any but House descendants to carry their ancestors’ dragon knives?” Rajnir waved wearily. “Yet another senseless custom broken.”

  Durasnir bowed his head. “I did trust Byarin, though he purported to be Erkric’s spy.”

  “So the dual role was successful. I would have given him the highest honors for his courage. Listen to this. The pattern of blood on his robe was odd enough for them to undress him partly, to discover that he had carved the rune for justice in his own flesh before he fell on that knife.” Rajnir shifted. He was desperately uncomfortable. But he was determined to regain a semblance of his old self, and so he ignored the aches and pains. “His death must be related to Erkric’s murders in some way. You know that Erkric was killing all witnesses, there at the end?”

  “Tell me what happened, O my king.”

  “I will tell you what happened on board the Marlovan’s scout. The rest—like my conversations with Halvir—can wait.” And he gave an unvarnished account of the truth. Then of Valda’s exhortation at the end. He finished, “I told her I might tell you, if I so chose. No more secrets.”

  Durasnir touched his hands in peace mode. “I’m glad I did not know. It made things . . . simpler, at the time.”

  Rajnir said, “I haven’t seen your dispatches yet—”

  “I will bring them myself for you to examine any time you wish, O my king.”

  “—but I suspect the worst carnage was caused among ourselves. I hope that is at an end. I gave Ulaffa a free hand to deal with the dags. I know they are keeping secrets, most resulting from Erkric’s duplicity. My question is, why? How did that come to pass? He was so wise . . . so good a dag. So devoted to the Golden Path.”

  Durasnir had been considering how to edit his reply, out of long habit. Then he realized that editing replies for Rajnir had become everyone’s habit, and perhaps that was why it had been so easy to isolate him. If that was true, how much did Durasnir unwittingly contribute over time to Erkric’s plan?

  “You must examine all my papers and ask any questi
on you wish of me,” he said, bowing deeply.

  Rajnir leaned back, sweat running down his face from his long day of exertion. “Thank you, Uncle Fulla. Thank you.”

  Rajnir began the next morning, laboring up the hatch by himself to watch the new mainmast stepped with the last precious spar. He stood for a time, then sat in a chair brought by the Erama Krona. When the shrouds were rattled down, he returned to the command cabin to read more dispatches, often stopping the duty ensigns to ask questions. Elementary questions. Then he invited Halvir to join him, and as the day turned into a succession of days, they read together, exercised together, and talked about all manner of things, from ancient history to speculation about the day’s dinner.

  Durasnir was so glad to see Rajnir alive, and so relieved to have Halvir restored safely, and he was so busy with the stream of damage reports, replacements, and promotions, that he failed to notice the tight mouths and covert glances from Captain Hyarl Dyalf Balandir and his set of friends.

  There was only one all-captains gathering. Durasnir called it as soon as the fleet had sunk Drael behind them, and the alliance ships dwindled in undisciplined clumps to match pace with the Venn from afar.

  This was a short meeting. Durasnir asked each Battlegroup captain or chief to report on the state of his command, then Durasnir said, “We are sailing for Geranda to refit.” He used the king’s verbal mode, so no one could question him. At least publicly. “We will wait there until all ships are sound and the detachment at Nelsaiam catches up. Then we sail for home.”

  Two captains had died during the engagement with the Delfs, so there were two field promotions to confirm. Nine new sea dags were assigned to the captains who had discovered their dags dead in a welter of blood, no evidence of the culprit anywhere. Durasnir dismissed them and turned away, glad to have that over: he was still longing for real rest.

  Under cover of a fog bank two days later, Balandir and his captains met in a gig between two of their ships: though no one was listening to spiderwebs anymore, all were in the habit of avoiding them.

  Balandir said, “You notice that Seigmad is still drooling, yet Durasnir deems him fit to act as Battlegroup Chief.”

  He paused for the expected disgust, and then said, “Life is going to change, under a fat seal of a king with the mind of a small boy. Agar reports he spends most of his time reading history scrolls with Durasnir’s son, except when he’s been asking questions like what the basic signal flags mean.”

  The others laughed, then waited. They all knew something more interesting than the fat king and old Seigmad was on Balandir’s mind.

  “May as well call Durasnir king. Why plan to sire sons for the next Breseng? Even if Rajnir finally marries and declares a Breseng, it doesn’t take scouts to see that Durasnir now holds all the power, and will be choosing the heir.”

  Mutters of agreement.

  “So here’s my plan. And if you haven’t the courage, say so now. Our orders are to sail for Geranda, which we were forced to leave when our mindless king first led us west to lose the war against the Marlovans. The nominal ruler is, by treaty, a princess ten years old. The island is held in her name by another old fool. All decisions made weeks away, in Sarendan. I think we should take it back.” He smiled.

  “How?”

  “When the fleet sails . . . we stay.”

  The others considered this temerity. One of them would not dare, but all of them? Would Durasnir turn around and fight them? No, not with the fleet limping as bad as it was.

  Balandir tapped the gunwale. “We take Geranda, throw out Sarendan, and we’ve got ourselves the beginnings of a new kingdom. We,” he tapped his chest, “will be the only ones to go a-viking.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  WHEN Evred appeared on the sentry walk that had become Hadand’s and Tdor’s favorite observation place, the queen and her Harandviar were startled. Evred never interrupted the girls’ training, anymore than they would have interrupted the boys’.

  Below, Mistress Gand became aware of the girls’ attention turning upward and her voice sharpened. “Leap of the Deer! Reverse! Crouch of the Cat!”

  The girls snapped to focus as Hadand and Tdor took in Evred’s rare, broad smile. Hadand thought, Inda did it, he beat the Venn, and Tdor thought, Inda’s alive.

  “Inda broke the Venn,” Evred said slowly, each word giving him pleasure. “They are running east.”

  Hadand crowed, then caught sight of Tdor’s profile. Tdor’s joy was far more tentative, and Hadand knew why. “Will he be home by Convocation, do you think?”

  Evred nodded at the girls below. “Excellent form. I still have little notion how long it takes for ships to travel from one point to another, though Barend and Inda have tried repeatedly to educate me. Understanding must come with experience, as in most things. But he has only fulfilled part of his orders.”

  Hadand had never seen the ocean, and the ship talk had bored her into private daydreams. “Oh, yes,” she said, making a hand signal to Mistress Gand. “He’s got to bring peace to all those ports. Well, I trust it will be soon.”

  Neither of them noticed Tdor’s closed eyes.

  Most of the alliance turned southward to follow in the wake of the Venn, but not all.

  The day they sailed past the last reaches of Ymar, Tau asked Jeje to take him to the ancient Venn drakan Knife, which still had its dragon-head on the prow.

  “That’s the way we found it,” Barend told Tau when he came aboard. “It fits on underneath that gold collar thing with all the carving.”

  “I believe it’s called a torc,” Tau said. “And those are runes.”

  Barend shrugged. “The hands are afraid to touch it. They say the ship is full of magic—you can feel it everywhere—and they’re afraid something will happen to them.”

  “Leave it,” Tau said. “I came because the king of Ymar wants to tour this vessel before he turns toward home.”

  Barend’s broad, high brow wrinkled. “Home? First one to slink off, eh?”

  “I expected it.” Tau gave his rueful smile. “So I want to get a start on Inda’s work and see if I can get Ymar to set his kingly name to a treaty.”

  Barend wheezed a laugh. “Do what you want. There’s plenty of space below. Just, my suggestion is, if you want the toffs in a good mood, you get Lorm over here to cook for you. Tancla is a ready fist with his double-staff on deck, but he has no talent in the galley.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Tau was still smiling, but with anticipation. It was time to commence his plan. “If I can persuade Mutt not to lynch me.”

  Lorm had never chosen the sea; he’d been taken by the pirate Gaffer Walic after his entire family was slaughtered before his eyes. When Inda led the mutiny against Walic, Lorm had stayed to cook for him, partly from gratitude, and partly because he could not bear to return to Sarendan and his memories.

  But time and experience can wear the sharp pain of grief to poignant dreams and the ache of sudden memory, especially when someone new comes into one’s life. Lorm was married again, to Nilat, a fellow cook. Neither of them was young. They agreed that it was time to retire from the sea and start up an inn, as soon as this venture was over. In the meantime, Nilat (who had ambitions) assured her husband, if it became known that Lorm had cooked for crowned heads, what would that do for future business?

  The king of Ymar came aboard, intensely curious, sat down to a meal fit for a Colendi, enjoyed an agreeable evening with Tau. Their friendship had swiftly flared to attraction, making the conduct of treaty business a matter of affection as well as good will.

  “Well, that’s one,” Tau said to Barend on the foredeck the next morning, gently waving his treaty, as the king had himself rowed away into the pearlescent dawn.

  Barend grunted. “Inda know what you’re doing?”

  “No. And only Inda would fail to notice,” Tau added. “Do you really think he will mind, if I can get them all to agree to something that is of mutual benefit to all?”
r />   Barend considered, then flipped the back of his hand in the general direction of Drael. “Don’t ask me about politics. I don’t even want to know about those at home.” He walked aft to make certain that the new ship rats Inda had rotated over did not mar the gilding when they stretched out lines to hang laundry.

  The next person to arrive was the urbane Lord Hamazhav of Khanerenth. Tau knew him by sight, but little beyond that; the reverse was not true.

  “Well met, my lord. The rumor is that you concluded a peace treaty with Ymar before his departure,” said the diplomat from Khanerenth.

  Tau was about to exclaim at the extraordinary speed of rumor, until he readjusted to courtier mode. One of the most obvious tricks of the diplomat was to invent rumor on the spot in order to delve at a guessed truth.

  “I have indeed, my lord.” Tau made an inviting gesture, one suited more to marble palaces than to the deck of a ship, even one from ancient Venn. “Would you like a tour, refreshment, or both?”

  Lord Hamazhav smiled. In one genial welcome this decorative young Dei with the mysterious background had managed to imply ownership of this even more mysterious vessel. In just the same airy way, he had (without once using Inda’s name) assumed the authority to negotiate treaties. “Both,” Hamazhav said as Tau opened the door to the cabin. “And a glimpse of yon treaty, if I may. What did you and the king decide?”

  “Of course all depends on others’ agreement, but it’s simple: non-interference, and custom and trade pricing to be handled through the Fleet Guild, which has managed to become a respectable body, at least in the strait.”

  Lord Hamazhav bent over the extraordinary twisted tree candelabra that sat in the middle of an equally amazing carved table. “In my experience, treaties are a balance between goodwill and necessity. The goodwill I see about me . . .” He gestured vaguely.