Treason's Shore

by Sherwood Smith

  Light, air, and space ripped apart the world and reassembled it; she staggered as noise buffeted her. The glare of sunlight dazzled her eyes. Two small, firm hands gripped her just above the elbows to steady her.

  “Come. Sit,” Valda said, looking older and thinner, her wild hair more white than gray. “Why are you here? Disaster? One word will do.”

  “No.” Shuffle, shuffle, something hard bumped the backs of Anchan’s knees, and she sat gratefully, then opened her eyes. “The fleet left. No laundry thralls taken aboard the mage ship.”

  “Mage ship? Dag Erkric is not on the Cormorant?”

  “It is still at Bren, last I heard. Yesterday Erkric took his prisoners and his chosen Erama Krona to the raider Cliffdiver.”

  “Prisoners? King Rajnir and—”

  “And Oneli Stalna Durasnir’s son Halvir.”

  Valda gasped. “So that’s why the scribes and archivists . . . I did not know.”

  “No one knew. But what’s this about the scribes? Is my mother involved?”

  “Oh, yes. Your father has learned how to remove the Norsunder wards from the king’s chambers. As for the scribes—oh, we can talk about it later. Now I know why they are angered—it must be on Brun Durasnir’s behalf. Tell me more!”

  “The Dag brought Halvir back from Twelve Towers when he returned. I did not risk a message because he came back in an ice-storm temper, increasing wards everywhere as soon as he recovered from the transfer. We learned he intends to gather a coterie of dedicated young men to serve the king.”

  “All bespelled,” Valda whispered. “This is terrible.”

  “He began the bindings on the boy as soon as he laid his wards. I discovered it after three days had passed, and in my horror, that very night I spindled them. I could not bear a child being . . .” Anchan bowed her head. “I believe I acted in error for that next day, Dag Erkric announced the king’s decision to join the fleet, and they were closed off from contact while everything was readied. Now he’s got both of them on that ship, out of our reach.”

  “This is terrible, terrible.” Brit Valda perched on the bench like an untidy bird, rubbing her gnarled hands absently over her bony knees.

  “Where am I?” Anchan asked, looking down at her scrub-worn hands, which right now looked older than Valda’s.

  “You are in the north of Sartor.”

  “Are these mages?” Anchan asked, looking about as she fingered the torc still around her neck. “Can you remove this thing?” Then she remembered the whispers about Valda’s birth and her face heated.

  “They would think it merely an ornament, here,” Valda assured her with a crooked smile, then reached up behind Anchan and murmured the unlock spell. The torc fell into Anchan’s lap. “They don’t have thralls, either born or criminal. Judgments are handled other ways.”

  So Anchan pocketed the torc and took in her surroundings. She was in a square of what appeared to be a village or town, leafy trees at each corner dappling the bricks with shade. The houses displayed the broad windows she’d discovered were typical of the south. Most houses were built to one or two levels. The extravagance of wide windows was enhanced further with flower-potted balconies; from some of the open windows came the rhythmic drone of the spell for Fire Stick renewal. The summer sun shone warm as well as bright, so far in the south, and the air quite hot. Anchan took in the rich, unfamiliar scents and smiled. She was free again, wearing the blue she’d earned. She’d even come to like short hair, light and free of trouble in this warm climate.

  Valda said briskly, “Are you recovered? Your transfer magic is safely disseminated. We can sit a few moments longer, then get you a good meal. We’ll put in some work as trade, but first, finish your report. Did Erkric say where he planned to take the king?”

  “Once the Oneli win the strait he will transfer to Jaro for the winter.”

  Valda touched her fingertips together. “I honor you for three years of heroic work. But you are not finished with danger. Here is my report for you. Nelsaiam fell to us, but at a sharp cost. Seigmad collapsed in a calenture near the end of the battle, and there was some struggle over who would take command. Battlegroup Captain Hyarl Dyalf Balandir wished to reassert himself as Battlegroup Chief, but his Battlegroup was at the edge of events, and I’m told he had no idea what to do besides waving his fist and shouting to attack. Captain Baltar of the Katawake assumed the command until Battlegroup Chief Seigmad woke.”

  “Good.”

  “But while that was occurring, Dag Yatar commenced using magic against the enemy. He said at the king’s own command. And they claim the spells turned the tide of battle.”

  “What spells?” Anchan felt sick.

  “Some kind of fire that pulls heat out of the air while the spell lasts. They put the magic on fire arrows before the Drenga shoot them. These fires are not doused easily. There is also the stone-inside-objects spell, though Byarin reports difficulties. One must have stones at hand, and it takes time to make the spell and assess the exact position of the enemy in order to transfer the stone inside them. They did kill a few people, and shocked many more, but far more of the stones fell uselessly and rolled around the enemy decks. Some were even pitched back by enemies adept at the use of lines.”

  “So Erkric will have dags training in the future to use magic spells such as these,” Anchan said in disgust.

  “Unless we ward those spells from the start, so that they fail, and they are seen to fail. That is why I am here in this town full of mages. I am making warding tokens, and no one can trace me with the air full of magic. Here is your new assignment. Byarin begged me for a dag who is not assigned a ship, for Erkric is keeping close watch on all sea dags. We need someone of whose presence he is unaware. You are going to spend the next month slipping from ship to ship and wedging a token on each vessel.”

  Anchan laughed and rubbed her hands. She had volunteered for the thrall duty partly because she wanted to spare the older dags the work, but also because she’d hoped it would bring adventure. It had only brought the worst kind of danger: unceasing threat amid wearying labor, and a slow, inexorable erosion of spirit.

  “You’ll have all the drakans to ward. Once they are done, the raiders as you and I can. But the drakans first.”

  “How long do we have?”

  “Byarin says that they figure on two months at the outside before they reach the confederation of ships forming up at the east end of the strait. Ulaffa believes Erkric intends to make his demonstration of magic’s power after he contrives Durasnir’s death. He’s been asking too many questions about the various captains, and conducting personal interviews with them, on various pretexts.”

  Anchan gasped.

  “Come. We’ll eat, work, and you will go to Ulaffa via Byarin, the first load of my ward tokens in your pockets.”

  They rose and Valda walked briskly across the square toward the long, low whitewashed building from which the chanting drifted. Then she stopped, pointing to the other side of the square, where two broad streets converged.

  Anchan turned, puzzled. The traffic was the usual carts and walkers and horseback riders, brightly-clothed people of all ages and degrees, many carrying baskets, some with food that sent savory drifts on the summer air: pepper, citrus, many types of flower, baking pastry.

  “The bench.” Valda chuckled.

  Anchan had swept her gaze past the row of old people seated on a bench in front of a trellis over which climbed a flowering vine. The old people were just sitting there, some enjoying the sun, others chatting. Anchan realized that this pleasant, dull scene fascinated Valda.

  The Sea Dag Chief said, “I hope soon to be able to spend my old age seated on a sunny bench, watching people go about their lives. Oh, how I cherish that thought!”

  “You’re not old,” Anchan exclaimed, though she knew it a lie. Valda’s sagging face, her knobby hands and prominent veins, her nest of mostly white hair, had long lost any remaining trace of youth. But Anchan did not lie with the inte
nt to lie. The impulse was to underscore her belief in Valda’s strength, vitality, her keen intelligence.

  Valda laughed silently, then said, “I am old, but the word to me means familiar, comfortable. Accustomed after long and venerable use. Not dilapidated and useless.”

  “Old or not, I trust you will gain your peaceful bench in the sun,” Anchan said sincerely, thinking, You’ve earned it, ten times over. But you’ll never do it. We’ll find you dead at your desk, pen at hand. I hope it will be many years yet, for our own sakes, as well as yours.

  “Halvir.”

  Halvir squirmed—and couldn’t move.

  In the dream he’d been falling through the air, falling and falling. He fell with people, and houses, and ships, all spinning slowly end over end. His limbs sank down, heavier and heavier, and he didn’t know why he fell, and he didn’t feel pain. He wanted to cry but he couldn’t do even that. He just fell.

  “Halvir.”

  He opened his eyes. Was he awake? Real awake, not waking inside of another dream? He’d had so many wakenings, but they were just more dreams, slipping from one to the next before he fell yet again, down and down into white clouds.

  This time his eyes stung, though he could not see anything. Wait. Wait. Was that a chink of light, down there? He’d go see—but he couldn’t move.

  He wriggled a little, then with increasing desperation. His arms and legs, his middle—someone had tied him to a chair!

  He opened his eyes so wide they hurt, but he couldn’t see anything except that faint line of light. But this wasn’t another dream, it wasn’t! Panic rose inside his throat, almost choking him. Why would he be tied up?

  “Halvir.”

  He struggled to get enough breath to scream, but he couldn’t breathe, they’d taken away his eyes and ears and his breath—

  “Halvir.”

  The whisper broke the panic long enough for him to suck in a breath to yell—

  “You must be silent, Halvir. You must not be heard.”

  Halvir gasped and struggled to contain the hard-edged sobs that cut the inside of his chest, wanting out.

  “Halvir. Do you hear me? Whisper back.”

  “Yes.” His voice squeaked.

  “Good boy. Good boy. Listen. You are on a ship called the Cliffdiver. We are sailing with the Oneli.”

  “My father?” Halvir went cold all over. “Where is my father?”

  “Be still. Be silent. Halvir, you are called upon to do a man’s work. Can you manage that?”

  Halvir straightened up as best he could, though his clothes were twisted and itchy in awful places. His mouth felt dry and horrible. His hair tickled his cheeks and neck, like it hadn’t been combed in days. But he could do a man’s work, oh, yes, he could. “I will,” he whispered.

  “Good boy. Before I can tell you more, I must know you can pass a test.”

  “How can I? I’m tied up.”

  “This is a test of endurance, not of action. You must pretend to be asleep when Dag Erkric comes back in. Or when Dag Yatar comes in to make us take food and drink. Because you are not alone. There are two of us in here.”

  “Why?”

  “That will come. First, you must pass the test. If they think you are awake, you will get more of the bad magic that makes you dream. Do you want that?”

  “No!”

  “Then heed what I say. Pretend, be asleep, do what they tell you when they whisper. You’ll feel the dreams come on again. Do not fight, for I can take them away again.”

  “Who are you?” Halvir asked.

  There was no answer, only the rocking of the ship and the soft sound of water sloshing against the hull.

  Chapter Twenty

  INDA clambered from Vixen’s heaving deck to Death’s rail. His right hand tingled, his grip slid on the slimy main chains. He used his left hand to propel him the rest of the way, cursing under his breath.

  A cold wind blew out of the northwest. Some of those who’d survived the bad typhoon cast quick looks skyward. Inda was soaked through to the skin, cold, hungry, and exasperated from the covert squabbling between the independents and the Khanerenth navy. “Why’d you signal? Venn on their way, now?” he asked in Marlovan, barely audible over the drum of rain on the deck. “We expected that.”

  Fox said from the cabin door, “You did not expect this.”

  Ten swift strides and they were inside the cabin. Inda wiped his sodden sleeve over his face, blinking away the rain, then looked down at the mirror chart as Fox whispered, waved—

  —And there, in the middle of the otherwise empty sea at The Fangs, was a single glow. Fox said, “That is, we always expected spies, but now we’re looking at proof.”

  Inda tried to whistle, but his lips were too numb. So he cursed instead.

  “At least one,” Fox drawled.

  “Right. This one is able to ting.”

  “Could be one of the fishers who sails around selling fresh garden supplies from either coast. He probably sails around with all those others bringing us fresh food, and collects reports from spies on our warships. How many fishers do we have supplying us?”

  “Several hundred. More appearing every day.”

  They contemplated that, then Fox dropped onto the bench. “What do you want to do?”

  “You don’t think Deliyeth is purposefully hiding Venn spies? Look how close to Drael that dot is. Ymaran coast closest.”

  Fox lifted a shoulder. “Unlikely. She hates the Venn even more than she hates us, or she wouldn’t be here.”

  Inda thumped his big toe lightly against the table leg. “It’ll be impossible to find that ship or boat, since we don’t have any reference.” The little light sat there seemingly alone, east of The Fangs, but in truth it lay somewhere in the middle of Inda’s alliance fleet. “Counting us as well as getting an earful of all orders and reports being passed up and down the lines.”

  Fox’s smile was nasty. “So we will create new reports to pass on.”

  Inda gave a crack of laughter and went to beg Lorm for something hot to eat, still not aware that Lorm kept a corner of his galley just for Inda, who showed up at odd times day and night. There was always something hot for Inda when he actually remembered to take a meal.

  As maneuvers improved, and abilities of captains and ships took shape in Inda’s mind, he held discussions with Taz-Enja, Mehayan, and especially with Dhalshev, but as yet Fleet Master Chim had not visited him.

  Bren’s High Admiral Brasvac had himself rowed over to the Death to clarify some points—and to nose around, Inda suspected, from the way the man’s eyes took in every aspect of the cabin. The Bren high admiral did not mention Chim.

  But after a week or so of meetings aboard the high admiral’s flagship, Inda became increasingly aware of the occasional hesitancies, the careful wording of the Bren officers. The way they’d check one another after someone said something about leadership, command, and related subjects. They weren’t unfriendly or even wary, like Deliyeth’s closest associates. They were just . . . secretive. He decided it was time to tour Bren’s ships with an eye to possible improvements.

  He did it systematically, pausing to exchange friendly chatter with everyone. When at last he ran Chim down, the irascible old Fleet Master awaited him on the biggest brigantine, the one they always kept in the center of their flotilla.

  The weather had turned ugly, a threatening summer storm damping the gray seas as the flotilla practiced maneuvers in an unstated but determined effort to get their speed to match that of the Khanerenth navy, which was exerting itself to match the speed and versatility of the Fox Banner Fleet.

  Despite the heavy, splatting drops, and the low, uneven crashes of thunder, Chim drew Inda out to the forecastle.

  There, he pointed to a large, smiling second mate dressed in the light brown and burnt orange of Bren’s navy. “That there’s Prince Kavna, who insisted on being with us. Only reason Princess Kliessin agreed is that she wants an eye she can trust watching me as well as their
cousin Brasvac.”

  “I thought the admiral looked familiar.” Inda grinned.

  “I didn’t know you ever saw Prince Kavna.”

  “Not to talk to. But he was on his yacht the day I rowed in to report to you and Mistress Perran, before we sailed west. We went a stone’s toss away from the yacht, so I could see all the gild work. The rowers were proud of it, and proud of him. Where’s that yacht, is it here?”

  “Oh, I’m sure Venn’ve got it. We didn’t bring it. Thought it would be a target. Listen, Inda, Brasvac and the captains were forbidden by the princess to tell you who Kavna was. But he’s doing well. Serves a watch. Messes with the mates, eats what they eat. Knows a sheet from a line, so don’t think he’d go buy a chart o’ Sartor from a Venn.”

  Inda grunted a laugh. He hadn’t heard that expression since his Freeport Harbor days. On the surface it had meant someone stupid enough to buy a detailed chart of one shore on another continent, instead of getting it local—and cheaper. It was the “cheaper” aspect that Tau had explained once while they were sitting in the rigging, fletching arrows. Only the rich were arrogant enough (and stupid enough) to wave off cost if they wanted something right away, instead of waiting like anyone else.

  “If he’s doing well, then why is he pretending to be a second mate?” Inda asked, hating what he knew would be the answer. Better to get it said. He hated all the sidled looks and sneaking around worse.

  They used Sartoran, which Chim spoke better than Dock Talk. A gust of bitter wind made Inda’s right shoulder feel as if someone was sticking cold icicles into it; Chim’s hip felt the same, but they both were too experienced with shipboard lack of privacy, and so they moved all the way to the bow as tiny missiles of hail bombarded them.