The Fox

by Sherwood Smith

  A few days later—the day Tdor reached Darchelde ahead of a blinding four day blizzard—Flatfoot arrived at Hesea Spring from the west not long before the Marlo-Vayirs arrived from the east. Each obscured from the other by falling snow.

  Flatfoot tiredly scanned the pennons planted outside, saw the great blue and yellow eagle banner belonging to the Jarl of Yvana-Vayir, along with Hawkeye’s more unpretentious banner. The Yvana-Vayirs! Weren’t they supposed to have spent New Year’s at home for Hawkeye’s wedding? Why would they be riding south now, in this weather? For no good reason, of course.

  Mad Gallop Yvana-Vayir didn’t see his marriage to the king’s sister as a step down for her, but a step up for him, Flatfoot’s uncle, Dragoon Captain Horsepiss Noth, had said. He’s been ambitious since our own academy days, and I wager he’ll make trouble about his half-royal boys if he can.

  Frost. That’s what they used to call it during his academy days, when someone strutted his rank. The sad thing was, Flatfoot thought as he stabled the loaner horse from the Marlo-Vayirs’ Runner stock, Hawkeye wasn’t the least full of strut, much less frost. Nor were the young twins, Hawkeye’s brothers Badger and Beaver.

  He thawed himself in the common room, trying to decide whether to wait or to push on, when horns announced a cavalcade arriving.

  In his rooms not far from where Flatfoot sat, the Jarl of Yvana-Vayir heard the horns as well. He had taken all the good rooms along the southern wing for himself and his sons, the rooms that overlooked the road from the royal city; he’d also filled a quarter of the barracks over the stable with the enormous Honor Guard he’d seen fit to bring.

  “There’s the Marlo-Vayir blue and green,” he said, rubbing his hands as he peered out the window of his chamber into the courtyard at the modest-sized company riding in with a clattering of horse hooves and shouted orders. “The falcon banner! Means Hasta himself is here. Heh heh! Good, good.”

  Hawkeye and the twins were silent. Their father had been acting strange ever since the wedding, his latest oddity being his sudden insistence on accompanying Cama Tya-Vayir when he rode south to meet the Marlo-Vayirs here at Hesea Spring. That, and his bringing two flights of warriors as an Honor Guard. One flight was usually enough for an entire family; a wing—three flights—was against the law. They were one flight away from treason.

  “I must see if Hasta knows we are here,” the Jarl said.

  “In case the Jarl of Marlo-Vayir was too blind to see our pennons,” Badger cracked as soon as his father was out the door.

  Hawkeye had been thinking the same thing, but it did not show respect to say it aloud. He snapped his fingers and turned his thumb down. Badger sighed, and Beaver grimaced in sympathy.

  After an uncomfortable silence—there’d been a lot of them on this ride—Cama said, “Guess I’ll shift my gear down to Cherry-Stripe.”

  He hefted his saddle bag over one broad shoulder. Cama had grown into a very tall, powerful young man with a deep, husky voice. That, his eye patch, and his long, glossy night-black horsetail made heads turn. Badger and Beaver saw him go with some relief, for though they liked and admired him, so did everyone else, and over New Year’s Week he’d gotten all the female attention that they had anticipated for themselves.

  Hawkeye watched him walk out, feeling uneasy. He sensed he was riding on shifting ground, but he couldn’t see the danger, only feel it.

  Then he remembered that Buck would of course be with the Marlo-Vayir party, and he said, “I’m going as well.”

  The twins retreated to their room and began pooling their coins. Now was the time to make an expedition into the town on the other side of the spring to seek the sort of fun they’d missed during New Year’s Week.

  Hastred Marlo-Vayir limped into the posting house, grim with pain. His leg hurt worse than ever, clear up to the hip, and he wondered if he’d ever ride again. His mood soured when he recognized Mad Gallop Yvana-Vayir’s voice: “That you, Hasta? How was Convocation?”

  Hasta didn’t want to answer, he wanted to get to a bed and lie down, but he would be damned for all eternity before he’d let Mad Gallop, who’d been the barracks cock-strut all during their academy days, know that. As he tried to summon up friendly words he was distracted by the sight of an unknown Runner approaching his sons.

  “Isn’t that Horsepiss Noth’s boy?” Mad Gallop asked, squinting at the familiar form: all the Noths were blue-eyed, square-faced, bodies lean as whipcord and strong as steel. “No, can’t be; t’one is dead, t’other is—” His voice changed, “with the Algara-Vayirs. Ho! You, Runner!”

  Flatfoot turned, surprised. His face then smoothed into blandness in a way that made the Jarl of Yvana-Vayir, watchful and wary, instantly suspicious.

  Flatfoot thought rapidly. He was supposed to report to Cherry-Stripe before riding north to Evred, and here he was. Whipstick had never said anything against Hawkeye or his family but neither had he told Flatfoot to give them his news. An ordinary message he wouldn’t mind repeating, but the nature of this particular message made him reluctant. He took a couple steps backward, as though to retreat.

  Both fathers saw the reaction and they frowned, one in pain and irritation, the other scenting the trouble he’d come hunting.

  Mad Gallop said, low, “Hasta. I know we might have had our differences when we were boys, but the fact is, it’s time to unite, time to unite. I have bad news.” And, louder, “You! Come here!”

  Flatfoot saw the lordly finger, hesitated, then muttered something to Cherry-Stripe, who whistled soundlessly.

  That whisper gave form to Hasta Marlo-Vayir’s pain and irritation. Talking secrets with his boys, was he? No, he wasn’t! “Come here, Runner,” he said.

  With two Jarls commanding him and no orders to the contrary, Flatfoot had to obey.

  “Now, who are you and what have you to say to my sons? I shall hear it, too.”

  A few words into Flatfoot’s report, Mad Gallop stopped him. Here they were in the broad, wood-floored entry hall, more than one pair of curious eyes and ears turned their way. “We’ll go to my rooms.”

  Cama, still with his gear on his shoulder, followed the Marlo-Vayirs and Yvana-Vayirs back to the latter’s rooms. There everyone listened to the news that Anderle-Harskialdna had once hired sea brigands to attack a Marlovan castle and kill everyone in it. And he’d gotten away with it. Until now. Jarend-Adaluin was raising his war banner and riding on the royal city.

  Old news never died when it concerned kings.

  “They have proof?” Hasta Marlo-Vayir asked at last, and when Flatfoot told him, he frowned. In truth, over the past years he had come not only to distrust his old friend Anderle—now Harskialdna—but to dislike him. Had he always been so arrogant? Why had he never noticed? Until now it had seemed disloyal to even think such thoughts. “Treachery against the house of a prince. Bad for us all, for where will it stop?”

  “Just my thought,” Mad Gallop said, rubbing his hands again. “That’s why I came south—that is, I have my own news, but it touches treachery as well as our old friend, if you follow me.”

  Treachery? By the king’s own brother? The Jarl of Marlo-Vayir rubbed with a fist at his aching hip, not certain what to think.

  “I know what I have to do,” Hawkeye stated. “With your permission, Father, I will cut short my leave and ride straight to the north. Evred-Varlaef will need a report.”

  “No,” his father commanded. “No, you will remain by my side.” Again, his strange smile, evocative of anticipation and triumph. He never thought to have everything he desired delivered so neatly to hand. “We will need your skills at the royal city,” he said. “I will send trusted men north to the Varlaef, I promise you that,” he added, and turned to Flatfoot. “I suggest you get yourself back home to Tenthan Castle. Tell your cousin that the Jarl of Yvana-Vayir will see to the righting of matters.”

  Flatfoot realized he’d been dismissed, so he saluted and left, standing in the courtyard as he considered his dilemma. The Jarl
was going to send someone north to Evred—that part of Whipstick’s orders would be seen to. Meanwhile, Flatfoot smelled trouble.

  Yes, time to go home indeed.

  Inside the chamber, Mad Gallop dismissed the Noth Runner from his mind and addressed Hasta. “This tale of Anderle-Harskialdna’s treachery was unknown, but it is also old news. Now, hear me. What is new to us are the words of Vedrid the royal Runner about the Sierlaef’s covert assassination of Tanrid Algara-Vayir. Hawkeye questioned Vedrid himself.”

  “Assassination? Vedrid?” Hasta repeated.

  Cherry-Stripe beckoned to Cama and they withdrew to a window while Hawkeye’s father made him repeat the story to Hasta Marlo-Vayir.

  Buck walked over to his brother, grimacing.

  “We’re in trouble.” Cherry-Stripe groaned softly. “We never told our dad about Vedrid.”

  “Vedrid? Isn’t he the Sierlaef’s Runner?” Cama asked.

  As briefly as possible, Buck related what had happened.

  Cama whistled once, then shook his head.

  Cherry-Stripe, thinking of the Sierlaef and capital crimes, said uneasily, “What do you think we should do?”

  Cama sighed. “So that’s why Hawkeye’s dad’s been gloating, and the boys’ve been mum. Listen, Cherry-Stripe, whatever your dad says, Mad Gallop is on some kind of secret mission, and it’s all tied up with the Sierlaef and Vedrid somehow. I don’t know the details, but I do know this: you won’t be the only ones in trouble, if there’s going to be trouble. And Hawkeye’s dad is looking for trouble. He’s got two flights of warriors, and he came here seeking allies, I see that now. You’re the only Jarl family, so you’re it.”

  “What kind of mission would have to do with Vedrid’s story?” Cherry-Stripe asked uneasily. Life was pretty good at home. If you ignored the war in the north that had never quite ended and the pirate attacks along the coast. But the real truth was things could change, fast, and for the worse, and right where you think you’re safest. He’d learned that when Dogpiss died.

  They glanced across the chamber at Mad Gallop’s wide, manic grin.

  Cama said, “A mission that he’s going to take straight to the royal city,” he predicted, and no one denied it. “I don’t know what he thinks he’ll get out of the king and the Harskialdna, but I do think we had better let Sponge know.”

  Cherry-Stripe scraped his boot heels on the tiled floor. “Mad Gallop told Hawkeye he would send messengers north.”

  “When? Saying what?” Cama glanced in growing doubt at the Jarl’s manic grin. And came to a decision. “Look, I think we need some of us in on whatever’s going to happen. ” “Us,” they understood, were their academy mates. “I can ride north, talk to Noddy, maybe Tuft. Flash, if I can find him. All on the way to Evred.”

  Cherry-Stripe glanced again at the men talking and conviction seized him; for once he knew the right thing to do. “Go find Noddy. He can spread the word. Tuft’s too far out of your way. Then gallop for the north and tell everything to Evred.”

  Buck added, “You’re alone, under no one’s command at this moment. They can’t stop you if they don’t see you.”

  So Cama departed quietly through the back door. He saddled his horse and set out on the north road not long before Yvana-Vayir sent his four most trusted men north with orders spoken only into their ears.

  Ostensibly they were to escort the disgusted twins back home. But their secret orders were to continue on to Evred-Varlaef at Ala Larkadhe—and there take their place in history by assassinating Evred-Varlaef Montrei-Vayir.

  Badger and Beaver Yvana-Vayir, their Runners, and their four escorts reached the northern road, kept clear by ancient law, half a day behind Vedrid on his long toil northward to report to Evred that he’d found Indevan-Dal at last, and that he was sailing north to Lindeth.

  A fortnight of hard weather later, the Sierlaef made it home.

  Hadand Algara-Vayir, raised in the royal castle as the Sierlaef’s future wife, sat in her rooms reading.

  The door banged open and her betrothed strode in, snow-soggy coat swinging, yellow hair hanging wet and tangled down his back.

  She rose in a swift movement, her small, capable hands reaching for her knives, then falling away when she recognized who he was, her wide-set brown eyes questioning.

  The Sierlaef liked Hadand. She’d always been kind to him, pretending he did not stutter, secretly doing his reading tasks for him in the schoolroom. The age of change had kept her short as he’d grown hands taller; her growth had been outward. She’d kept her trim waist, but was quite broad in hips and bosom. Most of his old academy mates admired her, and the Sierlaef had been pleased to see her admired; until he’d seen Joret, he’d been content enough to marry her.

  He reflected on these things, and how sensible she’d always been, as he closed the distance between them. Then he stopped, hating the struggle to speak clearly. But he must. Now, of all times, he had to be understood.

  She remained silent as he glared down at her with those angry green eyes she’d braced herself all her life to endure. To deflect. He had never struck her, but he’d beaten Evred and Barend frequently enough that his presence in the schoolroom had felt akin to impending thunder all the days of their childhood.

  “I will marry Joret, and you’ll get an honorable treaty,” he said, having planned that much, and practiced it over and over to get it out in one piece, with no tremor.

  She gasped. "What?”

  “Marry. Joret. You and I. Go to Father together. You marry a p-p-prince. Trade. Alliance. All with honor.” He got that out with utter conviction—there was no going back, not now. He’d promised Joret.

  “Have you, uh, seen her?” Hadand groped wildly for the real world, which seemed to have slipped sideways, leaving her in a terrible dream.

  “Yes. She waits.” He scowled as he mentally rehearsed his words, then said, “Go bring her back. Three of us. Go to Father. Everything right.” He was tired, having run day and night, using all his horses and forcing people along the road to give him theirs. But desire was stronger: now that he’d told Hadand, it remained only to gather a suitable force, ride to Darchelde, get Joret, and ride back and marry her!

  He started out, leaving a puddle of melted snow on her floor, then stopped. “Don’t talk. Till she’s here.” He left.

  Hadand said nothing until she saw him ride back through the gates with half the Royal Guard—already severely diminished due to the necessity of guarding the coast, the eastern border, and the north. She sped straight to her aunt Ndara’s rooms.

  Anderle-Harskialdna arrived back from a morning at the royal horse stud, and when he heard that the Sierlaef had arrived, stormed up to Hadand Hlinlaef’s chambers, and then left again—this time taking half the Royal Guard— the Harskialdna was livid with fury. Not only had the heir acted with no discernable semblance of sense, he hadn’t even left a message explaining himself, and no one could tell the Harskialdna why.

  The Harskialdna paused long enough to rework the watch schedules with his seriously diminished defense force, then ran upstairs, nearly colliding with Hadand. He was going to stop Hadand, looked at her red eyes and compressed lips, and let her pass. His wife would know. The women shared all their secrets.

  He stalked in to confront her.

  Ndara-Harandviar rose from her paper-piled desk, her plain Cassad rat-face closed as always. How he hated her! She said, with obvious reluctance, “It was nothing. The Sierlaef insulted her. He can explain himself to you and the king as soon as he returns.”

  “If it was nothing, why does he need to ride out again the day he arrives home, taking half the Royal Guard with him?”

  “Ask him that. I never saw him.”

  “You’re lying!” His hands trembled with pent-up rage. “Nothing but conspiracies everywhere!”

  She flushed. “Address the Sierlaef about that. You’re the one who raised him. He doesn’t trust any of us, or talk to any of us. That was what you wanted, was it not?”


  The words were no less than the truth, despite her sarcasm.

  He stood there fighting his rage, wanting to strike her down, smash in that despised rat-face. But he could not blame the damned women and their whispering conspiracies for his failure with the Sierlaef.

  He stalked out, flexing his hands against the nearly overwhelming urge to hit something. Yes, he had raised the Sierlaef, and so if anyone was to blame for his strange behavior, the Harskialdna knew it was he. Only how had it happened? Discipline, training, long-sighted planning, those he had taught the boy. And how his uncle would always be at his side—a Royal Shield Arm—to protect and guide him in those shared long-sighted plans.

  All carefully worked out. All ceaselessly and scrupulously seen to—just to lose him over that stupid girl. Because what else could it be? The Sierlaef fobbed off his father with reports that the Harskialdna knew were composed by Runners, but in truth the heir cared nothing for the embattled coast, for trade problems, for diminished resources or men spread too thin. All he thought about was Joret Dei.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  THE Sierlaef’s forces had begun their second day on the main road heading south. During those two days the men wondered what the Sierlaef was after now as they watched him pacing restlessly at every stop, snapping his fingers and whirling his hand to get the horses changed faster, get everyone fed faster (and the men themselves to finish eating on the road if they didn’t eat as rapidly as he did). No one spoke to him, of course; since Nallan was gone, they did ask one of his other Runners, only to get a shrug and “All I know is, we’re off to Montredavan-An land” in return. That made everyone uneasy.