Treason's Shore

  And the necessity? Tau was about to recklessly commit Evred, but he hesitated. Before Fox’s conversation about Marlovan law, and the penalty for not obeying orders, he might have done it. But he knew that he was obeying Evred only in one regard yet countering him directly in another.

  “That can be established,” Tau said smoothly, hiding the accelerated beat of his heart. Once again, the enticing thrill of danger and risk made him laugh, and his entire being seemed to expand. “When Inda joins us.”

  “Ah, yes,” Lord Hamazhav murmured, deeply appreciating the sudden poise of Tau’s body, the distant golden gaze. The attraction of the Deis was said to be wicked—like forbidden magic. With this one, rumor understated truth. “Life will be interesting indeed when your Inda joins us.”

  It would be untrue to say that as the days slid into weeks, Inda was unaware of the steady succession of gigs and longboats going to and from the Knife. He saw, and in a sense knew that Tau was hosting gatherings, but Inda was too busy to pay much heed.

  His first problem was keeping the fleet together as they shadowed the Venn, who sailed straight to Geranda, as Fox had predicted.

  The rest of the fleet was loud in resenting the summary departure of the Ymarans while Deliyeth remained, with her Everoneth and Fleet Guild ships. She’d promised Bren’s Fleet Guild she’d stay until they disbanded, but she argued with every single order until she agreed on its utility. By the time the fleet saw the Venn reach Geranda, everyone was thoroughly sick of Deliyeth and her unswerving moral superiority.

  The second problem was the refit of the Delfs.

  The Chwahir offered to donate good canvas and cordage, but not a stick or spar. Everyone agreed that the Delfs had taken the brunt of the battle, that they’d saved the Chwahir, but the Chwahir were adamant.

  Inda knew why the Chwahir refused—and kept the secret—but the strained relations between Delfs, eastern alliance, and Chwahir became more strained until Inda conceived the idea of dividing the Delfs between the Star Islands and Freedom Islands in order to refit. As the Star Islands, like the Fire Islands, had repeatedly been preserved from pirates by the independents out of Freedom, Dhalshev agreed that this was a good compromise. He would simply tell his port authorities to boost charges to certain nationals in order to recompense the island harbor shipwrights. He knew they would agree or risk losing the protection of the independents.

  And so Inda returned to Freeport at last.

  It felt very strange to sail between the familiar headlands into Freeport Harbor again, after so many years away. Death was given pride of place alongside the pier, so as soon as the graunching shudder of the hull easing up against the pier had ended, he leaped down to the warped boards, along with most of his old companions, and from that moment his life became a whirl of fragmented greetings, questions half answered, and remembered faces among the throng of new.

  Delfin Islanders were notoriously proud and prickly. Knowing what they were owed, Inda offered the last group of them berths ashore if they wished, either at Mistress Lind’s Lark Ascendant pleasure house, or Dasta’s Chart House. Though he had yet to see Dasta, he knew he could work that much out.

  When the Delfs almost to a man and woman opted enthusiastically for the pleasure house (and made it clear they expected their stay to be guaranteed) Inda took Barend aside. “How are we going to pay for that? You got any of that treasure left?”

  Barend laughed silently. “You leave that to me. Already talked to Dhalshev. We’re going to squeeze the two kings through their admirals and that soft-talking fellow Hamazhav.” He pointed a thin hand in the direction of Sarendan and Khanerenth.

  Before the Saunter lit up for an evening’s entertainment the like of which had seldom been seen in Freeport Harbor, Inda caught a glimpse of Lord Hamazhav being escorted up to the Octagon, Barend on one side, Dhalshev on the other, Mehayan and Tau walking behind, all laughing at something Tau said.

  Inda walked the last of the Delfs to the Lark Ascendant and paid his respects to the proprietor, Mistress Lind.

  Now they were all settled. The Delf ships at Star and Fire islands were probably already heaved down and halfway to being rebuilt; Inda hoped that the Venn were the same over on Geranda, so that they would sail east and out of his life.

  Everything organized, everything in train . . . and the sense of pressure building in the back of his mind had increased to an iron grip on his neck. He had not had a moment to himself since the day he woke up in Death’s cabin to Fox saying, Here’s your breakfast. I’ve given the orders to follow the Venn. There are twelve gigs in our stern wake, full of messengers from captains who insist on speaking to you. I figure the Delfs have first claim.

  Inda ran back down the trail he’d known so well as a boy. The harbor was full of allies, and despite the cold wind bringing a promise of rain, nobody seemed to have anything to do except walk around yapping. He dodged through the thick crowd on the main street, ignoring the questions thrown his way—“You Elgar the Fox?” “Where’d ya get the scars?” “Is it true you really . . .” “How did you kill . . .”

  Is it true? The truth is . . .

  A hand like a steel trap closed on the scruff of his shirt and yanked him stumbling through a back doorway.

  Inda looked up irritably, left hand scrambling for his knife hilt and encountering the damn sling. Then his hand dropped. “Fox?”

  “This way.” Fox’s hard mouth curled faintly as the crowd melted back to a circle of staring faces.

  The questions started up behind as Fox led Inda through the Chart House’s kitchen. Inda caught a glimpse of the main room as a server hip-bumped the service door open and swung two trays through. The crowds were even thicker than the street and the Saunter, the noise a skull-thumping roar.

  Fox pulled Inda through the kitchen and down a narrow, warp-boarded hallway, up some very narrow stairs with a ramp built over half—a series of block-and-tackle ropes above—and into a room that overlooked the Saunter.

  The casements swung closed, cutting the noise from a roar to a hum. The windows and the door were controlled by another ingenious series of ropes and pulleys put together with sail blocks. Inda’s gaze followed the control rope to the end dangling near Dasta’s hand.

  Dasta grinned. “Inda!” He looked older, his face thinned. He spun his chair, hand extended toward a table. “Here’s supper, waiting.”

  Inda sank onto a bench and reached for a foam-topped mug of beer, then took in the others: all the Fox Banner Fleet captains.

  Inda’s stomach closed. He set the beer down. It’s here, he thought. It’s here. They’re waiting for the command.

  “Finally,” Jeje exclaimed, digging into her braised fish surrounded by seasoned peas and rice. “That’s the last of the Delfs, right, Inda? What’s next? I’ve scarcely seen you for weeks.”

  “I’ve been surrounded by people for weeks. Everybody yapping at once.” He looked down at the beer. And I let them so I wouldn’t have to think about what’s next. Then he looked up, and though he knew he had to give the command, once again he hedged. “It’s strange, how many people want to yap about things that don’t matter, but for some reason they think I should hear it.”

  From his post by the window, Fox snorted. The reflection of the colored lights from the Saunter outlined his profile and shone in his red hair. “They all want a piece of your attention.” He waved a lazy hand toward the window. “Maybe yapping at you borrows some of your importance.”

  “True.” Eflis chuckled. “And when you’re out o’ sight, they want to yap about you.”

  At Inda’s grimace, the others laughed. Inda noticed with relief that Gillor and Tcholan sat companionably side by side—just like the old days. Somehow not being married anymore had resolved their problems. How strange people were! If Tdor ended their marriage . . .

  From the cherished memory of Tdor’s steady gaze, her beloved face, to a swift and unwanted series of images: Evred’s orders. Convocation and Bring back Rajnir’s head! D
eliyeth and her empire.

  Inda grimaced and shifted in his chair. The impulse to drum, to move, made him jerk; his right arm still did not respond, and he was hemmed in by chairs and benches wedged against one another around the small table. Give the command. Reluctance almost froze his tongue, and once again his thoughts jinked sideways. “If they think so much of me, then why pester me?” he asked, resisting the deep itch to kick the table leg. “They don’t do that to Fox.”

  “You’re accessible,” Eflis said. “He’s not.”

  “And now you know why,” Fox said, then his chin lifted. “Hold hard. Signal.” He peered up at the Octagon.

  Dasta sat up straight. “Double blinks? Message from the headland?”

  “No, it’s the summons for Dhalshev. I thought he was up there.”

  “He and Tau were taking the toffs off to the Swan for a victory dinner.”

  “Swan? Oh, yes, Kavna’s yacht.” Inda remembered the beautiful craft floating in Bren Harbor’s pride of place. “Someone sailed it here?”

  Jeje grinned. “Some old mates of mine, from the Lower Deck tavern in Bren Harbor. The oldsters the navy wouldn’t have. They couldn’t stand the idea of the Venn getting the prince’s yacht, so they hijacked it and brought it here. The prince has it back last I saw, and he was offering Lorm and his wife mountains of gold to come cook on it.”

  As the others laughed heartily, Fox pushed away from the window. “I think I’ll go see what’s what.” He left.

  Dasta sat back. “While he’s out, I want to hear about everything, from the time you reached The Fangs to the battle. Your part, too.” He pointed at Jeje.

  That was easier. Though when they neared the end, Inda discovered Jeje watching him, and he watched her for clues as he wondered which version to tell. Inda did not really know Khajruat Swift, who had taken her father’s place as the commander of their three ships—they’d only met once, before the pirate battle at The Narrows. He had never seen the new captain of Fangras’ wall-eyed Blue Star. How much could he trust them?

  Just as Inda said, “We saw lights on the raider deck, and so we—”

  Fox slammed in. “On your feet.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Taz-Enja and his people are already buttoning into their green jackets. Sarendan has been called to war.”

  “What?” several asked at once.

  “The Venn are back,” Jeje exclaimed. “I never trusted that silver-haired Durasnir fellow! He looked like he chews ice to warm up in the mornings.”

  Fox made a flat-handed swipe to cut her off. “Durasnir’s gone east. Except for at least two Battlegroups, and maybe more. Soon as the Oneli departed, this Dyalf Balandir killed off the old regent and his officials, secured the mostly empty garrisons, and took the harbor. Declared himself the new king.” His teeth showed in a smile. “Far’s Sarendan is concerned, he’s a pirate.”

  Dyalf Balandir had talked himself into believing that he was reclaiming the glorious heritage of the Venn.

  At least, so he said in the letter he sent through the dispatch relay, as soon as Durasnir wrote to ask why he and his Battlegroup were not on station.

  Durasnir read the paper, then set it aside for a moment. The previous dispatch had reported that Battlegroup Chief Seigmad (whose mind remained clear, despite his difficulties in speaking) had asked for a spice-milk, picked it up, looked surprised, then fell over dead.

  Regret was sharp, but Durasnir knew his old friend would have chosen just such a death: quick, probably as painless as such things ever are, and in service. He picked up the report, and left the cabin. From the positions of the Erama Krona, he knew that Rajnir had climbed into the main top once again. Probably with Halvir.

  A signal ensign hovered, waiting to be sent aloft, but Durasnir dismissed him with a gesture. Thinking that he could use the time as well as the effort, he climbed up.

  The weather had turned cold, the sea gray-green, the wind brisk. It had been far too long since Durasnir had been aloft: he could not immediately recall the last time.

  Two faces turned his way when he swung down from the shrouds. He hated how breathless he was and tried to hide it as he looked down at the game of ticky-bones. Rajnir had played the strategy game with Vatta, Durasnir remembered, and waited for the heart-seize of memory.

  When it had passed, he made his obeisance. “Two reports. First, Battlegroup Chief Seigmad is dead. Whom do you want as Battlegroup Chief?”

  “Whom do you recommend?” Rajnir asked.

  “Baltar. He acted for Seigmad at Nelsaiam and acquitted himself well.”

  “I think I remember him—long nose, a squint. His ship, the Katawake.”

  “Yes.”

  “Make it so.”

  Durasnir acknowledged, then offered the paper to Rajnir.

  The king cast his eyes down the page. Then he sat back. “Did you expect something of the sort? I did.”

  Durasnir was forced to make a sign of negation. “I admit I did not.”

  “You’ve been busy,” Rajnir said. “And you were not meant to see what he did behind your head. But I could see. He had so denied me any authority that despite his empty words of allegiance, even when Erkric’s spell was gone he went on in exactly the same way before my eyes.”

  Durasnir gazed out to sea, upset by his own blindness.

  Halvir gazed unhappily at the deep furrows in his father’s face. He hated it when his father looked so old and tired. But he said nothing. The king had trusted him with yet another secret: You are so like your brother, who was once my greatest friend. And he really was a friend. I’ve decided there will be no more Breseng, and covert wars over boys who are chosen to forward others’ goals. Nor will I have a son, for who’s to say what he will be like? You are going to be my heir, but no one will know until you are old enough to hold the kingdom if they kill me over it.

  Rajnir said, “You cannot foresee everything, Uncle Fulla. Nor can I. Except this: I wish Battlegroup Captain Hyarl Balandir joy of his encounter with Elgar the Fox.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  LOW drifts of smoke rolled slowly across the wharf to blend into the pall dissipating westward, out to sea. Crews on board ships had finished dousing fires and now faced the task of repair. In the harbor, the previous day’s truce had required both sides to withdraw from the long, low harbor headman’s buildings that Pilvig, two of her friends from the Sable, and some adventurous young Delfs had attacked and liberated in a short, vicious skirmish.

  Pilvig had known about the tunnels underground.

  The Venn hadn’t.

  The locals crept out cautiously during the night and set up a bucket brigade since the wintry wind for once did not bring rain. But at dawn, when the Venn rowed to the wharf again, the locals vanished, leaving the buildings to smolder. They’d have to be rebuilt anyhow.

  Dyalf Balandir motioned his captains to wait on one side of the wharf and strolled out to the center alone to meet Elgar the Fox.

  Once he’d secured Geranda after a disappointingly easy fight, he’d made what he considered a brilliant strategic decision—to take the Fire Islands to assure himself a first line of defense—but who could have known the damn harbor would be full of Delfs busy refitting?

  They were not only root stubborn, but he knew they somehow communicated with one another over the world. It was legendary how what happened to one Delf at the northern reaches of Drael was soon known to the Delfs south of Sartor, though the Venn were the sole masters of deep sea navigation.

  He set fire to their ships at once. Vastly outnumbered, they vanished into the thickly forested hills—which were a lot like the thickly forested hills of their own islands. He was still trying to hunt them out of hiding when the rest of them appeared hull up on the horizon, along with Sarendan, Khanerenth, and the Fox Banner Fleet. His scouts had vanished without a trace.

  A day’s battle and heavy losses had caused Balandir to make what he considered his brilliant tactical decision. He sent Beigun (who had begun to annoy him w
ith his constant questioning and arguing) with a truce flag to demand that Elgar the Fox face him in a halmgac duel. At dawn. Only they wouldn’t row away to one of the islands, they’d settle things right here, before all witnesses, on the broad wharf at the end of the short pier inside the bay.

  The sun had just risen, barely warming the bitter winter air. Balandir stood alone, knowing his carefully picked Honor Guard was at the ready in case of pirate treachery, his Battlegroup captains nearby to function as witnesses.

  He watched his breath freeze and fall and resisted the impulse to stamp. He had warmed up his muscles with the ship’s armor chief well before dawn. His sword was loose in his baldric; he’d left behind his winged helm with its new gold torc twisted about it as a crown. He’d decided after a single practice that the winged helms were terrible to fight in, and these barbarians would not know what a crowned helm signified anyway.

  A host of small boats drifted over the water from around the black-sided ship on the opposite side of the bay. Beigun’s boat was in the lead. He moored it, climbed up, gave Balandir an indecipherable look, then retreated to stand with the other captains.

  So Beigun had returned alive, much to Balandir’s surprise, and behind him strolled a tall figure dressed entirely in black, except for the wink of silver in a belt buckle. The low northern sun, a pale silver disk, outlined the man from behind while keeping his face in shadow. His hair glowed an unpleasant red.

  Balandir said, “I said Elgar the Fox.” He’d spoken in Venn; he began to search his mind for the words in Sartoran when the enemy spoke in Venn.

  “You’ve got Fox. There are more than one of us. It happens to be my watch.” Fox’s accent was strong, but he was understandable.

  Balandir snapped, “I knew that.” Then, feeling he’d somehow lost a step, he snarled, “Where’s the scar-faced short one?”

  “As well you have only me,” Fox retorted. “He only faces kings and Nor sundrians. I may not be as good at fighting, but I am far more merciful.”