Her slow breath of relief revealed to Hadand that they hadn’t been told all, and there was significance in where their carriage was ordered to stop.
The last court was within the building complex itself. Wisthia smiled. Hadand understood that the inner court was a mark of prestige, invisible unless you knew. How subtle, how dangerous!
The carriage halted. Someone opened the door, letting in the fresh air that the Marlovans, used to traveling by horseback, had craved. They disembarked, waiting to the right and left as previously arranged, so that Wisthia could step into the center.
Holding the door was a tall man wearing a livery that looked both impressive and impossible to fight in, Hadand thought. The main color was a deep violet, almost black, with highly stylized white swans embroidered down the sides of the sleeves, their necks entwined. These sleeves had broad white cuffs, as did the straight trousers; the herald himself wore a stiff hat that was not a helm, but resembled one. A single white swan embroidered on the front of this hat seemed to identify him; Hadand saw Wisthia’s eyes lift to it before she faced the man.
He was older, his bow low and practiced. He spoke rapidly in Adrani, too rapidly for Hadand to get more than a word or two; Wisthia said in clear Sartoran, “My royal brother and sister invite us straight to court, expressing a kind wish not to postpone so long delayed a reunion, but if you wish to rest and refresh yourselves first, they will await our pleasure.”
Hadand could tell from the queen’s tone, the tiny smile at the corners of her thin lips, that this was the greeting she had hoped for.
Hadand knew that it was important that the barbarians be heard speaking Sartoran. “I hold myself ready, if that is your wish, Your Majesty.”
“And I, too,” Joret said.
Hadand and Wisthia watched the sober herald stare at Joret and then shift his gaze, the effort visible. Joret was thinking: We were told to wear our very best traveling gowns, after which we sat motionless in the coach for a short drive. Rest and refresh from what?
But she straightened her spine, even though she felt exposed in this gown with its tight bodice and open neck. This had to be what pleasure house girls felt like, except they were within the confines of their house of business, and they knew what to expect. Joret did not know what to expect, other than what came next would not be war, except perhaps of words. It was clear from the swift exchange between the queen and this herald that she and Hadand would have to practice far more: the Adrani words were spoken too swiftly to follow.
But then they were moving, and she was relieved at this chance to stretch her legs. She tried to walk with the quick, scudding steps the queen’s friend had shown them, but gave up after two long corridors, all with wood panels etched with gold leafing in swirling patterns, and some kind of beautiful milky-white stone forming swans diving, gliding, posing with their pretty necks arched. She and Hadand gradually lengthened their paces until they were walking with their customary long strides, their skirts billowing despite their straight-armed attempts to hold them still.
Cushioned little chairs lined the last hall, all of them with the low rounded backs that reminded Joret of harps. Chairs built for wide skirts, for people who did not expect attack from behind. No raptor chairs here.
Down broad marble stairs. Marble was even more beautiful than described, a translucent stone veined with faint colorations.
And then great carved double doors were thrown back by twin young men dressed exactly alike, small swan-hats on their heads. Wisthia walked in, tall and proud, the two Iascans behind her in what both thought of as Honor Guard position. Then they didn’t think at all.
Joret blinked at all the color within, a brilliant display that resolved into ranks of men and women, all in clothing far more elaborate than hers—something she would have thought impossible a moment before.
Hadand gave them all a single sweeping glance, her attention drawn to the two people on the thrones, difficult to make out among all the gilt and carvings and rich folds of fabric.
The herald spoke in Adrani, pronouncing their names in the middle of the stream of words, Joret’s name third. Then with a whisper and a rustle the entire room full of people made their bows.
At first Hadand and Joret had laughed at the notion of bowing—of sticking your butt out at the hapless person standing behind you—but these courtiers made it look good. It was in the bending of the knees, the way they held their backs straight as they inclined their heads.
Now Joret fell in behind Wisthia and Hadand, who, being queens, walked side by side up the carpet, which was again a deep violet, only now the swans were faint outlines worked in pure silver, toward a dais on which were two couches.
“Bow,” Wisthia barely breathed, and Joret realized the other two had begun the movement they had practiced so long. She performed her bow, then straightened up.
Hadand regarded the woman of impressive size with the painted cheeks and lips, who reclined on her couch-throne in a gown glittering with ropes of pearls and clusters of diamonds. The gown was decorated by a profusion of silken roses and loops of ribbon as well as glittering gems, the skirts so voluminous they draped over the back of the couch and down onto the floor, rich, gleaming lengths of exquisite fabric.
The king was larger than his queen. He wore a spectacular embroidered cloak obscuring half his body, like the queen’s skirts, so long it trailed two men’s lengths before him on the floor. His nose was purple from drink; that, at least was a familiar enough sight. Mad Gallop Yvana-Vayir had had the same purple nose, though he’d been less than a quarter the size of this man.
The royal pair spoke ritual words of welcome, using Sartoran, the language of civilization, but their accent was unfamiliar, and Hadand and Joret struggled to comprehend.
Wisthia was stationed at the queen’s right, Hadand at the king’s left, and Joret was bade stand at Hadand’s side— as all eyes turned to watch her.
For the remainder of the formal court, which was a long series of ritual speeches, goings and comings, flattery, music, capped by a meal at a long table in an adjacent chamber equally as large, Hadand observed those clever, smiling faces. Jewels winked, betraying subtle movements made by courtiers who were covertly observing the newcomers. Especially Joret.
Hadand saw the expected admiration, interest, curiosity, except for the pretty, artful blonde at Wisthia’s right, who watched Joret from beneath her eyelashes, her mouth tight with . . . anger? Hatred?
Wisthia ignored her. She kept her attention on her brother and his queen. Her quiet smile, the tone of her soft voice as she spoke to them in Sartoran, convinced Hadand that Evred’s mother, powerless in Iasca Leror, had indeed laid deep plans for her eventual return to her homeland. Plans she had imparted to no one.
When at last they withdrew to ready themselves for the evening’s entertainment (which, Wisthia warned them, would not be materially different from the morning’s, just with more music—maybe dancing, certainly gambling) Hadand wanted to discuss her observations with Joret. But Joret was absorbed as she admired the scrollwork rippling artistically in drapes and crimps along the vaulted joining walls and ceiling. A quick glance showed most of the Adranis admiring Joret’s profile.
Hadand decided for now to keep her thoughts to herself.
At nightfall, when they were alone on the sea, Dasta signaled and Tcholan rowed the short distance to Cocodu.
They were exhausted from the storm and its aftermath. There was plenty to do on both ships, but at least they were seaworthy and could survive any but the worst storm.
Tcholan glanced back at Death riding quietly on the mild swell, lamps strung along the deck as the night watch continued repairing the rigging.
He hooked on and clambered up the sides of the Cocodu. Dasta was waiting, the lamplight painting his skin gold as he led the way into the cabin. He wore Fox’s black trousers, but no shirt, and he’d scrounged a vest from somewhere with added pockets, which carried his spyglass and a few other oddments.
Inda’s big
Eastern Seas chart lay open on the table, a lamp holding down each corner.
They sat down together at the table and for a moment looked at each other. “You ever expect to be a captain?” Tcholan said presently.
“No,” Dasta admitted, then laughed. “I’ve been sitting here wondering if I ought to get drunk, or play around with maps and pretend to be Inda.”
Tcholan laughed. “Yes. Yes.”
Dasta sighed. “Jeje told me, when she made her run to Freedom, she kept asking herself what Inda would do. So I tried to think the same.” He smacked the chart. “See, if we use the sun-trackers we can go straight east to Inglenook.
The more I think about it, the more I suspect we’ll find Sea-King there, and maybe even some of Walic’s old gang.”
Tcholan grimaced. “Why would you want them? I thought you told Inda none of them were worth going after.”
“We couldn’t take the ship with all those spies o’ Walic’s aboard. Not after that fight, and the storm.” Dasta ran his fingers lightly over the islands. “But what if, once they found out Walic was gone, they got the spies overboard?”
Tcholan leaned forward. “Keep talking.”
Dasta did—with much back and forth, doubts, shrugs, curses, and then, “Let’s ask Gillor when she’s off watch.”
“Let’s. Three guesses at what Inda would do are better than two.” Tcholan squinted at the chart. “I hate this kind of thing. I want a clear order. Get your fight band up the side of that ship and take it. That I can do. D’you think Inda ever felt this way? Like being captain is puttin’ someone else’s clothes on?”
“Like these?” Dasta stuck his legs out, grinning, then grimaced. “Tight across the hips. Wish Fox had the sense to wear drawstrings.” Dasta frowned at Tcholan, who was bigger all through his body. “These won’t fit you at all.”
Tcholan laughed. “I know, already tried. Sails gave me some black cloth from the flags chest. Good linen cloth. Always carries extra, he said, on account of Fox, if his shirts get ripped up. He’s particular, he said—won’t wear summer-sailcloth, like the rest of us. Got to be linen.”
They both contemplated Fox.
Tcholan went on, since Dasta hadn’t laughed. “Wearing Fox’s clothes—even if they aren’t strictly his—makes being a captain a put on, for me, outside as well as in here.” He hit the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Maybe easier to think of it as puttin’ a ruse on.”
“I’ve an idea for that, too,” Dasta said, tracing round and round the Inglenook Islands on the chart. “Inda said before we sailed, the outfit is part of war in the mind. Like the earrings. You know what would make us look real, real good? I mean make us look like that Ramis, except for that business about the holes in the sky?”
Tcholan made a warding sign. “Big business.”
Dasta chuckled. “So here’s what. We time our attacks at Fire Island—first you, then me. We attack one then the other on opposite sides of the island. Get us a cutter like Vixen, to go between us. Then the pirates think Fox is everywhere. War up here, see?” He tapped his head.
Tcholan considered. “Good. Gillor has some tricksy ideas, too,” he offered. “She was on privateers before Walic got her. They’re good at ruses.” He rose. “Got to get back. Too much to do.” He paused at the door, then faced Dasta again. “I was born on land. Parents painters—pa did wall murals, ma did porcelain. I spent my days grinding colors. Sitting outside trying to sketch trees. Always looked like bread dough on a stick. Pa smacked me. Said try harder. I hated trees. Told Ma one night if I never saw another tree again, I’d be happy. She took me to the city. Ended up at sea.” He hesitated. “And here I am.”
Dasta laughed. “My family was beekeepers. Figured on the sea, there were no bees.”
Tcholan left, chuckling, shaking his head. “No bees. No bees,” he repeated in a low voice as he rowed back to his new command.
Chapter Twelve
THE sun lightened the east as Fleet Commander Hyarl Fulla Durasnir finished his weapons warm-ups. He glanced skyward, something all Venn did as a matter of necessity, even those fixed here in the south year after year. The horizon all around was clear. Unimaginable at this season in the Land of the Venn, when autumn brought surprise storms howling like a pack of wolves nearly every day. But then this was not even autumn at home, it was spring—another cruel, stormy season, warming reluctantly.
Harsh as Venn was, it was home, and Durasnir missed his home. He hated it here in the south, hated its smiling seasons, its small, smiling people who looked up at him with imperfectly hidden hatred, fear, scorn. Those huge Venn, stinking of spice, how stupid they are! They used to say so openly, not knowing he knew their language as well as they did, while they did not know his. Every time he returned to the Port of Jaro after a cruise his hatred seemed to intensify a little more. And it was always at its worst the day after he regained the shore.
He reached the baths before the lazy locals were even out of their beds, and finished before anyone else came through the door, wringing his long yellow hair, now shot with gray, in the summer air. Another thing you did not do at home, unless you wanted your hair to freeze and break off, all in the time it took to draw three breaths.
But there was no use in thinking of home. He was here, in Ymar, living on the rocky walls overlooking the Port of Jaro, the rising sun revealing row after row of whitewashed stone houses as the shadows sank down toward the waterline and then vanished altogether for another day. After a long, fruitless spring journey he’d rejoined his wife and young son yesterday, which was good. They would be awake and awaiting him now.
He rolled his hair quickly and clipped it up on the back of his head, then ran up the steps into his meeting chamber, sensing something amiss before he reached the door. Ah. No sounds of breakfast, the quiet chatter of family— instead the silence due to the presence of strangers. Or superiors.
There was only one superior to the Commander of the Oneli—the sea lords—and that was Prince Rajnir himself. But there was one equal to him.
And indeed it was a tall, slim silver-haired man who placed hands together, head tipped politely, as Durasnir entered the room.
“Dag Erkric,” Durasnir said, hands open. “You honor my house.”
“Your house honors me,” Dag Abyarn Erkric said, indicating the family sitting motionless on the eating platform, their food rapidly cooling. Durasnir’s glance took in his rigid wife and knew that she’d offered to share and had been refused. No one could eat, or even move, until the Dag took his business out of the eating chamber.
“You will pardon my intrusion when I explain that I am here at the prince’s command,” the Dag said. “There were enough survivors of that storm appearing along this coast to convince him that Elgar the Fox slipped entirely past our blockade. Therefore the prince desires an immediate sweep-search of all possible inlets as well as the coast, every male from fifteen to thirty, every masted craft, checked for the identification medal.”
Durasnir was silent as he considered the scale of this order. A local search would ordinarily fall within the duties of the Erama Krona, the Arm of the Crown, the prince’s personal guard, who had their own training, their own command structure, and were thus answerable only to the prince. Or it would fall to the Yaga Krona, the Eyes of the Crown, the mages with a similar duty; they reported to Dag Erkric, who was answerable only to the prince.
But because of the prince’s anomalous status, the Erama Krona and Yaga Krona were few in number—enough to guard the royal residence and very little else.
Therefore such a search would fall on the shoulders of the navy, in particular the marines, already in use as supplemental guards, much to Durasnir’s regret. But the king, as yet, had not sent occupation forces. And so everyone had to make do with what they had.
There was no avoiding a direct order, but one could ask a question. Durasnir said, “Was there any evidence Elgar the Fox would turn northward—all land held by us—and not to the south, which is not
held by us?” In other words, is there any evidence that Elgar would do anything so profoundly stupid as to land on our side of the strait?
Erkric’s lips pulled down in amusement. “The prince is convinced that this Elgar, having defeated the pirates, is marking out the prince himself as his next target. Therefore, it is I who come, and not a messenger, as evidence of his wish for dispatch. It is by the prince’s command.” He used the royal modality.
It is what Rajnir would do. “There is nothing more to be said,” Durasnir replied. “But it will involve every ship and man, so large a search. The fishing fleets alone will not be able to sail for days and days while we sort them.”
“Ah, but the prince thought of that. Count Wafri will take charge of all land searches north of Jaro. It is the area the prince gave him to oversee, after all. The prince wishes Count Wafri to be given more responsibility in government. He feels it is a gesture of good will to the Ymarans. Your orders are to sail west in case they went to ground at the start of the storm and have beat up into the winds toward Bren.”
Durasnir made a gesture of agreement without speaking. Dags interfering in military business—again. And he sent haring off for yet more months, to come back to what changes next?
But he would not reveal his intention to check these orders. He had reason to visit Rajnir to report; that would suffice. “Very well.”
“Then I will depart at once, and leave you to your morning meal.” Erkric made the Dag’s bow again, this time to the degree of respected equal, rather than as Prince’s Voice. Then he made a sign and vanished, the displaced air swishing through the room.
Durasnir knelt across from his wife. Brun gave him a tight look that promised questions, and plenty of them, but not before Halvir. Instead, in her smooth, quiet voice, she oversaw Halvir’s eating until the boy made that abrupt change from interest in food to restlessness that characterizes the two-year-old. And Brun summoned his nurse.
As soon as the door was shut behind them she sat down next to him. “Well, Fulla? Shall we begin addressing him as ‘the Dag’?”