Treason's Shore

by Sherwood Smith

  Inda defeated the memories enough to take in the people standing stiffly on their best behavior while Beaver chattered on and on, mixing in questions and comments with his report. They looked and sounded anxious for approval.

  So he looked around to find things to approve.

  Everything appeared as expected. Inda saw all the signs that Beaver was a careful commander, doing the best he could despite the lack of funds. The faces surrounding Inda seemed content enough, yet by the end of the tour of inspection, Inda had a headache, and there was still a banquet to get through.

  Get through it he did, mostly by just lifting the wine cup and pretending to drink. He didn’t like heavy wine at any time, but when his head ached, the smell made his gut churn.

  He knew he’d have to make a speech. Gradually he became aware that they wanted a story from the battle at Andahi Pass. Not the entire thing, he realized as unsubtle hints were dropped, before or after looks sent Beaver’s way. They wanted the story of Hawkeye’s Charge, which Inda had not actually seen.

  But he knew enough of what had happened to describe it in the terms people loved to hear, full of honor, glory, courage in the face of certain defeat. And at the end, Hawkeye dying with the words “Sing me” on his lips, following which they all stood and sang the new version of “Yvana Ride Thunder,” the younger men drumming on the table with such verve the dishes jumped and clattered.

  Then at last it was over. Beaver staggered off, muzzy with drink and singing with several of his riding mates. Inda longed for bed, but he had one more duty. He sat there wishing he could just send one of the Runners, except he had promised Evred he’d see to it himself. And they were riding out at dawn.

  So if it was going to be done, it had to be now.

  He got up and wound his way through the departing guests to the side of old Tdiran-Randviar, the tough old woman who commanded the women defending the towers and walls of Ala Larkadhe.

  “Inda.” Her voice was like a crow’s squawk, her tone wry but not disapproving. “You did that well. Almost would believe you were there.”

  “I did see the end of it,” he said, which was almost true. “Tdiran-Randviar, Evred wants me to visit Fala, Hawkeye’s mate. See with my own eyes how she’s doing.” Inda hoped the woman would say Fala was well and living far away—anything so he wouldn’t have to go.

  But Tdiran’s chin jerked up, a gesture of approval. “He’s a fine boy, Evred is. Like his father. Those young hounds, Badger and Beaver, have their mother’s nature, so Fala’s doing all right. You’ll find her tucked up just beyond the north wall, at the apiary.”

  Apiary. Bees—Gand—the academy. Inda shook away the reminder, resigning himself to a long walk, or else the trouble of getting a horse saddled up and prepared. He opted for the walk, hoping the night air, cold as it was, would clear his head somewhat.

  He gestured to the Runner on duty and, guiding himself by the flickering wall torches, trod the narrow streets until he reached the north wall, and then, with a salute to the men and women above, he and his Runner walked through the gate. For a time the only sound was the crunch of ground beneath his and Twin Tvei’s steps.

  Inda sniffed the air as he walked, senses on alert. Maybe it was just being alone for the first time in so long—alone, that is, except for his Runner. But he felt he was being watched.

  He checked his surroundings carefully. Now he was thoroughly awake. The steep rising land revealed nothing in the time it took to sink the city walls behind a rocky hill, and to spot the round cottage belonging to the city’s beekeeper. A huge yard with a small, domed construct of some sort made indistinct shadows; as Inda crossed to the door, he realized that the beehives shared their space with a kiln.

  That gave him just enough time to suspect what he was to find when the door opened, the light from inside silhouetting a short, stocky male figure. “Who’s without?”

  “Inda-Harskialdna,” Inda said. Strange, how he still felt odd saying his rank, like he’d taken it from someone, no, more like he pretended to be something he wasn’t. “I was sent by Evred-Harvaldar.”

  The light made a halo around the bright hair of a tall, thin woman in Marlovan robes and trousers. “Come within,” she said and smiled in welcome, from behind the stocky man.

  Fala was probably ten years older than Inda, round of face and pale of eyes and hair, characterized by a dimpled smile that had once been merry, but was now more pensive. “Welcome, Harskialdna-Dal.” She used his Marlovan title, but spoke in Iascan.

  “Inda is all right,” he mumbled, wondering what else to say. He had a wallet of gold pieces, but Evred had been specific: Only if she seems to need it. Don’t insult her if she’s found a new life. “Um, Evred wanted me to ask how you were.”

  She smiled again. “How very like him. Here, come within. Would you like some mulled wine to chase the cold away?” Then her eyes narrowed as she observed the tense brow and faint wince of a pounding headache. “No, maybe listerblossom steep?”

  “If you have some,” Inda said gratefully as he took in the round room, which was fitted up with an odd mixture of northern furniture and Marlovan low tables and mats.

  “I have plenty,” she said, not telling him that she’d kept a supply against Hawkeye’s heavy drinking during the days when Dannor, Hawkeye’s wife, had lived among them. Those days were gone forever. “In case the bees take against me in jealousy.”

  She indicated the mats. Inda sat down. The man also sat down; he neither spoke nor smiled. His skin was nut-brown, his thin hair dark, reminding Inda strongly of Jeje, which made him feel even more off balance. The man was probably old Iascan—oh, of course. Olaran, this far north.

  Fala filled the silence with cheery chatter. She introduced her new mate, Kaz the beekeeper, talked about bees and pottery, said that Beaver was always sending over delicacies, as times had been lean for everyone.

  Presently Fala brought the steep and Inda gulped it down, ignoring the burn to mouth and nose. “Oh, that’s good,” he sighed. “Thanks.”

  Fala made a gesture of sympathy. “We heard you were coming. Some think you’re coming up with fire and sword, others to change all the commanders about.”

  Inda waved a hand wearily. “No, nothing like that. I’m supposed to ride around and look tough. Evred and Cama think that’ll keep the peace. Idea being, we’ve had enough war.”

  The words were out before he remembered that Kaz was not a Marlovan, then he shrugged internally. Wasn’t like “keeping the peace” was any military secret.

  Fala laughed. They talked a little more about riding, winter, and how nasty the pass could be if it iced up. Then Inda rose to take his leave, Fala charged him with a greeting to Ndand-Jarlan, and he and Twin Tvei left.

  But not alone. They were aware of being followed within ten steps. The Runner had hand to sword and Inda to the hilts in his sleeves as they turned.

  “A moment.” The voice was unfamiliar, the accent the slow Iascan of the north.

  Inda paused, Twin Tvei taking up a stance at Inda’s left, a little behind.

  The light from the window outlined a short, stocky figure. “Kaz?” Inda asked, as the man stopped a couple paces away.

  “You came just to ask about her,” Kaz said, after a pause.

  “Yes.”

  “Your king sent you. To ask about her.”

  “Yes.” Inda reminded himself he was the King’s Voice, and he was here to make peace. He had to remember not to slurp his soup so the locals wouldn’t despise him and through him all Marlovans. So if a local wanted to stand here while the night got colder and tell Inda what he’d just been doing, well, that seemed to be part of the orders, to listen.

  Kaz shook his head, then stepped a little closer. Twin Tvei’s right hand already gripped his sword. His left drifted to his sash near the hilt of his knife, and Inda, arms crossed, had his knife hilts in a throwing grip, but Kaz’s head was bent, his gaze on the ground that he couldn’t see.

  Finally he looked up.
“We didn’t want you,” he said. “You Marlovans. But you’re here. And some think the old king was far worse. Idayago, I mean. Tried to annex Olara, same as you people. But wouldn’t rebuild the Nob after the first pirate attack, in the early days.”

  Inda was not sure what to say in answer to yet another statement of what they both knew, so he just said, “Yes.”

  Kaz let out his breath in a sharp hiss. “You’re going to keep the peace, you say. Some rumors say you’ll rebuild the two harbors.”

  “That’s right,” Inda stated, still patient.

  Kaz snorted again. “Elbow Jink. Ambush forming. They’ll take you from above.” And in a low, swift voice, “Some might say I’m a traitor, because Zek na Zek is Olaran. But I don’t like him. Never did. He’s a bad leader, worse than Mardric ever was, and he’d make a worse king, him or his mates.”

  Kaz marched back to the apiary.

  Inda started back, mentally calling up his memory of the Andahi Pass, studied so intently before the battle. He remembered Elbow Jink as one of the first tight twists on the narrowing road, a day or two up the pass from Ala Larkadhe. Sheer cliffs on either side.

  He and his men had already relaxed their guard while riding, seldom donning uncomfortable helms, shields hung at the sides of their saddles instead of strapped on their arms.

  An attack from above was unlikely to kill them all unless the Resistance had gained an army of expert shots and all were crowding up there along the cliffs, but all it would take would be one very good shot to nail Inda.

  “Damn,” he said, and Twin Tvei opened his hand in agreement.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  INDA climbed to the top of the goat trail and looked around the clearing behind the cliffs above Elbow Jink. The muddy, trampled clearing had been camped on for days, maybe a week or two. The Resistance had learned from the Marlovans, planning an ambush from the heights, but they hadn’t learned to set perimeter watches. Either that or their leaders couldn’t get anyone to sit out the fun, Inda thought as he motioned his dragoons to spread out.

  Some thirty paces beyond the scree protecting the clearing sat the Idayagans. They had ranged themselves along the very edge of the cliffs above the pass, weapons to hand.

  Paulan Ebetim and his men scarcely noticed the cold that they had been complaining bitterly about until that morning, when, at last, their lookout watching the pass had galloped below. That was the signal: the Pirate and his Marlovans had been sighted!

  And there they were, riding around the sharp curve at extreme range. Their horses plodded up the muddy switchback with heads low, harnesses jingling, the echoes up the stone cliffs tinkling like coins falling on ice.

  A few of the watchers noted the mostly bare yellow heads of the riders, here and there a knit cap, and exchanged gloating glances. The Marlovans did seem to have their shields to hand, not tied behind them, but from the way they joked back and forth in their wood-snap, wolf-growl language, they clearly suspected nothing. Perfect targets.

  Paulan Ebetim ignored the whispered cracks his men exchanged. He did not share their confidence of an easy win, not since Zek the Ropemaker’s “I’ll be right back” had stretched into two days. Zek and the rest of the Olarans had all had brief but necessary errands, Paulan had discovered the previous day. There were none but Idayagans here for the ambush, something the younger men had crowed about—good riddance—but that left Paulan very uneasy.

  It didn’t do to bring up some kinds of worry. People were too quick with words like “coward” and “fear” and especially “traitor” if they didn’t like what they were hearing.

  Paulan gripped his bow, tested the snapvine, discovered it had loosened yet again in the sodden cold. He bent over the bow to tighten it again, glad to have something to do with his hands, but he’d just begun the task when a whisper ran through the others: “They’re in range!”

  They slapped arrows to bows.

  The horsemen finished rounding the curve and the front one with the banner rode directly below the Idayagans.

  Paulan leaned out over a boulder, trying to descry which one might be Inda the Pirate. They all looked pretty much alike in those gray coats when seen from above.

  “Pick your man—” His voice rasped, and he fought the urge to cough. The middle of the column was now directly below. “Shoot.”

  A heartbeat after the bows twanged, the shields below flipped up, and the hissing arrows thumped and clattered harmlessly against them.

  Paulan scarcely had a moment to think They knew! when there was noise from behind him. The ambushers whirled around as gray-coated Marlovans advanced, their scar-faced leader saying, “Surprise.”

  Just before New Year’s Week, Cama sat down to his desk, and laboriously wrote to Evred-Harvaldar:

  Inda just arrived here at Castle Andahi. Ahead of a blizzard. Animals up to the chest by the time they got past Robbers’ Cave. Inda says he reported to you the attempted ambush at the mouth of the pass above Ala Larkadhe.

  Inda brought along Paulan Ebetim & his gang. Ebetim’s been behind most of the west end assassination tries on me. Ebetim says the Olarans set him up. Inda says he thinks Ebetim is sick of living in the hills. People aren’t so generous with handouts anymore to Resistance. Ndand told me the Idayagan women are saying, “Get work. We had to.” when the Resistance men come around begging food and gear.

  Ebetim said to us he’d rat out Zek the Noose if he knew where he was. He & men are in the lockup with the gold. Inda sent dragoons up our old path. His guess was Zek would want to strike one of our signal houses again before winter closed in, if he did anything. You know Inda. “That’s what I’d do.” When he says that, he’s usually right. I thought Zek would be in Lindeth to winter over. We’re waiting to hear which of us is right. I’ll put the men on rock quarry duty for half a year, same as always. What do you want us to do with Ebetim?

  New Year’s Week, and Convocation, had passed before Evred replied. Cama had got used to that; he’d carry right on around the question until Evred had thought it out. Nor was he surprised when (after he’d sent a second message, saying that Inda’s dragoon flight had returned, having caught the Olarans exactly where he’d predicted they’d be) Evred wrote, “Let Inda decide.”

  Sitting in the makeshift jail down in Castle Andahi’s cellar, Paulan Ebetim had gone from terror to resignation. They’d separated him from the rest of the men, so he had no idea where they were, or if they even lived. He’d heard rumors that the Marlovans didn’t take prisoners, so he braced himself to be dragged out before an assembled army to be put to death. At least his family was up the coast at Olara, where they wouldn’t find out until it was over.

  Then day after cold, wearying day passed with nothing to do but watch the slow march of light reflected through the iron bars of his door from somewhere beyond the barrels and barrels of wine and coffee the Marlovans had stored. He couldn’t smell the beans—he figured the peculiar dark island wood of the barrels was too close-grained for that—but he sure could smell ground coffee drifting down from the kitchens directly above the cells. The smell was a kind of unexpected torment, though he was grateful for the warmth from their bake ovens.

  After two weeks of no company, no talk, and food twice a day, he gathered enough courage to complain about the terrible food to his guards. “Is this slop some kind of torture?” he asked in careful Iascan.

  The old man who’d brought the tray dumped the tray on the ground. “You eat what we eat.” He slammed the door behind him.

  After half a watch, Paulan realized that this was all he was going to get. He scraped up the spilled food. As he munched grimly through the now cold rye bread and the congealed oatmeal with dots of sticky honey—none of which tasted better for the wait—he wondered if they were forming up for the execution now.

  But more days passed with no change in the routine (or the food), and then, without any warning, they came for him. “What now?” he asked when two guards, the old one and a young one, jerked hi
m out of the cell.

  “Harskialdna,” the old one said.

  When Paulan was brought before Inda, the smell of old fear sweat rising off stale clothing brought Inda right back to to the time he was a prisoner in Ymar. He tensed, fighting the urge to squirm. He hated the memories, hated the idea of prisoners, but these fellows hadn’t attacked on the cliff, they’d all thrown their weapons down while their leader just stood there with his mouth open. Inda couldn’t kill a bunch of terrified, unarmed men.

  The followers had been put to work like lawbreakers, but this Ebetim was supposed to be a leader. So here Inda was, stuck with a prisoner, and Evred had told him to do whatever he thought best. Whatever Inda thought best was to pretend Ebetim didn’t exist, except he did. The dawn and sunset guard rota had “feed prisoner” written on the watch commander’s list of duties.

  He eyed the wretched man. “Zek the Noose had a good plan. You were supposed to kill us, and when Cama and his boys ran up the pass, they’d drop on ’em from above, from our own beacon site. Good plan. But not good enough. It’s never going to be good enough—none of you have the training. Do you really want to fight until you’re all dead?”

  Paulan waited. Everyone made speeches, it seemed. Mardric had loved making speeches. Zek, too. People in command made speeches, and because they were commanders, you had to listen—you couldn’t tell them to shut up like you could your mates. Especially when you were a prisoner.

  Paulan had shut his eyes against the sharp angle of sunlight coming in through the window behind the Pirate’s head. When the silence had gone on too long he jerked up his hand to shade his eyes and discovered that the Pirate was waiting for an answer.