The Fox

by Sherwood Smith

  Signi licked her lips. So the attraction was perceivable, at least to some. “It is not right.”

  “Was not right. Though that is a matter of debate. When you’ve been a pirate, you learn that ‘right’ varies not only from person to person, but from moment to moment. Sudden death can do that.” Gillor laughed. “He is kind, and passionate, and if you are kind and passionate back, good!”

  “He might not want me. He is much young.”

  To that Gillor made a rude noise, and so Signi, her heart beating fast, rose, and washed her face in clear water, and then trod barefoot, lightly, to the cabin door. No one was about; she knocked, and heard his voice: “Enter.”

  She laid her hand on the latch and walked in, to find him sitting alone at the table before his charts—and yes, behind him spread a luxurious bed, fit for a pirate king.

  She turned her attention to the papers on the table, and then to the man who had made them. His gaze was not the gaze of the commander working out his plans, it was the gaze of a young man overwhelmed in the whirlpools of emotional turmoil.

  Ydrasal . . .

  She touched his warm hand and felt the shock of desire that kindled inside her. And him.

  They did not have to speak at all.

  The sun was setting when they woke, mellow golden light slanting from the west through the stern windows as they sailed under the long Olaran peninsula toward Lindeth Harbor. Inda studied her features: the curve of her brows, the crease in her eyelids, a strand of sandy hair lying stuck to her cheek from the aftermath of passion. Wonder seized him, and on impulse he kissed her.

  The ardent steadiness in her gaze rekindled his own fire, burning all thought to cinders as his hands drifted over her warm skin. This time love was slow, languorous, deliberate, spiraling hard down into a white fire as intense as before.

  At last they lay side by side again, the rosy slants of fading light painting over their flesh, each listening to the other’s breathing.

  She said, “What would you do?”

  “Do?” he asked, lazily twining a finger through her hair, which was unexpectedly fine.

  “When war threat is done. When you have freedom.”

  Inda lay back and permitted his mind to wheel the sublime currents high above all the troubles of the world, and he smiled, and said, “I would go home. I wish I could show you Tenthen Castle. It—”

  He looked down, and flushed, and she thought in anguish how very young he was.

  Her gaze was so steady and intense he wondered what was going on in her mind, and then a terrible thought occurred. “Is that damned ghost still here? Watching, um, us?” Embarrassment and disgust cramped his middle.

  Signi raised her head a little more, brow puckered as she focused into the air above Inda. Then her face changed, and she sat up in the broad bed, paying no attention to the falling of the sheet away from her breasts; she raised her hands, cupped them and held them out as she spoke in Venn.

  It was too quick for him to follow. “Were you talking to the ghost? What did you say?”

  Her mouth curved in a sad smile. “I said: Bide and be welcome. If you can feel joy, it is mine to give and yours to share. He is young like you, far too young. How much love did he get to share before he was taken out of life?”

  Inda’s annoyance vanished as he contemplated for the first time a generosity that transcended petty human emotion, and embraced not just the body and mind but the spirit.

  His eyelids prickled as he looked into her face lit by the ruddy gold of the setting sun, the faint lines of laughter and sorrow carved around eyes and mouth, her steady green-brown eyes; he heard again the benevolence in her voice as she offered to share joy with a dead spirit who was denied the warmth of living flesh, and he felt a strange hollow behind his ribs. The world had changed. No. He had changed; quick as that, he thought, I am in love.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  ONE bell past sunrise Nightingale Toraca met his local eyes and ears upstairs in a new inn high on the Nob’s ridge, so new it smelled sharply of fresh-planed wood. The young Runner shook raindrops off her hair, sat down and began weaving hemp and leddas together into rope as she spoke. “Harbormaster says that the Venn are all sailing north. The battle must have been out to sea. There were at least eighteen of ’em! Two blue-skiffs went out far as they dared, and our cliff lookouts, they all reported in with the same sighting: when the great fog cleared, the Venn were retreating to the north.”

  “Then . . . there was a sea battle?” Nightingale asked.

  She shrugged. “That’s what they say.”

  “So they saw arrow flames, burning ships?”

  “No, rain was too hard. But what else could there be, if all the Venn go north, except a retreat?”

  Nightingale signified agreement, but reserved doubts. In his experience, civilians mistook skirmishes for major battles, and clashes with no result as definitive.

  On the other hand these were sea folk, and he knew nothing about the sea and ships. He frowned, considering how to word his new report. The harbor city had been tense for two days of intermittent storms as reports came in, first of a sighting of a long line of Venn ships from the cliff-top lookouts, then from the daring fisher craft who plied the seas below the tip of the peninsula, their sides and sails painted blue to help hide them from the Venn. They had not only corroborated the sighting of Venn warships, they had brought the news of Elgar the Fox’s black pirate ship sailing straight into battle.

  Then nothing, nothing, nothing, as the blue-painted craft ventured farther out. And at last came report of a mysterious smoke—no, a fog—spreading out across the ocean in a long white worm of a line, a fog that did not dissipate even in the rains.

  And here was the latest news.

  “So if there was a battle, Elgar the Fox must have won,” Nightingale said.

  “Yes, and speaking of him, the black ship that Elgar the Fox commands has been sighted, right at dawn, heading east.”

  “Inland. Toward Lindeth?” Nightingale asked, astonished.

  “They will welcome him with joy—he drove off all those ships—the blue-skiffs swear it was more like thirty of ’em out there. Maybe even more!” the Runner replied, grinning in triumph. She looked around, then said, “I had better get to the shop before they notice how long I’ve been gone. Mistress Lagit doesn’t hate Marlovans, but she is nosy.”

  “Then you must get back at once,” he agreed.

  Nightingale watched her go. The one good thing about a city being rebuilt was that they needed workers, and not everyone knew everyone else. He’d been able, over the past year, to place young Runners-in-training to observe for the king in every harbor along the coast. They all had other jobs, so no one knew they were Marlovan Runners.

  He sighed, thinking of the long journey ahead of him, riding to visit all his Runners once he found out the new orders. If there were any new orders. The Venn, driven north!

  He remembered his last report, the grim news that the lines of Venn had been sighted, and everyone in the Nob was arming, preparing for yet another attack on the harbor. Now, for once, he could write the king some good news. A short message via the locket, and his fastest riders with a more detailed report. It had been far too long.

  On the plains half a morning’s ride from the royal city, Evred-Harvaldar was galloping west, two outriders behind him, pennons streaming. He rode without a helm, his outward intention to watch the first war game of the season, his inward intention to escape his anger at the impending attack on the Nob, an attack he was helpless to do anything about.

  He considered throwing away the lockets altogether. What was the good of faraway news you could do absolutely nothing about before it was too late? But he did not. Instead, he spent as much time as possible at his desk to speed the watches and then decided on this ride.

  His father had written in his private papers, The boys must never know, but to watch them is to earn a rare laugh. So like pups they are! But my father was right about one
thing, if few others: do not go often, or the effect of your presence is lessened.

  Evred had left his chain mail behind, and his gauntlets and the helm that marked him as the king, as well as all but two of the royal entourage, so in practice he would be invisible, though he remembered well that royal invisibility was merely a matter of degree of royal notice.

  The air smelled wet, like new grass, a clean smell that lifted his heart, and cleared from it, for a time, the tensions of council and Horsebutt Tya-Vayir’s new, arrogant demands. The fifteen-year-old boys nicknamed ponies riding the camp perimeter straightened up when they spied the banner, and already Evred was repressing laughter. How strange, to find himself in this older body now, when memory threw him so readily back to his scrub days and how they had watched anxiously for the king. At the memory of his father a pang of grief smote him, but these were easier to bear now.

  Headmaster Gand was there, overseeing the setting up of camp, and oh, how Evred remembered all the chores, the horse pickets, the cooking, the tent-rigs! Boys were busy everywhere, new-shorn scrubs running about until they were aware of him, then sedulously going about their business, every line of their small bodies indicative of self-consciousness.

  Evred rode along the campsite, caught Gand’s eye, saw the deepened corners of the old dragoon’s tough mouth— not a smile, never that, but Evred recognized humor just the same, and fractionally lifted a hand. Officially there was no notice from king to headmaster, but Evred knew the boys would speculate on the meaning of his visit faster than he could ride by. Just as he had as a scrub the rare times his father had visited.

  It was good to see order, to see things as they had been—it boded well for the future. Unless that was mere wish being taken for truth.

  Tap. The locket!

  Evred rode by, but he no longer saw the horsetails busy with the horses or the pigtails at their chores.

  He finished his circuit, and then started back, the outriders behind him; with one hand he fetched out the locket and flicked it open, his fingers catching the little paper before the wind could whip it away.

  With one hand he unrolled it, read it, read it again.

  The sea battle scarcely registered: what drove residual anger entirely out of his mind and set his heart to drumming were the words I. ship sighted sailing twd. L.H.

  Evred looked up, his emotions fierce, but just as fiercely he quashed them.

  Inda’s ship was sailing toward Lindeth Harbor—two weeks’ ride from the Nob. Much, much farther from here. Inda might land, but he would be gone again before any message could reach him.

  Too many disappointments made Evred wary, almost angry at that sudden surge of unreasoning hope, and so he did his best to dismiss conjecture—and his own reaction. He would keep himself busy. It wasn’t as if he did not have plenty to do.

  Inda stood on the deck of the Death. He’d signaled All captains , and so they lined the lee rail, Iasca Leror behind them in the east, obscured by bands of rain from the passing storm.

  They were silent after Signi’s unexpected announcement: “Do not go into the harbor.”

  Fox sent her a fast glance, eloquent in its distrust. Signi’s face was troubled.

  Gillor said, “Why not? Is all that stuff about kings and assassins true, then?”

  “It is not the Marlovan king. We—the Venn—have watchers there. They will know this vessel.”

  Inda said, “Do they have magic communications?”

  Signi turned her face toward him, relieved he wasn’t angry with her, though she could sense in their quick, inadvertent movements and shuffles the angry reactions from the crew. “Yes and no. It is not what you think. The observers write reports. It is a mage-prentice job to transfer to a hidden place, then travel along and collect their reports. Then transfer back to Ymar, or wherever the Dag commands.”

  “So, what, the Venn have spies among us?”

  Gillor’s eyes flicked at the “us.” Even though the conversation was in Sartoran-laced Dock Talk, it was clear that their commander had already made the inward shift back to his homeland.

  “Yes.”

  “How good, how recent, is the news?”

  Signi looked very uncomfortable. She said in a slow, reluctant undertone, “It is good. I know much of events in this land, for we have had watchers there since the fall of Idayago.”

  Inda turned up his thumb. “All right, then, the harbor is out. We’ll land somewhere along the coast to the south.”

  “I’m going with you,” Jeje stated. “If you’re going to face some king, then you’ll need someone to watch your back o’ nights.”

  I’m going with you. Tau had never felt so exquisite a pain. He did not delve for reasons, just spoke, once again— as aboard the flagship, before the Brotherhood attack so long ago—hearing his own voice as something entirely outside of himself. “And I,” his voice said, “will watch it of days.”

  Inda gave him a distracted glance. “I appreciate the offer, but do you understand? I’m going inland—to the royal city—not just to Lindeth Harbor.”

  Fox smiled mockingly, but said nothing.

  “Wherever you go.” Jeje crossed her arms. “Because you need looking after.”

  Everyone on deck laughed, but she just stood there glowering.

  “I won’t argue,” Inda said. “Since Death can’t drop us at Lindeth, we’ll take the Vixen down the coast and land at some inlet where the Venn don’t have spies.”

  “And we can continue down south, lead any pursuit away,” Fox said. “I don’t believe the entire Venn fleet is conveniently running north because of a fog bank.”

  “I’m sure they don’t want to be late to their invasion,” Dasta said.

  There was a mild laugh at this, but the humor did not last long. Everyone imagined the huge fleet traveling north to load up with the Venn invasion force, to return as soon as they had the western wind they’d need to drive those loaded, heavy ships back across the strait.

  Tcholan said, “We’ll probably see raider packs, is my guess. Soon’s they figure out—or nosers tell ’em—which way we went. They’ll want to stop us if they can.” And turned up a hand in agreement.

  Inda slung his dunnage up over his shoulder.

  “Well, then.” Fox was unsmiling.

  Inda faced him. For a moment they stood there, wind fingering their hair and clothing, Fox defiant in pose. There was nothing really to say. The two had spent most of the night before over the charts, drinking mulled wine as Inda rambled on about what he would do next in this or that contingency, and Fox listened but said little.

  Now the fleet captains stood against the lee rail, watching. They and the Death’s crew seemed to expect at least words, if not a gesture, the way their eyes tracked between the old leader and the new. The crew had accepted the change of command with typical seagoing practicality. Fox had commanded single ships, and had run weapons drills; they respected his fists and his sharp tongue as well as his skill.

  It wasn’t the change of command so much as how it was done that seemed so strange. The old pirates found a peaceful transfer of power difficult to believe. Inda’s people expected nothing else, but did not like to see Inda going off again.

  “We’ll be back,” Inda said finally. “We’re only carrying the news. We still have the Venn fleet to fight.”

  Fox opened a hand. It could have meant anything.

  And so Inda led the way over the side, followed by the others, Tau last, Fox laughing silently at how some of the women watched Tau depart, their faces sober, though Tau did not look back.

  Then the Fisher brothers sheeted the Vixen’s long curved sail home. It filled with wind and the privateers watched their old commander carried to the southeast, the lovely little craft slanting as it picked up speed. On the Death’s foremasthead, Mutt clung to the shrouds, his eyes blurred with tears.

  From the captain’s deck Fox watched the Vixen dwindle into a sliver against the land, and then he raised his hand. “Let’s giv
e our Venn friends ashore something to spy on and report to the chief snakes, shall we?”

  The captains returned to their ships.

  And so, guided by Fibi’s squawk, the Death raised every sail that could draw wind, tacking coastward under the black-and-gold fox banner.

  As for those on the Vixen, the wind soon brought them the scents of land, familiar scents that evoked in Jeje, Tau, and Inda so many childhood memories. They watched the shoreline grow as Loos slanted them southward, tacking against the currents.

  “What we can do is this,” Inda finally said. “Jeje, you can keep your gold thing. I’ve got its mate with the others.” He shook his gear bag, from which came the muted clatter of gold cases. “If I need the Vixen, I can signal you.”

  She shook her head. “I said I’m coming, and that means on land.”

  Inda grimaced. “I appreciate the offer, but trusty as you are in battle you can’t really ward a whole army. If Aldren-Harvaldar wants me dead, he has an entire kingdom to see to it.”

  “Evred-Harvaldar,” Signi said softly.

  Inda almost didn’t hear her. “You were wonderful in Bren, and I wouldn’t ask—” He had been talking to Jeje, whose arms were crossed, her face stubborn. He turned sharply on Signi. “What did you say?”

  Signi stepped back, startled by this unfamiliar voice, the intensity of his gaze. “You did not know? The king is named Evred. The second son of Tlennen-Harvaldar. It is so for at least a year.”

  “Evred,” Inda repeated, the words, Why didn’t you tell me? forming in his throat, but the name was a mere name to Signi. To Tau. To Jeje.

  He let out a long sigh, then dug his palm heels into his eyes. They knew that gesture. But when he looked up he was smiling, a smile they had so rarely seen, a smile of un-shadowed joy as his entire being filled with sunlight.

  “I take it this news alters our plans?” Tau asked.

  “Yes. And no,” Inda said, turning that smile toward the land. “It doesn’t change the news we carry to the king.” Then he faced them again, the happiness breaking into laughter. “But it does change how we get it to him.”