The Fox

by Sherwood Smith

  Thog raised the bow, took aim, and shot.

  The glowing arrow landed squarely in the middle of the great foresail, sending curiously blue flame out in swift runnels. As if the sail had been splashed with whiskey. Whiskey?

  “Thog?” Inda shouted, running to the rail.

  If Thog heard him, she made no sign. The next arrow landed in the middle of the longboat, the only one afloat. The third arrow hit the mainsail, the fourth the mizzen.

  For a moment nothing happened.

  Then flames flashed up the foresail, blue, sudden, and bright as lightning, and again on the mainsail. A heartbeat later a terrible fireball swelled skyward from the captain’s deck, and fire exploded in all directions. Pirates shrieked in terror. Within a dozen heartbeats the entire ship was ablaze. A blast of hot air struck and the sails above Inda thundered.

  The light was so intense it reflected off every shocked face on the remaining ships, from Jeje on Vixen to Mutt at the helm of Cocodu, his mouth open in astonishment.

  “Jeje!”

  She wrenched the tiller, bringing the Vixen alongside.

  The screams of the burning pirates dashing wildly about on the deck of the burning ship rose above the roar of the flames. Many dove overboard—where Thog, standing in the gig, shot them one by one.

  Inda leaped onto the foredeck of the Vixen, white-faced with anger. He gripped the bloody boarding ax. “Who ordered that? If Fox countered my orders—”

  Thog’s gig bumped up against the Vixen. She and her two helpers climbed aboard, Nugget pale, her pupils huge in widened eyes as she shrilled, barely audible, “One got Jeje, but I shot him! I shot him right here!” A smack to her chest. “He fell right off the masthead!”

  Inda let her stream of words pass through his mind and out as Uslar climbed up behind her, head lowered, expression closed in the way peculiar to Chwahir in times of stress.

  Thog crossed the little deck and stood before Inda, stiff and pale.

  Thog stated, “It was not Fox, it was I.”

  Icy needles of horror prickled through Jeje.

  “What?” Inda yelled, staring down at her.

  Thog trembled, her face lit by the glow of the firestorm she had created. “I ordered Uslar and Nugget to help me spill the oil and the whiskey on the ship,” she said distinctly. “I told Tcholan you wanted him on the third consort. I sent the prize crew to the raffee. We brought up the casks of whiskey to the deck, under my direction, and spilled half on the deck and then righted them. Open. So that they would explode. I poured more down the sails, and I went from boat to boat telling pirates to board. I shot the arrows.”

  “Why?” Inda’s tendons stood out as he gripped the ax.

  Her voice was low and hoarse, “Because I know the people they slaughtered in my homeland. I can name them. One by one.”

  Inda gave a groan and flung himself around, staring helplessly at the burning ship. Already the cries were fading; those few who had made it overboard before the fiery blast bobbed about in the water, their faces pale blobs as they waited for either death or rescue. The longboat slid below the surface, briefly glowing orange and then vanishing.

  The ship began to sink, smoke billowing up in a thick black column against the slowly lightening sky, the oily, vile burning-meat smell dying away in the freshening wind. I will be blamed for that, Inda thought. Even if I kill Thog, that act will be laid against me wherever people talk about this action.

  A whirtler went up from Cocodu. Jeje raised her glass, saw the lookout on Cocodu’s foremast pointing to the southeast, where the bleak blue light of predawn smeared the sky.

  She jerked her thumb, and Inda turned. Notching the horizon were the slanting black silhouettes of three ships. He looked around for his glass, remembered he’d left it aboard the pirate raffee, and held out his hand. Jeje thumped her glass into it. He raised the glass to his eye. “Jeje, from now on you’ll wear armored quilting into battle, ” he said flatly, sweeping the ships.

  “It was just a spent arrow. Only a scrape on the ribs. Hardly noticed.”

  They both knew she lied; Inda said, “Take it as an order.”

  “No. That stuff is heavy. I don’t want to drown.”

  “Shit,” Inda said, too tired to get angry again. “You won’t drown. If you fall overboard, pull the laces and wiggle free.” He frowned, wiped the glass on his shirt, tried again.

  The ships sprang closer, the exquisite curve of their taut sails clear in the pale blue morning light: Chwahir schooners, flying the best sails in the world.

  Sailing to what, attack? Inda turned around to look again at his own fleet and those ships he’d captured, but then Thog stepped to his side. “They are coming to join you,” she said, with conviction.

  Inda stared at her. “How do you know that?”

  Her bony shoulders jerked up and down. “Everyone knows we were going after Boruin. They will have seen the light from the fire ship.” Her upper lip curved.

  In the distance Fox shouted orders for defense bands to take their places. Chwahir. Enemy, or not?

  “They will want to fight the Brotherhood,” Thog said.

  Inda watched the three ships cutting smoothly through the water, heeling over at exactly the same angle as dawn light stippled the waves with touches of gold and the blue smear in the eastern sky warmed to peach.

  Inda could imagine his own crew’s heated talk. They’d divide sharply for and against Chwahir, they would divide over Thog’s fire ship, over who had done what, who would get what. And underneath it all was the question of command.

  He saw it so clearly, despite his scorched lungs, aching head, stinging cuts. It’s not a war game, you haywit.

  He dropped his head in his hands. The screams of burning pirates, the six dead from his own crew, his own voice, so easy that day in Walic’s cabin, “We’re going to fight pirates. ” And then Tdor’s voice again, from when he was eleven, It’s not a war game, you haywit.

  He raised his head, seeing Tdor’s face as he had in so many dreams. Nobody else is fighting pirates. And I know how to fight, he told that child—because Tdor was always twelve years old in his mind. Maybe it doesn’t make your net, Tdor. But fighting pirates might save it.

  Even now, despite that inward moral struggle, his mind was busy assessing the battle. Pirates had no discipline. They fought hard and viciously, but they got in one another’s way, they didn’t listen, they stopped to loot. All that was so much a part of pirate life they couldn’t see it as weakness. Drill—and a clear chain of command—could beat them.

  But he had to establish chain of command. Thog made that plain enough. Not by force. That was the pirate way. Instead, he thought back to his first year at the academy, and the scrub shoeing . . .

  He turned his head. “Jeje, bring me to the trysail. Tie down the prizes, everyone to report to the trysail, which will be my flagship once we clean it up. Call Sails and the armorer. The Chwahir can come aboard if they want to talk. And afterward,” he said into her smoke-smeared, stunned face, “we’re going to mark our first Brotherhood kill.”

  The conversation with the Chwahir was brief.

  Three captains climbed aboard, all short, round-faced men with wide-set dark eyes and black hair, dressed in loose woolen tunics over narrow trousers belted at the waist. They looked around the deck, from which the dead, but not their blood, had been Disappeared.

  The captains’ expressions were as blank as Thog’s, but Inda sensed approval. One said, “We came to help you against Boruin, but you did not need us. We will join your fleet if you are going to sail against the Brotherhood.”

  “Not just the Brotherhood,” Inda said, putting to words the new sense of direction that had been so tentative. Words made it real—orders to act on. “We need a day or so to clean up and refit. Then we will set sail for Freedom Islands to take on more crew, supplies, and news. And then—”

  They waited. Everyone listening waited, and he said it, so it must be true. Hear me, Rig? Wumma? “We will
sail against Marshig himself.”

  “We will join you.” The Chwahir’s expression changed, almost a smile. “As for sail, we can help.”

  They left. The hands at the oars matched strokes beautifully, taking them back to their ships.

  Leaving Inda’s crew standing about, everyone exhausted, some stunned, as the morning light strengthened. Fox, Barend, and Dasta had ranged themselves on the lee side of the captain’s deck, blood-spattered and filthy, their weapons in hand.

  Everyone waiting for orders—for order.

  Inda forced himself to lift his voice. “We’ll build a bonfire tonight to salute our dead. Armorer? We need a sheet on deck, so we can make a proper fire. But first, we can salute ourselves.” They were listening. “We’ll wear ruby hoops. Marking red sail kills. I’ll go first.”

  He pulled his sweat-soaked, gore-splashed shirt off, then motioned to Sails, who had brought a needle out. Gold they’d found below, and jewels, the spoils of pleasure yachts: Boruin had had a weakness for gold and glittering stones. On Inda’s order, as soon as he’d boarded the trysail, the armorer (who’d begun as a jewelry-making prentice before a pirate attack had forced him into a new life) had gotten busy banging gold into hoop shapes. No time to smooth them, but the roughness of their make would do. To each he’d affixed one of Boruin’s hoard of rubies, all beautifully cut.

  Now Inda sat on an overturned bucket, pulled his blood-crusted hair back, and winced in anticipation. “How much will it hurt?” he asked plaintively.

  Mutt stared at Inda’s body with its cuts and scars, blood in his hair, and snickered. The spark of humor spread—as release—as relief, and soon the whole deck laughed.

  Sails pinched his earlobe and jabbed the needle through.

  “Ow!” Inda yelped.

  “Aw, I was fast,” Sails chided in her deep voice, and chuckles rippled through the watching crew. “Here’s the hoop. Pour whiskey or bristic over it each day.”

  “Won’t ensorcelled water do?” Inda pleaded. “We pour that over wounds—”

  “We’re pirate-fighting pirates,” Tau said, the first to comprehend Inda’s plan to bind them together. He had to sustain the moment, and draw them into a band whose shared enemy was the Brotherhood of Blood. “We’re tough, and when we get to Freeport, we’re going to strut. It has to be firewater.” He kneed Inda off his bucket, sat, and flung back his shoulder-length hair. “I’m next.”

  “Then me!” Mutt yelled. “Me!”

  “No, me me me me me me!” Nugget squealed, bouncing up and down.

  “No, I’m next,” Barend snarled, swatting at Mutt who skipped away, crowing with mirth.

  “And I follow you,” Fox said, lounging aft, dressed all in black so no blood showed.

  They lined up—one, another, then everyone joined.

  Inda beckoned to Thog, who stood apart, watching. She turned his way, her small body tense with expectation. In silence they walked into Boruin’s cabin. Inda glanced around in distaste; the silk-covered bed was rumpled and smelled of spilled wine. Weapons with jewels and fine carving along hilts and blades lay everywhere, one knife with blood crusted on it, all of them of little worth to someone who had never paid for anything in her life.

  Thog’s upper lip lifted, this time in unmistakable disgust. “I will clean it,” she promised, in Sartoran.

  Inda waved a dismissive hand as he stared down into those unblinking black eyes. “Why did you do that, Thog? Didn’t you think the Chwahir would give them justice?”

  Thog said, “If they made it ashore they would have been flayed in the public square. By those who know how to make it last.”

  Inda pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He was too tired to think; he didn’t want this conversation. But instinct prompted him to have it out now.

  Thog waited, her hands at her sides.

  “I am not going to argue about justice and revenge.” Inda lowered his hands, flexing them. “And I’m not the pug to yammer at you about laws when I’m supposed to have broken them at home, when I’ve got a price on my head in every harbor on the continent. But Thog, if everyone thinks they can ignore my orders for their own purpose, then we really become pirates.”

  Thog said, “I will not act so again. I knew that Majarian. He’s the one who fired our village and all the ones along the province where once I lived. He killed children and laughed while he did it. After that, Boruin took him on as mate. And they came back again. With that crew. That time was more terrible because they knew where everything was, including the roads in. So they guarded them. Which gave them more time for what they did.”

  Inda expelled his breath. “Are there any more secrets like that you’re going to spring on me?”

  “No.” Thog looked down at the deck, then up, unsmiling as always. “I hate the Brotherhood, though not as much as I hated Majarian and those he led. To defeat the Brotherhood I will fight when I am told to fight, I will obey orders, I will not be part of anyone’s disobedience. But defeating them is not a promise I made on my soul. Killing Majarian’s crew was.” She was trembling.

  “Fair enough,” Inda said, and tried for lightness. “You made my fox banner. You should get a chance to fight under it.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  ... and under a distinctive device on their foresail, a golden fox on black, he sailed the black-sided pirate trysail they call the Death down to the Freedom Islands where the rebels from Khanerenth have taken up new lives. There he gathered volunteers, and sailed thence to Sartoran waters.

  By the time they reached the next station held by the Brotherhood, they had been joined by a fleet of volunteers. And so this mighty fleet sailed west under the leader known only as Elgar the Fox. But he must be your son, Fareas. My own trusted scribe returned from Freeport Harbor with much testimony about him, including the fact that he is the very same son of a prince against whom piracy charges had been laid in the ports north of us here in Sartor. His name is misspelled according to various accents, but it is recognizable as Lord Indevan Algara-Vayir to those who know it.

  Here is what you probably did not expect: two with him are widely rumored to be Marlovans, one being a tall redhead with green eyes, known only as Fox—

  SHENDAN Montredavan-An—permitted from her ancestral lands for this rare trip by special dispensation from the Cassad family—leaped up. "Is that all it says?” she demanded in a hard voice. “About my brother?”

  “Yes,” Tdor Marth-Davan said gently.

  No one said, if that even is your brother.

  Shendan ran from the high tower chamber.

  The other young women gathered there for Carleas Ndarga’s wedding to the Cassad heir listened to Shendan’s swift steps on the stone stairs outside, but no one moved. They all knew Shen wanted privacy as much as she hated pity.

  Tdor, that day arrived from Choraed Elgaer, had to clear her throat, which had tightened in sympathy. She coughed, then resumed reading.—and another whose description so matches the Cassad family, he might be the missing Harskialdna’s son.

  Carleas Ndarga whistled softly. “I do, do so hope that’s Barend.”

  “Fareas-Iofre thinks it is. And therefore, if Barend is there, the other really must be Shen’s brother, who was aboard the Cassad all those years ago, before it was taken by pirates. Anyway, the rest is family news, and so I did not copy it.” Tdor laid the paper gently on the fire, thinking, Inda, it is your eighteenth Name Day. Please be happy.

  Autumn had turned cold and wet, but the round tower at Telyaer, the ancient Cassadas castle, was warm and bright with tapestries made by generations of Cassad women.

  There was a contemplative silence, then Shendan Montredavan-An reappeared at the doorway. Her eyes and nose were red, but she was composed again. “Hadand knows?”

  Tdor turned her thumb up. “A copy was sent to her.”

  Joret sat against the window, the silvery sleet outside a dramatic frame for her glossy black hair and downcast blue eyes. She and Tdor had traveled
to the wedding together on the princess’ insistence. It had also been Fareas-Iofre’s suggestion to use the Sierlaef’s own excuse, visiting, as the best way to avoid him. There would be no political trouble if Joret simply wasn’t in Choraed Elgaer when the king’s heir ostensibly arrived to visit, but in reality to stalk Joret.

  The two sat in the window seat side by side. Joret’s beauty contrasted with Tdor’s ordinary features. Tdor was tall, gaunt, as shapely, she herself had said wryly, as a plank. Her face was long, her ears stuck out in front of her braids, her coloring was uniformly brown. When she wasn’t seated next to Joret and thus forced into the disadvantage of contrast, what people saw first was her expression, which was keen, kind, honest. Joret was not in the least vain. She was steady, sober, hard-working, and most liked her (with some exceptions inspired entirely by jealousy), but Tdor was loved by everyone who knew her.

  Mran Cassad asked, “Is Fareas-Iofre’s sister’s testimony to be trusted?”

  “Implicitly,” Tdor said, and Joret turned both palms up.

  Mran leaned forward. “And Indevan’s the heir to Choraed Elgaer, now, is he not? Despite the exile?”

  “Yes,” Tdor whispered. Joret sent a covert look her way. Tdor stared down at her strong, capable hands, her face pensive.

  Joret said, drawing attention away from Tdor, “We must find a way to bring Inda back.”

  Shendan saluted them with a glass of hot mulled wine. There was a merry lilt to her voice that no one had heard since the days of their queens’ training, before she found out that her brother Fox’s ship had been captured by pirates. “He was never actually accused of anything, am I right? He just vanished.”

  “Yes,” Joret said.

  Mran added soberly, “The boys at the academy were told he’d been in disgrace for cheating. For cowardice, even. Though Cherry-Stripe said there hadn’t been any evidence. The Harskialdna had believed some story told by Garid Kepri-Davan, the one they called Kepa Tvei until his brother was killed up north.”