The Fox

by Sherwood Smith

  “Oh, he was from Fal,” Byarin said, ripping his list before he threw it down after hers. “I’ve been in the south once.”

  “The significance of that being?” Anchan prompted.

  Byarin was never averse to lecturing his fellow dags. “Fal is a tiny country in the middle wastes down south. They habitually challenge you, or me, or each other, or the birds— not to mention the air itself—to a duel if they feel the whim. The babies go armed, the grandmothers fight so much the city squares are reserved for duels.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Insolence,” Byarin said, waving as he headed toward the door, “is the proof you are a Faleth. Politeness will get you killed as a traitor.” And he was gone.

  “So that’s why we’ve never heard of the place,” Egal boomed, towering over the others. “They must be dead before they get a day’s travel from their own border.” With a billowing of sun-touched blue, he whisked himself out.

  Jazsha Signi Sofar took more time to gather her lists. As most of the others dropped their papers into the fireplace, she cast an eye down her neat columns. Across from her, old Ulaffa sat with his hands loosely laced together, his bushy eyebrows knit.

  “Did you ever see Mage Penros’ reasons for keeping lists?” Signi addressed him in her quiet voice.

  “No,” Ulaffa said. “I was told that I should not expect him to report through me, that the prince gave the count freedom to run his investigation as he saw fit, as long as we saw any results. As, apparently, we did.”

  Apparently. Hint given, hint received.

  Signi bowed, stooped to lay her papers on the others, and left. Ulaffa watched her go, and then took the Fire Stick down from the mantel, dropped it onto the pile of paper, and spelled it to flame.

  Fox had never told anyone he spoke Venn.

  It was a family secret. Though he despised secrets and despised his father, most of all he despised the treaty that had put his family in the inescapable prison of their own home.

  The Montredavan-Ans all learned Venn because they believed that the easiest defense is to know your enemy. They had all read copies of the letters their great-father Savarend had written to the King of the Venn, and the replies: the last from old Savarend in effect giving the back of the hand to Venn’s offer to make the Marlovan plains a favored province if they aided the Venn in conquering the Iascans. Fox, by age ten, had memorized the last letter from the Venn King, promising that the Venn would come one day, in force, and there would be no favored family or province. Instead the Montredavan-Ans would be the first to die.

  The morning Fox set foot on the quay at Beila Lana, bells were ringing carillons from all the towers.

  The market was closed down. Groups of people in bright, festive dress moved briskly about setting up tables, benches, and a temporary stage—all the organized chaos of a celebration.

  Fox searched around for someone young and inoffensive looking. A line of sturdy boys was busy unloading barrels of drink from a wagon, passing them from hand to hand, and stacking them beside a long table being set with cauldrons and huge plates of skewered fish. Fox sauntered up, and when the last barrel was passed down the line, he tapped the last boy, and asked him in Venn what was going on. The boy’s glance lit first on Fox’s chest, where the medallion hung, then lifted to his face.

  The boy was relieved; Fox observed that relief, and his tension racked tighter.

  The boy said in stilted Venn, “I do not well this language speak.” He shifted to Fer Sartoran, adding with a return of his initial wariness, “You’re a foreigner, I take it?”

  “Not from too far,” Fox answered in the same tongue, with a fair try at matching accent. “Just returned from fishing up the coast. Got blown farther by a big storm.”

  The boy’s brow cleared. “That storm,” he said, “brought Elgar the Fox. Prince Rajnir has declared a holiday to celebrate his death.”

  Fox’s hands gripped together behind his back. “His death? I take it there was some kind of public execution?”

  The boy patted the draft horse, then wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “No, not at all. My cousin in the guard says they were supposed to keep him alive. Something went wrong. Cousin said the others were talking about how he jumped the Venn noser.” He looked around furtively. “Killed him, wounded another guard. Unarmed, too! They said he was worlds fierce.”

  “So . . . no one saw this attack?” Fox asked, unwilling to believe the obvious unless forced to.

  The boy shrugged. “Just our count’s guard. The Venn Dag came and inspected, Prince Rajnir inspected, everyone inspected before the bodies were Disappeared yesterday. ”

  “How did they know their prisoner was Elgar the Fox? Had they ever seen him?”

  The boy laughed. “No one had, and you should’ve been here the day they dropped on us and searched. Hundreds of fellows. More. Most of ’em sailors blown in on that storm. Word is it was even worse down at Jaro. The Venn and our own guard come in all of a sudden, chased off all the female sailors, and in one swoop marched the men off to the cells.” He waved behind him at the stone garrison above the harbor. “And did they gripe! First the Venn wanted redheads, then it was every boy and man over ten and under fifty. Everyone’t didn’t have a medal.”

  “Seems miraculous they found their man, if no one knew what he looked like.” Too sarcastic? At the boy’s questioning glance, he added with a fair assumption of regret, “Too bad I missed seeing the fun.”

  “Word is, they had the entire fleet out and all, but they was down below Jaro, so we didn’t see ’em all take wing. It’s a fine sight! But they’re comin’ back. Business as usual after today.”

  “So . . . did your cousin say that Elgar the Fox told everyone who he was?”

  The boy rubbed his nose. “Some said kinthus was used, and they’d have his medal, I guess—they gave ’em all medals before they even questioned ’em, I hear. Only they didn’t have to pay!” He slapped his chest. “In any case, the important thing is, today’s no work, all fun—and yesterday Restday! Two days off work is no bad thing. And the word is, the Prince is only givin’ out drink in Jaro, but here the Count is payin’ for eats and musicians. All day as well as tonight! We’re goin’ to have dancing and contests—you arrived at the right time!”

  Fox responded in kind, and after a little more conversation, he moved on down the quay, passing directly under the garrison tower ringing its merry carillon.

  Fury burned cold through his veins. He walked for a time without seeing, as he struggled to come to grip with the impossible. Kinthus! No one lied under the influence of white kinthus. So Inda was dead, and his great plans blown like smoke. But . . . who inspected? People who didn’t know him . . . Fox recognized the fact that he did not want to believe what appeared to be the truth.

  One thing Fox did know. He would find out who those guards were, Venn or Ymaran, and after getting the details of Inda’s murder he would choke the life out of them one by one.

  Chapter Twenty

  INDA lay on the narrow, wood-framed bed, gazing up at the window far above him. It was a square window, probably big enough to get through—if one happened to be as tall as a tree. He examined it in the clear light of the glowglobes set high on the stone walls at either side of the cell.

  The sound of the lock clicking broke his thoughts.

  “Listening to the bells?”

  He recognized that voice.

  He flipped up his legs and sat with his back to the wall. Acknowledged and then as swiftly forgot the distant ringing of the carillon. His attention shifted to the richly dressed young man who walked in. He appeared to be near Inda’s age. His skin was smooth, his cheeks and chin round. His fair hair was cut short, which made his head seem rounder than it was; his eyes were dark brown, wide with curiosity. His broad smile curved on the verge of laughter.

  He had small, neat hands framed in turned-back velvet sleeves embroidered with golden clover leaves. Despite the long dark blue velvet fitted Colendi long
-coat, Inda’s first impression was that he was short, but as the fellow came forward with a quick step, Inda realized they were about the same height. Despite the situation he couldn’t help a flutter of laughter—he never thought of himself as short.

  “Those bells are celebrating your death,” the fellow said in a jolly voice, as though Inda would share the joke. “Hear them? Did you know those carillons are Sartoran-cast, and we play the same rings as they do in Eidervaen?” He spoke Fer Sartoran, but his accent was much less flat than what Inda had heard from the people and guards, and more like the Sartoran his mother had taught him. Court Sartoran is what the mage had said.

  Betrayed by my knowledge, Inda thought, laughter gone.

  Wafri paused and studied his prisoner. Excitement— anticipation—warmed him. “My dear friend Rajnir is probably stamping around in his tower having one of his tantrums, but I cannot help that, can I? I wouldn’t want to see you wasted leading his army against your countrymen.”

  The Marlovan had been hunching in a wary knot, staring at his drawn-up knees. At the word “countrymen” he flicked a glance up. Wafri smiled, pleased with the reaction.

  “So . . . what? Are you going to let me go, then?” Inda spoke for the first time.

  “Oh, yes,” Wafri chuckled softly. “Of course! As soon as you sweep Ymar clean of these soul-rotted Venn, and restore our land to us.”

  Inda recoiled, an inadvertent gesture that klonked his head against the stone wall. He rubbed his scalp and said, “What? Who are you?”

  “I am Lord Annold Limros, Count of Wafri.” He laughed silently again, thoroughly enjoying the opening moves in this little duel of wills. “I give you my name as well as my title because we are of similar rank. My grandmother was younger sister to the old queen, who everyone thought was going to live forever.” He gave Inda a happy, open-mouthed smile, and swept his fingers to his forehead and outward in a curious gesture.

  Inda rubbed his jaw. Despite the laughter, the friendly voice and manner, Inda sensed danger. “Did you kill her?” he asked.

  Wafri did not react with anger, affront, or even surprise. He shook with laughter, his eyes closed. “Such a question! Why are you the only one who ever asked right out? I assure you she died in her bed, pillowed in sleep.” More of that silent shaking.

  Inda felt warning tingles in his hands, at the back of his neck.

  Wafri opened his eyes wide. “She gave away the kingdom. Did you know that? Gave it to these Venn. Oh, some fought after she died, when the Everoneth came to our aid. But it was too late by then; it took only a year for them to run the Everoneth back over their border and tame the rest of us. If we’d combined and fought earlier, before they were already here—” He shrugged, hands gesturing with grace. “But that was nigh on ten years ago. Now it is time to take Ymar back again. I can’t do it alone. I wasn’t born to war, and my guard, though loyal, is small. The Venn permit me barely enough to keep the peace here in Beila Lana.” Again the smile as he added, “Rajnir honors me by using County Wafri for his army training.”

  He paused, as if waiting.

  The distant clangor of the bells filled the silence, and closer—just beyond the door—the rustle of cloth, a whisper or two, a footstep. Guards, waiting on call.

  Wafri said, “But you were trained. So you will lead Ymar to freedom. I will take the throne, and I promise I will be very good to all my people. Everyone will be happy! Except perhaps for the Venn. But they can go off and chase your countrymen. Don’t they like fighting, too? They can fight until the last shit—doesn’t matter if it’s Venn or Marlovan, they fell out of the same wolf’s arse—is left to be wanded away.”

  Inda tensed, ready to spring—

  “Don’t move,” Wafri said, his smile vanishing.

  He stared at his prisoner, who’d tightened in an eyeblink from the hunch to poised stillness. Danger flashed through Wafri, a kind of near-pain that—within limits—he enjoyed. But only when he was in control. “Don’t move, Prince Indevan. ”

  The rustling from behind the door had abruptly ceased. Inda did not have to see the waiting guards to know that they were alert, ready to rush inside at a word.

  An uneven flush of some indefinable emotion stained Wafri’s round cheeks. “Is that not correct, you are called Prince Indevan?” Wafri asked, rocking back on his heels, his brow puckered, as if he were afraid of committing an error of etiquette.

  “No,” Inda said, sitting slowly back. Judging from the sounds, Wafri had an entire riding waiting right behind that door. If I jump this blathermouth, they’ll kill me. “My father’s the prince, my brother the heir. I’m only a second son.”

  Wasn’t the brother dead? Wafri paced the length of the cell as he tried to remember what Rajnir had told him.

  His new coat gleamed richly in the slanting shaft of light from the window above. He wore several fine rings; they glittered and flashed as he passed in and out of the light. They distracted him, so he put his hands behind his back and concentrated for another turn or two.

  Wafri did not remember, but even if he could and the brother was truly dead, he decided not to give the Marlovan the delightful news that he was a step closer to his father’s throne unless he got some information in return. “You must listen to me. I treat you with civility, you will observe. I want us to be friends!”

  “Like you are with your shit Rajnir?” Inda retorted.

  “Oh, oh, quite right. It does sound false in me, does it not? I confess I like Rajnir. We share many similar tastes; I do not wish to harm him as a man. If only he were not a Venn prince! It would be different if we were truly equals, if he did not use my title as if it were a pet name, and reward me with bits of my own kingdom and expect me to be grateful. He cannot help not being as smart as I am—and he is so grateful for my ideas.” He shook with silent laughter.

  Inda was not aware of his expression changing, but Wafri’s quick eyes caught something, and he raised a hand. “I assure you, he does listen. It takes very little to suggest new ideas, like his sea battle nine years ago. But he did not die with the rest! His faithful hound Durasnir prevented that. Then the brilliant notion of preserving his men by luring pirates in to do his work for him.”

  “You did that?” Inda exclaimed.

  Wafri laughed softly. “Yes. I thought it would make him hated everywhere and bring me allies. But it did not. His dag loved the idea, though. Rushed right out to make the contacts and the treaty—for reasons even I cannot discover. Surely not mine.” He sighed, lifting a hand in an airy gesture; his dark velvet cuff fell back, revealing the snow-white fine-weave linen of his shirt sleeve. “Yes, Rajnir has been generous and kind. And he can be led. Is that not rich? A prince as follower? But not easily, not easily at all. His moods are like the weather, and then there are his two fierce watchdogs.”

  Wafri looked toward the high stone ceiling, his manner ruminative, though his fingers trembled.

  Then he stopped by Inda’s bed, smiling down at him. “My metaphor is not precise. Durasnir is more of a mossy boulder. Dangerous only if you stand in its slow, inexorable path. If you watch out, it’s easy enough to stay out of his notice. But Dag Erkric? Ah, he’s more like lightning. I do not understand him at all, except that he’s dangerous.”

  Wafri began pacing again. “After all, they are all Venn! We cannot escape that even Rajnir is a Venn. They are large, they take up too much space. They stink of the dreadful spices they use in their food, some say because their land is so cold you cannot taste anything otherwise. Imagine cooking anything with vinegar! When wine goes sour here, we throw it away.” He made a soft noise of disgust. “How can anyone take seriously a supposed aristocrat whose cook offers anything that includes vinegar as an ingredient? I feed my lowest servants better food than that.”

  He stopped prowling about and regarded Inda. “Don’t tell me. Marlovans use vinegar?”

  “Over grilled fish. Don’t cook with it.”

  “Well. You see? You are different. More to the
point, you are the enemy of the Venn, and Rajnir is afraid of you. He fears no one else except his king, and I really think that Erkric is also afraid of you.” A sudden smile again, his round head tipped in question. “Do you know why?”

  Inda did not, but he had decided he’d better stay mum.

  “Come. Talk with me! I will answer any of your questions. ” Wafri held his hands out, rings glinting. “Anything! Go ahead. Ask me.”

  Inda said, “I want to go home.”

  “You can, you can!” Wafri studied the stubborn face before him, so young a face, so free of guile. Those two long scars, one down the side of his cheek, another along his jaw. He wondered what action had caused them; he wanted to know what it had felt like. He wanted to touch them.

  He put his hands behind him, wiping them on his coat. “I promised you. You can go as soon as you rid me of the Venn. Did you not come for that purpose anyway?”

  “No, I came to learn about them.”

  Wafri whisked around and paced back. “I will tell you anything you like.” He spoke in a different tone now, his words precise. Inda sensed that his nice diction was a measure of the emotions Wafri was trying to control.

  Wafri laughed again. His laughter, so gentle, was no longer humorous, it was the laughter of expectation. Of desire. “I am the only Ymaran noble not confined to my land. And I have managed to keep this palace—the very palace my forebears gave the crown as a gift.”

  Inda crossed his arms, the sense of impending danger stronger now.

  Wafri tipped his head again. “You do not speak?”

  Inda jerked up one shoulder. “What’s to say?”

  Wafri’s hand rose, palm flat, fingers toward the sky. “There is so very much to say. ‘Yes, Lord Wafri, I will help you recover your kingdom. I will be your friend.’ And I did say you shall leave, did I not? Once we are rid of our mutual enemy.” His color heightened. “You will not disappoint me by uttering fatuous moral platitudes—not when I have your written confession of your willingness to hire yourself as a mercenary.”