The Fox

  Gillor cut through Jeje’s exhausted ramble. “He’s definitely coming for us.”

  “Couldn’t be,” Inda breathed, numb with disbelief. “The Death is the flagship—they know it, they know the Cocodu—”

  The Knife bore up, the enormous curve of its prow towering over them. Gillor had loosed the schooner’s sails to keep it out of the great Venn prow’s path.

  Inda tipped his head back, saw ordinary humans scrambling along yards and shrouds—fast, efficient. Aft on the captain’s deck, in front of the two-man whipstaff that steered the Venn ships, stood a lone figure, hands clasped behind him. Within a very short time—there was nowhere to go—Inda gazed up at Ramis the One-Eyed, whose face was livid purple all down one side, that eye covered with a patch. It was hard to look past that scar. Inda didn’t even try, as the man faced him across the intervening waters, brought one gloved hand up, and made a slight sign.

  The two men at the whipstaff leaned hard into their crosspieces, and the Knife heeled over. From the foretopgallant masthead there was a sharp twang and an arrow whizzed across the water to thunk into the mast a forearm’s length from where Inda stood. Ramis called across in accent-free Iascan, “Meet me at Halfmoon Harbor above Ghost Island. You’ll find a chart there.”

  Inda gritted his teeth. “I will not take my fleet into Norsunder willingly.”

  The one-eyed man retorted, “Had I wanted you, Indevan Algara-Vayir, you would be gone.” He even pronounced the name correctly.

  “Oh shit oh shit oh shit,” someone behind Inda was muttering softly in a high, breathy voice. The mast creaked above, and Inda thought of Nugget. He didn’t see her on the Vixen.

  His focus splintered. He pressed the heel of his right hand to his forehead, forcing his thoughts into order. Then he staggered, not from the deck’s movement but from a sudden wave of dizziness as he reached for the arrow.

  It had paper wrapped around it. “We have taken damage, ” he said, sounding far away to his own ears. “And it is winter.”

  “Repair first,” came the reply across the widening gulf.

  Inda croaked, “Where? We heard the coast has been destroyed. ” The coast of my homeland—where I was told I cannot return.

  “You will find what you need north at Lindeth.”

  “The Venn?”

  “They watched,” came the answer. “Until midway through the night. They stood off to the west.”

  And that explained where Ramis had been during most of the battle. His timing, then, had been extraordinarily close. Possible questions splintered into more questions, the shards spinning away and vanishing into the fog of exhaustion before Inda could catch and hold but a single, inescapable truth: he had yet to deal with Ramis, and the Venn.

  But he did not have to do it now.

  Ramis turned his head, and Inda glimpsed brown hair tied simply back and an everyday woolen sea jacket before the Knife heeled again, tacking away northward into the wind that was, at last, shifting into its winter path.

  Inda stared witlessly, thinking over and over, How could you have known who I am—and where I was?

  “Don’t give your orders yet.”

  The voice came from the Vixen.

  Inda turned. Staggered again.

  “Before you start northward, I wish to be put ashore,” Barend called, his voice flat.

  Inda faced east and saw the long, uneven line that formed Parayid Harbor and beyond that Fera-Vayir—and north of that, Choraed Elgaer.

  Inda looked down at Jeje’s exhausted face beneath its smears of smoke grime. “Where’s Loos?”

  “Down below. Took a couple of arrows.”

  “Nugget?”

  “Insisted on going with Tau. I would have had to tie her up to stop her.”

  Inda sighed, feeling sick right down to his bones. He forced himself to look up. One order at a time. First a person. Then a ship. He was a commander, he must command.

  “Barend, Jeje will take you to Parayid. Jeje, search for survivors who might have gone ashore. When you’re sure they are all accounted for, meet us at Lindeth. My guess is we’ll need a week or so to get supplies and finish the repairs we cannot make on the way up the coast.”

  Jeje nodded agreement, lower lip caught between her teeth. She would never tell Inda how Barend had shivered and wept when they first pulled him out of the water after he’d led the last boarding party to take a huge brigantine, one whose decks had run with blood. He’d called for the last of their oil and set it afire, then dove overboard for the second time that night. When they’d pulled him up, he said with almost voiceless anguish, No one should see what I saw below, and then, as he trembled with fear while they bound his wounds, he whispered over and over, I must go home, I must go home.

  Barend walked aft on Inda’s scout, his eyes bleak, and Inda forced himself to move, to twist the ring from his hand, and pull from inside his clothing the map he’d worn next to his skin ever since Barend bought it from the chatty old chart maker on Pirate Island.

  He handed both items to Barend. “Go to Tenthen,” he said. “Go with my good will,” he added, hoping that the words would mean something to his father and brother, unseen for six years.

  Barend folded his fingers into a fist and brought it to rest against his heart, then leaped over to the Vixen, which plowed coastward on the strengthening wind.

  Inda lifted his head, saw Ramis’ ships already hull down in the northwest, heading straight out to sea. Of course he knew deep-water navigation. A powerful sorcerer from Norsunder—assuming that’s what he was—would know that.

  Inda forced himself around again to survey the remains of the battle in the strengthening morning light. All red-sail ships had lowered their red banners. He was in command of the remains of the Brotherhood as well as his people still afloat. I’ve won, Inda thought, but he felt nothing.

  Mutt appeared at Inda’s side. “Come on. Let me bind that wound before I have to scrub the entire deck. And how did that Ramis know how to find you anyway?”

  No answer.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  THE news that the red-sailed pirate ships that had been striking along the coast were sighted heading south gave the Sierlaef his new excuse not to go home for Convocation.

  "It’s Elgar the Fox, coming up from the Land Bridge to meet them, that’s what everyone says,” Nallan had added to the end of his report on his ride east a couple of weeks before.

  The Sierlaef knew that shifty look. “And?”

  “They say Elgar the Fox is Indevan-Laef Algara-Vayir.”

  This was not the first time the Sierlaef had heard that rumor. The same claim had been in everyone’s mouth in every harbor, ever since late autumn—with muttered insults and sidelong glances the Sierlaef’s way for his failure to prevent their damned fish-smelling shacks from being burned.

  That made him furious. It was easy to order battle on the plains, where you can see the enemy advancing. But it was impossible to prepare for attacks from the sea, which could come without warning at any point along the shore, a length equal to two months’ hard ride. And it wasn’t as if his forces hadn’t killed plenty of pirates—even burned a few of their ships, the times they’d been at a harbor when the red sails struck. But no, that wasn’t enough, it didn’t count for the times they missed an attack—

  No use arguing inside his head. Or even with Nallan.

  Indevan Algara-Vayir! He could barely remember the boy himself. One of the many scrubs surrounding his idiot brother years ago, but for some reason his uncle had taken a dislike to him. Wanted him disgraced. So he’d done what he was told—and it was not his fault the other scrub slipped and died.

  He hated remembering that summer. Hated any mention of Inda Algara-Vayir because the name reminded him of that Noth boy, lying dead in the stream bed.

  No one had ever said Inda was dead, just vanished. And the “Elgar” was too close to Choraed Elgaer to be coincidence. The news—rumors or not—had made him uneasy. “You go. Find out,”
he’d said, then touched his own chest. “South. Coast. Inspect.”

  And so Nallan had ridden off, leaving the Sierlaef to his real task: finding Joret Dei.

  The Sierlaef sighed as he rode along the snowy trail, his Honor Guard talking quietly among themselves behind him, passing back and forth a flask of distilled rye to warm themselves up. Now, with weeks to think about it, he didn’t really care who Elgar the Fox was. His biggest concern was that the coastal war not end before he found Joret; the war gave him his excuse not to return home. Because he would not return home until he found her—and while he could force his uncle to cover for him, he knew his father would be angry indeed if he found out his true goal.

  The last place Joret had been was at the Cassad citadel, for a wedding that he’d forgotten about. By the time he found out she’d been invited for a protracted stay, it was too late to ride east over snow-clogged roads, ostensibly to honor the newly married pair. But that time, word was she was preparing to leave.

  That was two weeks before; six days earlier one of his subsidiary Runners sent east to watch the roads had reported a big cavalcade with Cassad pennons riding toward the middle plains. He’d turned right around and rode back as fast as the snowstorms would let him.

  Middle plains!

  The question that galled him now: Was it possible Joret would dare to ride to Darchelde?

  Oh, but the women could cross the border into Montredavan-An lands and it broke no treaty.

  The Sierlaef brooded as he rode along, not seeing the slushy ground, the snow piled along the sides of the road— forced labor from the locals, commanded by scouts a day ahead. He could feel his father’s and uncle’s anger at his not being at New Year’s Convocation, for not marrying Hadand. Well, he was in command of the west, and they’d put him there. So they had to deal with the consequences—

  A screamer from ahead broke into his thoughts. He held up his hand, and his Honor Guard pulled up, the horses’ ears twitching. The horns came: Marlovan. He grimaced, disgusted at the racing of his own heart. Must have been all that thinking about pirates earlier.

  Marlovans, from the east—not going north to Convocation.

  It had to be the Cassad party. At last.

  And Joret.

  He raised his fist and his entourage began to trot until they topped a gentle rise and saw the white-draped river valley of the Marlovar below. There they were, numbering at a rough guess at least three ridings, with a jumble of lackeys at the back. A tall blond was at the front: Tanrid Cassad, heir, once one of his own Sier-Danas, though the companions so carefully put together for him by his uncle hadn’t lasted much beyond the academy days.

  The Sierlaef looked past him, and his heart drummed when he made out a female with glossy black hair framed by her hood and eyes the color of the summer sky. Joret. At last, at last. Frustrated desire gripped him so hard his hands trembled.

  The parties closed far too slowly. Then he had to wait while they mouthed their way through the formal deferences. He didn’t listen. Why had she stayed in Cassad for months? He watched Cassad with Joret, furious at the possibility that she could take him as a lover, a skinny, rat-faced Cassad. Anger burned up his throat until he finally turned his attention to the tall, heavy-faced, pale-blond young woman riding on Cassad’s other side: Carleas Ndarga, Cassad’s new wife and Joret’s old friend. He knew that from the days when Joret was with his mother and he’d set Nallan to find out whom Joret spent her free time with, and where, when she wasn’t attending the queen.

  The Cassads worked hard to hide their dismay at this surprise encounter.

  Joret frowned straight ahead between the hairy ears of her mare.

  “Well, this is a surprise,” Cassad said, struggling for ease of manner. “Though I suppose anyone out will have to meet on the king’s roads, as you can’t find any of the others. ” He indicated the smooth expanse of snow to either side of the road.

  Only his wife laughed, her voice sounding to the Sierlaef like the caw of a crow.

  “The surprise,” Cassad continued, with the familiarity of the old companion days, “is in finding you here.”

  “War,” the Sierlaef stated. “Sea.” For an exhilarating moment he pondered riding off with her. No, he had to get her the right way. He couldn’t even claim the honor of escort, not with only nine of the Royal Guard and a handful of his own Runners at his back. Impatience and frustration made him shift in his saddle, causing his mount to sidle and whisk his tail.

  “Ah,” Cassad said, after a covert glace of appeal at his wife and her friend—which both stonily ignored. “Well, we won’t hinder the king’s business—”

  “Where?” the Sierlaef cut in, with a circle of his hand.

  Cassad turned his face up at the cloudy sky.

  Disgusted with her spouse’s weak attempt to thwart the prince, Carleas said, “Joret has received an invitation to spend some time with Shendan Montredavan-An in Darchelde. We wished for news of the west, so we came along as her Honor Guard. At the Jarl’s request we are accompanying her as far as the border.”

  Darchelde. As he’d figured. Where he couldn’t go—the treaty that kept the Montredavan-Ans inside kept him outside.

  “Well,” Cassad tried again. “We all want to avoid being stranded by any coming snow—”

  “Camp,” the Sierlaef stated. It was a command.

  They all heard it. So despite the fact that he had no claim whatsoever on Joret, he had issued a direct order.

  He would be king, he had the right.

  And they had to obey, or be in the wrong.

  The thought of being mired in a tent with the Sierlaef made Joret angry: there was no semblance of choice left anymore. The king’s son was using his rank to force them to comply with his wishes. Whatever it was he thought, the truth was that she’d just lost her freedom. Embarrassment and regret were swept away by rage.

  Her color was high, her straight gaze intense with repressed emotion when at last the four of them sat around the fire in the royal tent. Carleas kept her expression strictly controlled. Poor Joret! One look at her glare helped quell that flutter of laughter behind her ribs.

  It fell to Carleas to maintain conversation, a semblance of friendship and ease, but all the rest of her life she’d insist she knew what it must be like to push boulders up a mountain with your hands tied behind your back.

  It began all right, with Cassad and the royal heir exchanging war news, but the name Elgar the Fox brought the talk to a halt. The Sierlaef, misreading a quick look between the women, was stunned by a horrible idea: that they knew about Indevan, that Joret was being saved for him.

  He could scarcely contain his fury. As he poked at the food his Runners brought he thought he’d figured out the Algara-Vayirs’ secret plans. They had to know that Indevan was masquerading as a pirate, and once he defeated the red sails, he could return in triumph and until then, Joret would be hidden with the Montredavan-Ans, where the Sierlaef couldn’t get at her unless he broke the old treaty. And wouldn’t they love that! They were all allied against him, all of them!

  He set aside his plate and stood up. Carleas almost dropped her knife, she was so startled by the sudden slit-eyed anger in the heir’s pale face. She stuttered to a stop— no one was listening to her anyway—and the Sierlaef took hold of Joret’s arm. “Talk.”

  The others labored to think of something to say, but he jerked his thumb at the tent flaps. “Out.”

  The Cassad pair withdrew, grim and silent until they reached their own tent.

  The Sierlaef had already forgotten them. He was alone, at last, at last, with the one thing he’d ever wanted in his life that hadn’t been his for the asking. He reached for her other arm, which hardened under his fingers. Her whole body had tightened to rigidity. Lust seared through him; his grip turned to a trembling caress, moving up her shoulders toward her face.

  She jerked away. “You dishonor me,” she whispered.

  Astonishment made his mind reel. As always words
galloped through his thoughts, too fast for his tongue to catch and form, making him more angry and frustrated. "Q-q-queen,” he managed, choking in his efforts to force his tongue not to stutter. “Marry.”

  “Then you dishonor Hadand, she I call sister.”

  “Marry a prince. C-c-colend. Bren. Fuh-fla-Fal.” He clenched his jaw, waved eastward. “Make ’em allies.”

  “Iasca Leror wants her as queen,” Joret said, her color high, her breasts rising and falling beneath the thick wool of her robe. The thought of her body under those clothes nearly killed him. “We need her, especially during war.”

  “You.” He held his hands out to her. “Queen.”

  She struck his hands away. He felt the spark of her touch, brief as it was.

  Would it have been any different if she had flung herself into his arms, as had Dannor Tya-Vayir last time he stayed in the Yvana-Vayir castle? But then he’d never found Dannor attractive, only convenient, and finally not even that when she started hinting around about becoming a royal favorite, and how she might “help” him by finding out who his enemies were.

  Perhaps the question could not be answered. He certainly would have denied it. The one thing he was certain of was that as future king, he could not possibly dishonor Joret with his love. Not if he did everything right. “Marry,” he said again. “Make things g-g-good with Hadand. Come back. You be ready,” he added, mentally assembling a mighty force in the royal city and riding to the Montredavan-An border. To damnation with pirates and rumor-chasing. His strength lay at home.

  He was the future king and no one could stop him.

  She heard the determination in his voice and vowed, eyes stinging with anger and repressed tears, “I will fight you every day of my life.”