The Fox

  Dasta said, “So I’m a southerner. Tell me.”

  Sparrow grinned. “A bowsprit makes a nice handle for the big monster squids of the deeps. Prow doesn’t. Also, prow is a signal to them it’s Venn, so the squids don’t attack.”

  “Why not?”

  Eflis said, “Because the sea dags talk to them.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  TWO days later, one of the big Venn guards came down into Inda’s prison corridor with a host of the ones in yellow.

  The Venn said in Dock Talk, “Those with the following numbers come to the front of your cell.” His accent jolted Inda. It was unexpectedly like Marlovan. “Anyone else stay to the back. Make a wrong move, you kiss the ground.” He hefted his cudgel then slammed it against the iron door.

  Silence.

  He motioned to one of the others, who commenced reading out the numbers. It took a long time, especially when some exclaimed, followed by hisses and curses from those trying to hear. With fearful and angry looks men shuffled forward and back, no one knowing if it was good news or bad news to have your number called. Or, as a fellow near Inda muttered without moving his lips, “Bad news or worse?”

  When the range of numbers neared that of the group in Inda’s cell, his fellow inmates stilled. Each held his medal, many gazing down with furious concentration as if the numbers might change. Then, as numbers were called or skipped, the men separated slowly, many reluctantly. Inda’s number was passed over. He stayed in the back. Scars. He knew what that meant: suspicion. But he said nothing.

  When the Venn finished, the questions started, spoken first. When the guards ignored them, some began to shout. The guards moved down to the next cell; when a couple men pressed their faces into the bars, demanding answers, one of the Venn snapped out his cudgel and smashed their knuckles.

  The bellowing ceased. Numbers were read out for the last of the cells down their side.

  After that, the Venn moved back to the first cell. This time they unlocked the door and let the men out one out at a time, each checked against the list.

  Sudden noise as a man tried an escape—voices, scrabbling; the horrible thunk of a weapon on a skull, followed by a thud. Then the door was relocked.

  No one else tried anything. Presently the last of them were gone. The Venn departed and the cells, emptier now, were left alone until the evening bread and cheese were brought and pushed between the bars; someone else brought the pitcher of water to replenish the bucket soldered to the wall by the door, the communal cup hanging on a string.

  The fear and questions of the first week were back again.

  Inda sat where he was, back to the wall, working on his story as he ate.

  “We’ve got a problem,” Nathad said, dropping down opposite Thess in the Lower Deck, the tavern in the ghost yards of Bren Harbor that had become Jeje’s favorite retreat.

  “Not Japsar again! I thought Col had a talk w’ him.”

  Nathad shook his head, beckoning, and the regulars came closer, most of them just off work and waiting for Jeje the Pirate to come down from Fleet House.

  Haelec, the proprietor, set down two fistfuls of mugs, and stepped up, wiping his hands on his apron.

  Nathad sidled a shifty look around then said in a low voice, “It was Japsar who heard ’em, and this time I think I believe his stories. Col says he’s tryin’ to stay sober. So’s he can join us.”

  “Don’t trust him,” Marn—the gray-haired grandmother— said. “Least, not till he’s been sober at least a month.”

  Nathad waved a hand. “We can talk over Japsar later. This is the thing. There’s some fellow nosing around the taverns along Anchor Way, askin’ about Elgar the Fox.”

  A brief silence, during which half of the gathering sent wary looks at the door.

  “Who is he?”

  “That I don’t know. But Col says his accent is a lot like the Venn.”

  Thess made a fist and pounded it on the table. “That don’t sound good at all. You think it’s a Venn spy, then?”

  “ ’Cep’ what’s he want?”

  “We need to find out,” Nathad said. “And not tell Jeje— she might vanish on us. See, I figure this. If she’s goin’ to all the trouble to train us, and Chim, well, he’s backin’ her, there’s some kind o’ plan afoot. And we’re gonna be in it. Jeje’s talked around about jobs, ships. Careful like, but you know what it is?”

  Thess waved a hand. “Already figured that out. Elgar the Fox is gonna be hirin’ for his next fight, and he don’t want pirates. Who would, for choice?”

  Everyone signified agreement.

  “They’ll want us if we’re good,” Thess said. She grinned. “I plan to be real good, because I want in.” She frowned. “So . . . this spy. I think we need someone to spy on him. Someone real friendly like, if he’s close as a clam. Take their time. Palnas!”

  Her son was at the far side of the room, setting up a game of Cards’n’Shards. “Yeah, ma?”

  “I got me a job for you, boy, so get over here.”

  “Good thinking—” Nathad began, but was interrupted by Marn.

  “Here comes Jeje. Mum, everyone! We take care of this matter ourselves.”

  Despite there being fewer prisoners in the cells of Beila Lana jail, this time the interviews were more extensive, so it took a couple of days to work down the rows.

  Everyone waiting noticed that there was another change: this time some men came back, others did not.

  “What’s with the ones don’t come back?” someone asked early on.

  “Lettin’ em go,” a young man responded. “I saw it, man before me in line. They chased him right out.” He laughed. “They don’t like me because I used to trade out west.”

  “Get inside,” the guard ordered him.

  “I’m goin’, I’m goin’.”

  Clang!

  Inda’s turn came the next morning. This time he was alone in the long office, with the same dag listening, though a different, older, officer did the questioning.

  Inda gave them the same information, and when asked to describe the pirate attack, he told the story of Walic’s attack on his convoy, ending with his being struck unconscious. He saw recognition in their faces when he named Gaffer Walic, and described his raffee. As rescuer he described the Nofa, the Sarendan war ship that he’d encountered on the way to attack Boruin.

  When they were done, the officer addressed the dag in quick, idiomatic Venn. Inda listened, frustrated: he caught a couple of words, but not the sense of the talk. The dag responded more slowly, and this time Inda recognized two words: pirate and captured.

  Four armed guards had brought him out, and four took him back to the cell, and locked him in.

  He sank down at the wall; the others did not address him as the next was taken out.

  He did not come back, nor the next, nor the ones after that.

  Inda was left alone in the cell.

  When the guards passed on to the next cell, Inda put his hands over his face, resolving: Next time, I fight.

  The Comet faced Tau.

  They were alone in her house, because he refused to take her to his room. She had a spectacular mansion—a gift from a duke—on the hill, the lower rooms of which had been decorated sumptuously and were used frequently for her entertainments. But the third floor was her own private space, and there they were now, not even a servant in sight.

  She sighed, throwing her gloves down onto a table inlaid with pearlescent stars and comets. She dropped onto the satin couch, leaned her head back, and watched him as he walked slowly around, not touching anything, but examining the furnishings as if evaluating them. “You really are an angel face,” she said, draping her skirts so that the folds outlined her form. “You are the only man I cannot construe.”

  “Construe.” He bowed, Colendi style, his hand flourishing up in a satirical salute. “Am I an old language or a verb?”

  “Everyone is a verb,” she said. “When we dwindle to a mere noun, we die. Do stop hidi
ng from me. Take off the mask. You already see through mine. I am grateful for your goodwill,” she went on, raising a hand before he could speak. “Yes, it’s a pretense about my hating Colend, and yes, it’s because I steal freely from the best of their old plays for my wit. Why not? It’s wit, free for the taking. So what if I claim it? If I were able to be witty on my own I would write all my own songs and plays. Anyway, all the minds who thought those lines are long dead, so they can hardly complain of my theft. I want to know how you knew. Are you in truth an actor, then?”

  Tau shook his head, smiling. “No. I really was raised in a pleasure house, just as I said. Except my mother read to me from the greatest plays and made me recite them back as a way of training my diction. She said once that current Sartoran plays had all the taste of yeastless bread, because the queen feels that no play ought to be performed that has not a useful lesson to teach. And current Colendi plays were too full of private innuendo—trying to out-clever the clever—so she used the older ones, which are as airy as pastry and as full of the complexity of good taste. But unlike pastry they are ageless.”

  Comet laughed and clapped her hands. “I should love to meet your mother.”

  Tau’s smile vanished. “Perhaps,” was all he said. “But let us discuss ourselves.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me there’s some horrid reason you won’t sleep with me,” she said, tucking her feet under her bottom and patting the place beside her invitingly. “Don’t let it be something dreary that I will hate.”

  Tau smiled again. “Nothing dreary. Shall we negotiate a deal, you and I?”

  She sat upright, eyes narrowed. “Oh, Angel, you’re going to be like all the rest? I am not rich—everything is gifts, and if you don’t know the nobility, you had better learn this: they can take back the things they give so easily, and all on a whim. There’s no recourse. No argument. If for some reason you cease to entertain them, they snap their fingers, and hordes of muscular minions appear, and your appearance of wealth disappears. So don’t name some hideous price. I won’t listen.” She laid her dainty fingers lightly over her ears, taking care not to disarray her charmingly arranged hair.

  Tau waved a hand to and fro. “I don’t want your money. I have enough of my own. More than you do, as it happens. ” He strolled toward her, bent, and kissed her fingers.

  She took hold of his wrists and tried to pull him down beside her. She had longed to kiss that mocking mouth for days and days, a longing that had intensified to hunger. “You’re rich?”

  “Very. But not in this kingdom.” He gave her that lazy smile, then turned his wrists slightly, breaking her grip.

  She sighed again, saying with undisguised desire, “No one else shall wear white and black. I am determined on that much.”

  He shrugged expressively, and she loved it even when she was exasperated at his deflections. He was every bit as beautiful as she was herself, but he never looked in mirrors, never responded to compliments, never gave in to desire. “Tell me your deal,” she said.

  “It’s simple, and I don’t think you will suffer by it. I want you to introduce me into court circles,” he said. “Especially Prince Kavna’s.”

  Disappointed, she groaned. “Oh, you are like everyone else after all. Court!”

  “Yes.” He bowed.

  “And Prince Kavna! He’s fat, did you not know?” She threw her arms wide. “Fat, and obsessed with the sea, of all things. That and government and justice. He’s as enticing as your Sartoran yeastless bread.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  She sighed again. He regarded her with that ironic smile. Giving in to impulse, she got to what really mattered: “In return I get you?”

  He threw his hands wide, mocking her gesture.

  When they came next for Inda, he was ready.

  He listened to the lock click, positioned himself. As soon as he was outside the door, he’d strike. He knew where they stood. If he could just get hold of one of their weapons—

  But this time they entered the cell two by two. He backed up a step, off balance, out of practice. How many days had it been since he’d drilled?

  Go.

  He launched himself forward, twisting between the first pair.

  The Venn were good. He’d hardly exchanged three blows when he felt threat from behind, whirled, faced the second two—

  And the first one clubbed him efficiently behind the ear. He dropped to his knees, his vision splintering into flickering stars. A foot on his back slammed him facedown onto the stone. Someone wrenched his hands behind him.

  He thrashed violently, but they were too many and too experienced. His wrists were tightly bound, and a hobble put around his ankles, which would prevent him from taking a step larger than his forearm.

  They pulled him to his feet and pushed him out. Shuffling awkwardly, he was herded in a new direction. The room this time had no window. That same fair-haired dag in the blue robe was there with a Venn officer as well as one of the yellow-clad ones. This latter sat at a side table, with pen and paper.

  “Fought, did you?” The dag said in Fer Sartoran, his mouth derisive; Inda realized then that this man was not a Venn dag, he was an Ymaran mage.

  Inda did not know which was more dangerous.

  He hesitated, and the mage said with heavy irony, “It will seem even more suspicious at this point in the proceedings if you pretend not to understand Sartoran.”

  “I did nothing wrong,” Inda said, striving to match that accent. “Don’t know why I’m here.”

  “We are here to determine that,” the mage responded. “Since, as you say, no crime is involved, you could be on your way more speedily if you answer my questions fully and completely.” He gestured to the chair before the desk. “Sit down.”

  Inda shrugged his shoulders and wiggled his fingers behind him. “Rather stand.”

  Two of the guards behind him gripped his arms, wrenched his elbows out, and thrust Inda into the chair so his hands were behind the back. The chair back cut excruciatingly into Inda’s arms; he could not move.

  “Now then,” the mage said. “First item. Tell me where you learned court Sartoran of the last generation?”

  Inda grimaced. “Dunno what it was called. That’s what I learned when I was small.”

  “In an Idayagan village? Son of a rope-maker?”

  Inda said doggedly, “We all learned it.”

  The mage addressed the Venn officer. This time Inda caught more words: “Satisfied? . . . Drink.”

  And the Venn waved a hand.

  The mage sat behind the desk. No one spoke. Inda twitched uneasily, trying without success to ease the strain on his arms. A short time later the door opened and someone entered. The air he stirred brought a familiar smell: kinthus.

  He tried not to swallow, but one man jerked his head back by his sailor’s queue, another pinched his nose. When his mouth opened on a gasp they poured in the liquid. And though he choked and gagged on at least as much as he swallowed, they kept pouring until the mage said, “I think that’s enough.”

  Inda felt the effects almost at once, as he hadn’t been given a morning meal. The familiar cloud of unfocused detachment settled around his thoughts as he fought his own mind, saying over and over, I am Fassun, I am Fassun.

  But when the mage asked next, “What is your name?” Inda heard himself murmur, “I have to say I am Fassun, I have to say I am Fassun. Have to say Fassun, and a little village, because I don’t remember any of the town names on the map—”

  “Tell me your name when you were born,” the mage ordered in Sartoran.

  “Indevan-Dal Algara-Vayir of Choraed Elgaer,” Inda said, and smiled at the Venn’s intake of breath, the sudden alertness in the guard at the table, and the way he jerked around to face the mage.

  Who said, “This is a province in Iasca Leror?”

  “Principality,” Inda corrected gently.

  “So you are a Marlovan.”

  “Yes.”

  The mage made a slig
ht gesture at the guard in yellow— a twitch of two fingers—then said, “Tell me how you ended up at sea?”

  Out it all came. Under the mage’s patient questioning, Inda told them about the academy, Dogpiss, his exile, the Pim Ryala, the mutiny, the marines, his days on Gaffer Walic’s ship. That mutiny. The attack on Boruin. The preparations for the attack on the Brotherhood.

  He talked until his throat was hoarse, but the mage listened closely, and the guard in yellow wrote swiftly at the desk.

  The attack on the Brotherhood took the longest, because the mage wanted every detail about Ramis that he could dredge from Inda’s memory. When he’d answered exactly the same way three times, the mage breathed deeply, wiped his forehead, then said, “And you never saw him before?”

  "No.”

  “So you did not take his commands?”

  “No.”

  “Nor he yours?”

  “No.”

  “Yet he desired you to meet him at Ghost Island? Tell me what you did with him there.”

  “We walked to the house. He told me to come to the balcony, and when I did, he said I am used to loyalty—”

  “Did you and he talk about the Venn?”

  “Yes. He told me there are splits in the Venn government. He said the system of kingship is at stake. He told me the three most dangerous Venn to me are Hyarl Durasnir, Commander of the Oneli; Prince Rajnir; and Dag Erkric.”

  This time the intake of breath was from the Venn observer; the mage and the guard met each other’s eyes briefly, their expressions indicative of intent.

  “Go on,” the mage said, after a questioning glace at the Venn.

  “He told me that the Guild Fleet has no leader. He took me aboard his ship by magic transfer, which felt like—”

  “Just tell me what he said on board his ship. Did he give you orders, or a future meeting place?”

  “No. He said he would be dead within a year. We would not meet again. He showed me ghosts. He asked me what I want.”