“Setting aside what he might or might not want, from what I understand the fight he had with the Brotherhood holding this island was bloody enough.” Fox glanced over his shoulder. “Did you ask around about that? I did. Islanders helped Ramis by turning on their former masters. Wasn’t so much of a fight as a slaughter.”
Inda had heard much the same. “Yes, and?”
Fox propped a booted foot on the edge of a low table and tilted the chair back. “The locals might decide to serve us the same turn, and why not? Who’s to stop them? I sleep with a knife, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Inda said impatiently. “Been doing that since I was twelve. Except when I was aboard Coco and you had my knives.” His fingers stroked absently over the white scar leading down to his jaw. “I am more disturbed by Ramis’ actions during the winter then by what happened here.” Inda spread his hands. “From anyone else it would be a gesture of alliance. From him—some-one from Norsunder—his motivations, as Tau says, become murky. His actions don’t make sense. I need to know why he did it.”
Fox expelled his breath, the chair thumping forward again. “Why are you giving him moral ascendance? Because without his timely appearance we might have lost?”
“We still don’t know that,” Inda said. As he put himself back inside his mind at the time, the room seemed colder, even darker. “If I had managed to get to Marshig and kill him—”
“And if his crew hadn’t promptly scragged you on the spot,” Fox interrupted, at his most caustic.
Inda threw his hands out wide. “But don’t you see? It wouldn’t have mattered what happened to me, as long as I did defeat him. From everything I heard, Marshig didn’t hold them out of loyalty. And it doesn’t sound like he had a trusted first mate they’d follow if he died. Should there’ve been a smooth transfer of power—no evidence of that ever happening in the pirate book or in the stories about them—yes, the rest of you would have been massacred. But if they hated him—if they all scrambled to be the next leader—well, you could have taken piecemeal any who didn’t just run.”
“But you would have been dead. Or near it, unless they all lined up behind you, and why should they? You had nothing to offer them,” Fox said, shifting to the real subject. “But you’re going to do it again—this time against the Venn, who are far tougher. And you want that one-eyed shit’s advice. Why? Even if they know, back in Iasca Leror, do you think anyone cares?”
Tdor would care, Inda thought. My brother. He was the one who told me to fight pirates. But he said nothing.
Fox pinched the skin between his eyes. “Could Barend have talked you out of coming here? You won’t listen to me!”
Barend’s name caused a cascade of bitter memories that Inda usually tried to avoid, leaving him, as always, feeling intense but unspoken regret. “That’s because you’re never serious about anything I think is serious.”
Fox snorted.
Inda gave Fox a rueful grimace, too pained to be a smile. “There you go! Nevertheless. Whatever I plan to do or not do, Ramis appointed this time and this meeting place. I didn’t. We all know he can hunt me down wherever I try to hide if he wants a little easy recreation.”
Fox flipped up the back of his hand—but he didn’t deny it.
Inda gave his scar a last rub. “Anyway I’d much rather face danger on neutral ground if I cannot pick a battlefield I know. Someone that powerful, I have to find out at least if he’s an enemy. Or not. Last thing is, yes, I’ve been wild to talk to him ever since the first mention of his name.” And when Fox glanced skyward in mute disgust, “I wonder where Barend is.”
“You mean you wonder if he’s alive.”
From the street laughter rose, a clatter and unmusical twang and trill of musicians finding the same note. They launched into a celebrative melody, accompanied by the cling of brass finger cymbals, unheard by both.
Fox regarded Inda, who stared beyond the wall into the east. Contempt did not override Inda’s convictions, just made him go silent and stubborn. Fox made an effort to control the anger that burned the more cruelly at any evidence of idealism, and waved a languid hand. “You blame yourself? You didn’t force him to go ashore with that damned ring.” He added savagely, “I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.”
“But you wouldn’t have.” Inda’s eyes narrowed as he considered Fox.
“No?”
“No. Next time you got drunk, it would have come out.”
Fury blazed then died, leaving the familiar self-mockery. Fox heard his father’s voice—drunk, late at the end of another long night of exile—discoursing on the meaningless-ness of honor in his big, beautiful prison in Darchelde, far from the Marlovan center of power. He gave a soft laugh. “Yes. You’re probably right.”
“Come here,” Inda said, rising to his feet. “Let me show you this thing close up. Tell me what you think.” He led he way over tiled floors, each broad, six-sided tile painted with intricate designs, mostly highly stylized birds and animals. He said, “How are the Death’s hands comporting themselves? Dasta had to brig half a dozen from Cocodu the first night, but it was mostly drunken fights.”
“No problems after I thrashed a couple of Walic’s former crew for interpreting the generous bounds of our invitation here to include stealing from that armorer halfway up the other hill. You should see his work, by the way. I’m surprised you haven’t already. It’s sweet stuff, knives as balanced as our own from home, the steel almost as good.”
Inda gestured, a wave of the hand that could mean anything—or nothing. “I will.”
This house had once belonged to the local governors, before pirates had taken the place and executed the governing families in the main square off the dock. It was the highest, and the finest, on the island. Too fine to burn, an old servitor had told Inda when he first entered. But the islanders who had been forced to labor as servants for the Brotherhood had silently carried off everything valuable that the pirates had brought in, leaving only a few worn pieces of furniture sitting on the beautifully tiled floors.
They’d also left this room containing the pirates’ charts and maps on an old, battered table with ivy vines carved down the legs. The rolls lay next to the big bound book that Inda had been given on their arrival. All untouched until Inda handled them—the old man had warned Inda that the pirate chief had told them there were poison spells on everything there—only Ramis, a mighty mage as all knew, dared touch anything. Since the pirates had never been known to use magic, Inda suspected the “poison spells” existed only in imagination, and as soon as he was alone, he’d experimented. Nothing happened.
“This is what I’ve been doing by day. Reading that book. And studying these charts of every continent. Including the coastline of the Land of the Venn.”
Fox turned away with a violent motion. “Venn!”
Inda spread his hands. “They were watching that battle. I didn’t think about it before, what it meant. You can’t attack someone’s allies, however mistrusted, and not draw their attention. The Venn have to be coming after me.”
Fox cursed; Inda grinned, taking that as corroboration.
“So—why don’t I go after them first, and while I’m at it, clear the strait?”
“I knew it.” Fox slammed a hand down on the table, making the maps and the heavy book jump. “I knew you were going to do something even more stupid than taking on the Brotherhood. Which would have killed you, you know it yourself—”
“But it didn’t.”
“—and if you think I believe those your only two choices—stay to get killed by Ramis or go after the Venn and be killed by them—you really are a fool,” Fox stated.
Inda snorted. “No one is going to have freedom on the seas until the Venn are reined in.” And at Fox’s obscene gesture, he said, “No one. I’m not just thinking of us.”
“Us?” Fox repeated, hands at his chest. “Iasca Leror is not in your thoughts? Who comprises this ‘us’?”
“The southern half of the world, for
a start,” Inda retorted without any of Fox’s heat. “If no one will follow me, I wonder if Ramis would take me on his crew, if he’s going to fight them. That is going to be one of the questions I put to him.”
“If no one will follow me.” Of course they’ll follow you, no matter how stupid your intent. Fox gazed at him, angry, so angry he couldn’t speak—until he recognized he was mostly angry with himself, not at Inda, who had never asked for command. Who had, when he was sixteen years old, seen the moment to mutiny and led it.
And everyone had followed, because he’d figured out where everyone fit. They’d followed him against Boruin and a dozen other lesser known pirate predators and, finally, against the Brotherhood.
If he didn’t think those who were left would follow him now, maybe it was time to for Fox take the lead—and without the Brotherhood’s habitual violence.
Fox picked up the great oath book. “Do you know what this thing is?”
“Yes.” Inda had spent an entire day reading it. The book not only contained names famed and feared written in the pirates’ own hearts’ blood, but records—stories of accession, plans, sometimes notes on this or that kingdom’s strengths, all in the hands of former chiefs. And a map.
“This book is the Brotherhood. No, it’s promise.” Fox hefted the book, his eyes wide, the pupils so dark they reflected the brilliant light from the windows in pinpoints of gold. “It’s possibility. You could rebuild the Brotherhood, make it far greater than it’s ever been. You can take this thing and do anything you want.” He set the book down beside Inda.
Inda left. He crossed the wide, tiled room to the balcony, sat on the low rail, and gazed out over the bay. Little pleasure boats had launched out, glass aboard refracting ruddy fire. The silken air carried voices rising and falling in song, horn and string instruments weaving melodies in counterpoint.
Fox leaned against the shuttered door, holding the Brotherhood’s oath book. “Anything else is the act of a fool.”
Inda’s profile was pensive. His head lifted slightly, his breathing arrested. Fox had been ignoring the music, but a single melody persisted in being heard; then he had it. That song was the Marlovan Hymn to the Dead.
Except the tempo was wrong, the emphases and the words that drifted up were not the old, old ritual words sung over fallen warriors, but a silly romance about some fool longing for a woman gone to sea.
“You said I’m never serious. I am now.” Fox laughed, a scornful sound, more irony than humor. “Meaning is what we make it,” he stated. “There are no absolutes except for death. If there really was such a thing as honor, instead of a convenience for exalting one’s own purpose, you and I would be home.”
Inda looked up. “You mean your family would hold the throne.”
“Yes.” Fox opened one hand. “The point being that Iasca Leror’s present royal family is founded on a dishonorable act, the craven murder of my great-father in the night while he slept. But as always, ‘honor’ is defined by those in power. In Iasca Leror, it’s defined by the ambition of the Montrei-Vayirs. And everyone, including your own family, followed right along.” He smacked his hand on the book. “Use it! Those damned bloody pages are not just promise, but power. Whatever the hands think of the old Brotherhood is irrelevant. If you call your whole fleet together and sign your name in that book, they’ll line up right behind you, because you stand on the wreck of Marshig’s empire. Your fleet of five would expand fast, upon old reputation as well as current success. Faster, because you have the knack of drawing people to you. Use it,” he said again.
Inda looked up into Fox’s wide, intense gaze. “Why should I?”
“Because meaning is what we make it,” Fox repeated. The song below had ended. “The Brotherhood of Blood can be anything you want it to be. Make war on other pirates if you wish. Avoid the hapless and helpless, if that is your nature. There are plenty of grasping kings and guilds whose trees can use some shaking. Shake ’em, take what you knock down. Build your own empire.”
Inda looked out at the deep sapphire blue of the bay. Meaning. He had five ships under his command and all the wealth of the Brotherhood of Blood, if the notes and map he’d found in the book did not lie. Several generations of accumulated booty was supposedly secreted across the bay on Ghost Island. The map had been carefully drawn; he had already memorized it.
He was the Brotherhood now. He sat here in this house, served by strangers who looked at him with sidelong admiration, and some apprehension. Both nights he’d had his pick of the handsome young women who strolled by just to look at him. All of them laughing, all of them willing. The first one brought a basket of fresh fruits of amazing variety: he had counted eight different types of grape alone. Just don’t ask their names, Jeje had said, walking by on the arm of a young man nearly as handsome as Tau, only dark. The last he’d seen of her was that valedictory grin.
And he hadn’t asked any names. He got up in the morning from that vast bedroom downstairs, and when he walked to the bath the pretty young woman with whom he had shared fruit, wine, and his body smiled and left. No demands, no expectations. A night of pleasure, of passion, given not because she liked Inda as a person, or liked his looks, but because he had commanded a successful battle against their hated foe—he knew it as well as she did.
“Meaning. Power,” he murmured, now in Marlovan. Odd, both words carried slightly different connotations from the same words in Iascan.
“Life, death, and power,” Fox said, breathing fast. Smiling in challenge. “That’s all there is. Why not enjoy them?”
Inda turned away, leaving the book—and the question of the future—behind him. “Let’s get something to drink.”
“Liquor?” Fox asked derisively. “Even I don’t drink just after dawn.”
“No. Coffee. It’s the best I’ve ever had. I think it’s better than Sartoran, even. I want some now, and I’m going to fill the galley with bags of it when we go.”
Three weeks passed, marked by intermittent storms. One morning the sky cleared after a thunderstorm, and there in the bay beyond the pier rode a single ship with a high, curved prow like the head of a swan, its masts tall, the slackened, drying sails square. And black.
Ramis of the Knife was here.
Chapter Three
ON the morning after his conversation with Fox, Inda had walked down to the shore behind the dock, weapons in hand, to start the daily drills.
Many of his crew were reluctant to rise early from their pleasures just to struggle and sweat, but drill had become a part of their lives. The fight against the Brotherhood had imbued most of them with the conviction that pleasure would not last beyond their share of the pay Elgar had handed out once they left Lindeth. Either they’d go cruising again or someone would come after them. Inevitable as rain. So their lives depended on readiness.
And then there were those who came out because Fox entered their comfortable pleasure houses, strong-arming them out of bed without ceremony or pity.
So for three weeks Inda’s crew reported for daily drill on the broad beach before the pier to which their ships were moored.
The morning they spotted the Knife anchored out in the bay the sailors stood about in uneasy groups, fingering their weapons and staring, until Inda’s sharp whistle—and Fox’s freely dealt buffets—brought them into line to begin.
A boat from the Knife glided in. A scar-faced man leaped out, and while his boat crew rowed back he remained on the beach to observe the sword and staff drills.
A riff of self-consciousness tightened muscles, sharpened focus, and those of Inda’s crew who had been slow or reluctant now put forth all their effort.
Ramis One-Eye watched, while everyone watched him. There wasn’t much to look at beyond the spectacular purple scarring down one side of his face, a black patch covering that eye. His brown hair was neatly clubbed, his height was above medium, his clothing a plain linen shirt under a long vest belted at the hip and loose trousers stuffed into boots. His manner, the eas
y control of his movements, all indicated to their practiced eyes one with lifelong weapons training, though he only wore a knife in a sheath at his black-weave belt.
Inda saw that his crew was more distracted than focused and gave up. “Tomorrow a double,” he said, wondering if he’d be alive to lead it.
The scar-faced man lifted a hand toward Pirate House, and Inda fell into step beside him.
The brick road leading up was scarcely wider than a path; there were no horses on the island, only goats, cows, bulls, dogs, and cats. Plump felines trotted along fences and balconies, each wearing a collar of sweetly tinkling bells, for apparently the mice were pets as well. Everyone walked, or was pulled in little flower-decorated carts by fat, well-groomed goats with flowers decorating their halters.
As the two passed by in silence, the windows and doors of the shops and houses crowded with curious folk; only the local dogs and cats ignored them, indifferent to the matters of humans.
Everywhere flowers bloomed, and music—Inda had discovered that the islanders made music day and night, with any excuse—wound complicated melodies through the cool breezes.
Ramis did not speak during that long walk. Inda spotted Tau lounging in the doorway of a tiny house, watching with unsmiling intensity. How had he gotten there so fast?
Then Dasta appeared at the top of the hill, still breathing hard as he casually whittled some pale wood. He had armed himself for battle—all his old mates had, apparently running up one of the back streets. They eyed Ramis with open speculation.
Inda and Ramis reached the house. Ramis said in Iascan, “We will go up onto the balcony so that your followers will see that you are safe.”
Inda flushed, though he didn’t know why.
Ramis glanced over as they walked inside. His good eye was hazel in color, its expression wry and acute. “You do not seem to appreciate,” he said, “just how rare is freely given loyalty. I suspect you’ve had it all your life.”
“Loyalty,” Inda repeated, leading the way upstairs. Fox’s voice came back: There is nothing but life, death, and power.