The Fox

by Sherwood Smith

  Chapter Sixteen

  ON Inglenook Island, the lookout slammed the newly hammered door open. He stood on the threshold of the southern room, trying to get control of his breathing. He’d run all the way to the old ruin, now half transformed into a house.

  Eflis yelled, “Careful with the damn door, I just hung it myself!”

  The boy waved a hand violently. “Two capital ships hull down, comin’ in!”

  “Where?”

  “South-southwest.”

  “On the wind.” Eflis dropped the chart she’d been copying, grabbed her glass, and strode through to the wide bank of windows—the main reason she’d chosen this room for her own, despite it being only half roofed. She stopped at the westernmost window. Snapped open the glass. Looked—and jumped. “Shit!”

  The hammering above ceased, and an upside down head appeared in the narrowing gap.

  “That’s Coco back, and I’ll give my oath it’s Boruin Death-Hand’s trysail with it!”

  Two hammers clattered to the wood planking overhead, and footsteps retreated rapidly.

  Eflis ran back into the other room, grabbed up her weapons belt, and pounded out, yelling for everyone to get aboard the Sable.

  Halliff met her halfway down the trail. His face was drawn and old with fear.

  “Boruin’s Spear,” she said. “And Coco.”

  “But Walic’s dead,” Halliff said hoarsely. “We know that.”

  “So’s Boruin,” Eflis reminded him. “Torched by Elgar the Fox. If he’s comin’ to torch us, it’s not going to be without a fight.”

  The bells were ringing on the Sable and the Sea-King. Pirates ran down on either side of the two captains, who stood on a little outcropping, Eflis with her glass. “He can’t attack us with two ships.”

  Halliff exclaimed, “Eflis. This madman took a single ship against Boruin’s fleet. And he burned them all to death.”

  Eflis sighed as the small boats launched out into the bay. Between the two of them they had twenty small craft, ten sloops, seven schooners including Eflis’ large schooner Sable, and Halliff’s raffee, the Sea-King. Surely that would be enough even for a fire-slinging madman with only two ships, capital ships though they were.

  If, that is, he only had two capital ships. What might he have beyond the horizon, or sneaking around to the north side of Inglenook?

  She beckoned to one of the carpenter’s mates and issued some quick orders. Halliff stood there, a tall, stooped figure with lank gray hair, his narrow face tight with fear.

  Supposedly he and she were equals. But she’d realized soon after reaching Inglenook, limping precariously after that grandmother of a storm two years before, that Halliff had lasted so long under Walic because he was unimaginative and unambitious. He was the perfect sailing master— he took excellent care of his ship. He did not come close to her idea of a real captain.

  “Let’s get out into the bay,” she said. “Get some fighting room.”

  Neither of them thought of trying to defend the island— they never fought on land.

  When she reached the rudimentary dock—which was nothing more than some old boats lashed together with planking hammered over them—she found her first mate, Sparrow, waiting.

  Sparrow held up her hand. “He’s got a parley flag out,” she said, hooking her thumb over her shoulder.

  Eflis whipped up her glass as one of the schooners drifted across her field of vision. She exclaimed in disgust, then jumped down into the gig. Sparrow snapped her fingers and the gig crew bent to the oars, soon skimming them over the water to the Sable, where the two women clambered up and ran to the foredeck.

  This time the two ships were clear, running parallel, stripped to fighting sail, but both flew the single white flag that offered parley.

  Eflis cast an exasperated look toward the Sea-King, but it didn’t really matter how slow Halliff was. She knew she ought to wait for him and discuss their next move, but she also knew he was not going to do anything but worry and the final decision would be hers.

  She lowered her glass. Sparrow waited, so still the chimes braided into her black hair did not ring. “We’ll answer, but I want the blue above the white.”

  Sparrow whistled, and now the chimes rang sweetly. “You think Elgar the Fox is going to come aboard us? If that’s really Elgar the Fox.”

  Eflis shrugged. “He came here. I want to know why, but not enough to hand him my head aboard his ship. It was bad enough before.” She grinned. “The days are over when the Brotherhood, or those who wanted to join ’em, forced you to come aboard them, eh?”

  Sparrow smiled, then said, “Yes, but you’ll remember it was this fellow who tromped ’em.”

  Eflis wavered, then stiffened her resolve. “I don’t care. So far, I don’t see anything else with him. Blue over white.” She smiled, remembering that it was supposed to be Elgar the Fox who’d rid the world of Walic—and Coco the Monster in Human Form. “Make the cabin nice, will you, Sparrow? If he really does come aboard us, I want him to sit and chat, and maybe tell me how they killed Coco.”

  Sparrow snorted. “Long and lingering, I hope. It was her favorite kind o’ game, after all.”

  Aboard Death, Dasta and Tcholan watched through their glasses. The fight crews waited, armed and ready. The sail crews kept the sails loose, their progress slow. Presently the answering signal went up not on Halliff’s raffee, as they’d expected, but on the biggest of the schooners, the one with the spiky five-fingered black leaf on the foresail.

  Dasta turned his head. “Gillor?”

  She came forward, took a glance. “That’s Eflis of the Sable,” she said. “Word is, her family was on the wrong side in the Khanerenth War and she ended up turnin’ pirate. Walic used to try to recruit her, but she said she would join the Brotherhood on her own.”

  “Brotherhood-style pirate, then?”

  Gillor shook her head. “Not the way I heard. Oh, in the beginning she talked wild. Took risks, and Emis Chaul o’ the Widowmaker took some interest in her. She talked the talk w’ him, but most said she was doing it to keep him thinkin’ she was an ally. She really only was interested in Khanerenth navy and trade. Revenge, like.” She grinned, then added with satisfaction, “Coco hated her because she’s young and pretty.”

  Gillor laughed to herself at the sharpened interest Tcholan and Dasta revealed. She waved the glass. “Blue over white—they want you to go aboard them.”

  Tcholan whistled. “So they’re interested. You were right.”

  Dasta rubbed his beak of a nose, wondering if the pretty Eflis was planning a trap. But this was his idea. “Unless you want to, I’ll go. You stay here and be Elgar.”

  Tcholan said, “You go. You talk better with strangers.”

  “Remember the fighting scarf.” Dasta motioned for his coxswain, who waited a few paces away. “One rumor we don’t want going out is that Elgar now has black hair and skin the color of chocolate.”

  “Face away and fighting scarf, hai,” Tcholan promised, and Dasta signaled for the ship to be anchored as the coxswain got his crew together to lower the gig.

  “Here he comes,” Sparrow said, peering through the scuttle. She rose on tiptoe, then frowned. “ ‘He’ as in a man, but if that’s Elgar the Fox, then all the rumors are wrong.”

  Splashing, voices, and then the gentle thump of a gig nudging the hull, and the women sat down on the pillows before the low table.

  Shortly thereafter the cabin door opened and one of the hands motioned in a tall fellow who was brown of skin, hair, eyes. Hawk-nosed, long-bodied, he moved with an easy slouch. He wore just a vest and wide-legged blue and white striped deck trousers. A knife at his belt. Bare feet.

  “You can’t be Elgar the Fox,” Eflis exclaimed in disappointment—though she rather liked his looks.

  He was a little taller than she, and despite the slouch he had the muscle expected of anyone who was fighting under a captain as famous as Elgar the Fox, but there was no arrogance in his face. Instead, t
he curve of his mouth, the shape of his brown eyes, hinted at a sense of humor. She remembered that beautiful golden-haired fellow Coco had kept as a pet, and wondered if they knew one another.

  Dasta gave a comical shrug. “What can I say? I follow orders—he stays on board in case there are problems.”

  Eflis snorted. “Well, it does make sense, seeing there are forty of us all told, and two of you,” she said, more sharply then she really felt. But it was good to try to take the lead here, since the infamous Elgar wasn’t actually on board her ship. “Or do you have a trap awaiting us over the other side of the island? My scout will report on that soon,” she added, as Sparrow, standing behind Eflis, silently indicated one of the pillows.

  Dasta dropped down cross-legged with the ease of one used to sitting on the floor. “Your scout won’t have anything to report. There are just two of us. But the Fox remembered Halliff from before, wondered if he was looking to rejoin another fleet, and wanted to see a little action.”

  Eflis and Sparrow expressed surprise.

  Dasta felt the atmosphere change. He’d seen at once that they were not only disappointed but annoyed to see him instead of the expected mysterious black-clad Elgar the Fox.

  The tall blonde regarded him thoughtfully. The short curvy one with the dark, braided hair silently poured out spiced wine into three cups, let him pick one, and then took one and sipped—all long-established pirate custom.

  Dasta hoped that he hadn’t managed to pick a poisoned one, and sipped at the same time she did to indicate goodwill.

  The gesture had been futile at least as often as it had really been an indication of good faith. Everyone knew that. But the women accepted it anyway, and when Eflis took her glass they raised theirs in salute. They all drank.

  “I’m Eflis,” the blonde said. And with a tip of her head, “Sparrow, my mate.” Sparrow gestured, which made the chimes in her braids ring.

  “Dasta,” he said. “First mate on the Death.”

  Sparrow plopped down next to Eflis. “Is that what he calls Boruin’s trysail? Kinda swag, no?”

  Dasta grinned. “We couldn’t decide whether to rename it Boruin’s Death, Majarian’s Death, or Pirates’ Death— then Fox ended it by telling us it’s Death and to stop yapping and get it cleaned up.” His voice hitched at “Fox” but then he was clear. Whew. Whatever it was about that banner that got Fox and Inda crossing names was just as well, but he’d have to watch himself.

  The women misconstrued the slight hesitation in his voice. “He must be worse than Walic,” Eflis observed.

  Dasta knew a hint when he heard it. “Not at all like Walic. For one thing, he never leaves anyone behind unless they are too wounded to sail. Or I’d be aboard the Sea-King, ” he said, his smile vanishing. His voice took on that timbre, hard to describe, that convinces one the speaker believes what he says.

  “But he did for Marshig,” Eflis said.

  “Good command,” Dasta returned. “Better than Marshig’s trickery. Though it did help that Ramis of the Knife appeared and took them into Nightland. But if he hadn’t, I fully believe Elgar the Fox would have killed Marshig on his own deck. He might not have survived it— don’t know what his crew would have done—but at least Marshig had no chance either way.”

  Sparrow said, “So that rumor about the rip in the sky is true?”

  “I was there,” Dasta said. “I saw it.” He shut his eyes. The women waited, the sounds of the crew above muffled, the water against the hull. “Hard to describe. Don’t have the right words,” he finally said. He had their complete attention. “It was black beyond it, a black of night with no stars. Sometimes, during the day-watch, I think I dreamed it. I was tired. We’d been fighting all night. But no, that’s the easy thing. Not the truth. It would be comfortable to believe it wasn’t real. But it was. It happened. Those six ships sailed right into a night beyond night—into damnation.”

  Sparrow twitched her shoulders. “Strange. You use that word as a curse, but when it actually happens, the meaning changes, doesn’t it?”

  “They all went?” Eflis asked.

  “Yes,” Dasta said. “We saw it. A lot of Marshig’s crew tried to dive overboard, but they got swept on through that hole anyway. I hope never to see anything like that again.”

  Another pause, during which Sparrow poured more wine. She found this Dasta utterly unexpected.

  Eflis leaned forward. “Before that. Your Fox, as you call him, burned Boruin and her crew to death. Even Marshig never did that—though if you ask me, some of the deaths he and his captains dealt out weren’t much better. But those were one at a time, usually personal, like. Not entire crews.”

  Dasta ran his nails absently along the grain of the table. “I think . . . I think I’d have to let him explain that to you,” he said slowly. “I’ll say this. What he intended was to send the crew in their boats to the Chwahir coast, or wherever the current took ’em. Not Boruin. Majarian. They died fighting. Idea was, leave the crew to Chwahir justice, as they’d preyed mostly on Chwahirsland. But things happened otherwise. Wasn’t his intention.”

  Sparrow thumped her elbows on the table. The chimes in her hair rang, reminding him of Gutless, who’d come to Halliff’s ship a time or two: the braids and chimes, he’d been told, were a fashion from one of the countries over on Toar across the land bridge. He wondered if they’d known one another, a thought that made him uneasy.

  “So what you’re saying is he doesn’t have control of his crew?” Sparrow asked.

  Dasta rubbed his nail back and forth on the table a couple more times, then lifted his hand. “Oh, not at all. But there were, huh, things going on, you might say. Had to do with the Chwahir on board, for one thing.”

  Eflis sat back, knees up, her hands clasped loosely around her knees. Her gaze was lowered thoughtfully so he let his eyes linger appreciatively on her. Pretty! Gillor was usually reliable, but to call this tall, strong-looking woman “pretty” was to call a big feline a kitten.

  “Chwahir,” Eflis finally said. “Huh. I usually take as I find, but some o’ them are strange, like. So you’re here because? ”

  “Because though we did for Marshig, the cost was high. Fox wants to play with the Fire Islands pirates now. They get in the way of Freeport independents too often, and you know we’re affiliated with the Freedom Isles. So we’re looking for anyone who wants to have some fun with us there. Equal shares on any loot.”

  Sparrow said warily, “He doesn’t take captain’s share, then?”

  Dasta suspected what was coming next was a question about the Brotherhood treasure trove. So he gave Inda’s deflection, “He says there are plenty of rich pirates out there. Everyone fights. And everyone gets rich together or everyone loses.”

  Sure enough, Sparrow said, “So I take it there wasn’t any mysterious hoard?”

  “Ghost Islanders never saw a wink of it,” Dasta replied with the ease of truth. “And Pirate House—where Marshig lived—had been completely stripped right down to the floor tile by the time we got there in spring.”

  Eflis snorted. “I never believed in any treasure anyway.

  What pirate hoards treasure? You get it, you spend it. Forget the treasure. So what you’re offering us on his behalf is equal shares if we join his fleet? What’s the command line?”

  “Plans his, though ideas are listened to. But sometimes he goes off on investigations on his own. He also rides one ship, then the other. Fleet commander, with captains on each, so he’s free to move around. We carry out his orders as if he’s aboard us.” He glanced at Sparrow’s chime-braided hair, then away. “No torture parties or any of that, if that’s what you’re thinking. Thing is, if you like that sort of thing on your own ship, probably better sheer off now.”

  Eflis grimaced. “Truth? I hate it. I want a good fight. I hated Coco—everyone hated her. I hope she got what she used to dish out.” She added casually, “And I hope that pretty fellow with the long golden hair gave it to her.”

  “T
au cut off his hair,” Dasta said. “Because her fingers had been in it so much.” Eflis and Sparrow gave little nods of complete comprehension, which Dasta found interesting, as he’d never understood the meaning of Tau’s gesture. “As for Coco, Elgar set her adrift. With a couple of Walic’s worst. We don’t know what happened to them, if they didn’t make it back here.” He waved toward the island. “We weren’t all that far out when we let down the rowboat.”

  Eflis showed her teeth in disgust. “They never fetched up here. That is, we don’t know what happened between your taking of Walic’s flagship and our own arrival. When we got here, Halliff had survived a mutiny on his own ship. Half of his crew was dead, all Walic’s known spies. A few of Walic’s old fleet—the small craft—came back rather than drift on the ocean and die, because they didn’t have supplies. Not a one squawked at the change when Halliff and I made an alliance. And there was certainly no sign of Coco.”

  “So who’s your prey?” Dasta asked.

  “We were going to take on traders to Geranda—no Brotherhood holding that road. Compete with the Fire Islanders for any traders not Venn. Wouldn’t mind getting rid of the Fire Islands soul-suckers.”

  “But you wouldn’t take on the Venn themselves?” Dasta asked, watching appreciatively as Eflis stretched and yawned.

  “Even Marshig didn’t take on the Venn warships,” she said, wiping her eyes. “And they always accompany their traders.”

  “They that tough?” Dasta asked, thinking of Inda’s quest for information.

  Sparrow laughed, pouring out more wine, then kneeling beside Eflis. “Warships are warships. Venn are rough water, yes. But the reason we won’t touch ’em is, they got those sea dags. That’s what they call their mages.”

  “What can a mage do, even if called a dag? I never heard that mages fight.” Dasta asked, watching as Sparrow laid a casual hand on Eflis’ shoulder. Then brushed her fingers against Eflis’ neck in a caress. And when Dasta flicked a look up, he saw awareness in her eyes.

  Mate, not first mate. Ah.

  Eflis made a wide gesture, apparently oblivious to this little interaction. “You don’t know why no one ever goes north? Why the Venn never gave up those prows, even though they can’t rig ’em well with jib sails?”