King's Shield

by Sherwood Smith

“Right. I get it now.” Inda almost rubbed his eyes again, but dropped his hand. “If you’re gone, and there isn’t any bragging or any demands like Coco made, then everything goes back to normal. Huh. Since we already sent the Runners with the personal letters to Khani-Vayir and Yvana-Vayir, how’s this? You go all the way south to Choraed Elgaer. Remember Tdor? See, after this triumph in Tya-Vayir, I’m to go home, get married. I did write Tdor a quick note, but I haven’t had time for a letter about everything. That way, it’s understandable orders.”

  “Perfect.” Tau grinned. “I’ll see you at your wedding, then.” He gave Inda an ironic salute and vanished into the tower stairwell.

  Wedding. What a strange sound that had. Inda had expected all his early life to marry Tdor, and had longed for a return to that life all the years he was at sea. And now it was time to do it. But it felt strange. No stranger than being a Harskialdna, though. He laughed inwardly as he let himself back into the room.

  Signi had kindled a light, and dressed. She sat neatly, hands folded. “Is there trouble?”

  “No. Tau needed an errand, and I gave him one. Sent him to tell Tdor to get ready for my wedding.”

  Signi smiled. “She will be glad of good news.”

  Inda dropped down and squashed her in a tight hug. “I wish I could marry you, too,” he said huskily, his face pressed into her hair. “You hardly got to talk to her, but I know you’d like her. Everyone likes Tdor. I think she’d like you, too.”

  Signi held him away and looked earnestly into his face. “Ah. I was going to say, there are places where you can marry whom you like, and there is no limit in number. It’s just a matter of degree—”

  “Don’t tell me: Colend.”

  She chuckled. “Yes. Among other places. I am honored, dear Inda. But you know, even if Tdor was not waiting, and no family expecting you to take your place, I could never marry in this country.”

  Inda’s joy faded. “I guess I see that.”

  It was her turn to hug him. “I beg your pardon, dear Inda. You give love with both hands, without calculation. I take the joy of that, and we will not worry ourselves about what marriage means.”

  He played with her fingers absently, his brow puckered. “I never thought about that at all. I just knew, oh, I liked the idea of being married to Tdor. You too,” he added uncomfortably, then grinned. “Just supposing we could marry anyone we wanted? If she’s got a favorite, would that mean four people get married? I hope it’s Whipstick. Not Branid.” Inda remembered what Tau had told him, and laughed. “Whipstick. Huh. He was fourteen when I left. We thought him so old and tough! All he thought about were fart jokes and stings and winning scraps. Do you have to sleep with everybody you marry, in those other lands? I just can’t see hopping under the covers with his skinny, hairy arms and legs, and then he cracks some joke about bran gas.”

  Signi chuckled, a quiet sound.

  Inda said, “Though he probably wouldn’t want me, either.” His sudden grin reminded her how young he was.

  She wiped her eyes, tenderness hollowing all around her heart. “Marriage and love have so many meanings.” Her voice softened to huskiness. “Marriage cannot build walls to keep love inside. Marriage can give a structure to the family.”

  “To the castle.” Inda jerked his thumb toward the walls. “The people of the castle.”

  “You Marlovans marry your place and your duty as well as a person.” She made one of her complicated hand gestures. “Oh, it is the same with us: the meaning of marriage lies mostly in our place among our fellows. But love is free as air.”

  Inda swung his arm round, thinking that over. She caressed his cheek and then left to go down to the baths.

  She’s going to leave me, he thought, sobered. Then rubbed his shoulder absently. But not now.

  He got up and sat at the little table, shoved aside the royal order book that he’d taken to look at before sleeping, pulled out one of the scraps of paper he’d sliced before, and wrote:Fox. We’re done with the Venn, and I’m alive. If you want details, let me know. I’m sending Barend to get the treasure. The kingdom is in worse shape than our fleet after the Brotherhood battle, and I mean to fix it.

  On the other side of the world, as the sun began to set, Mutt vented his sour mood by uttering a stream of curse-punctuated, unfair observations of Fox. If he and his mates had been stupid enough to think that the wind dying to calm would mean an easy day or two, Fox must have stayed up for nights figuring out so many ways to prove them wrong.

  They’d begun by replacing winter-worn rope and changing to summer sail. As for free time before the afternoon drill? No! They boomed planks over the sides so they could sand and repaint the sleek, low hull of the Death. True, its fine black paint had worn streaky over the winter. But why paint it now, when there was every chance they were sailing straight into battle? Why not after the battle, when they weren’t already drilling for two solid watches, making arrows with the wood and feathers they’d scrounged off the Fog Islands, and resharpening all their steel weapons?

  They wanted to ask. Well, they each wanted the others to ask. Nobody wanted to risk getting flayed by Fox’s sarcasm. He’d been in a nasty mood for days, either lurking in his cabin, or prowling around when least expected—or wanted.

  The entire fleet knew Fox was in a temper.

  All the other captains had remained prudently on their stations, their activities matching the flagship’s. “Cowards,” Mutt snarled, whacking his paintbrush against the stern-post. Naturally the ship gave a lurch, he nearly fell backward, and the paintbrush splattered back into his face.

  And just as naturally, everybody was watching.

  Out of the howls and comments came Pilvig’s voice, “He’s on the move!”

  At once they fell silent, everybody sedulously painting, except those at the booms, attentive to the ropes.

  Mutt peered over the rail. Fox looked exactly as wicked as always. Except—was that squint a laugh, or just an eye-tightening against the brightness of the sun?

  “Who’s on flags? I want all captains. Fangras as well.” He paused, leaning down. “Less chatter and more work might get that done today,” he added as several glares were shot at Mutt.

  A short time later Fox faced the captains, with Fangras attending silently, as spokesperson for the loose confederation of former Sarendan privateers.

  “We’re not far from Freedom Islands.” Fox held up his position chart so that all the captains gathered in his cabin could see the islands and their fleet a finger’s width apart. “There’s been no message since Fangras joined us, so Khanerenth is probably coming to attack Freeport Harbor. Now, we know Dhalshev. Once the king’s friend, as well as former high admiral. He won’t let us take any Khanerenth ships, despite this attack, which may only be a test foray. There’s no reward in risking our lives boarding and carrying any of ’em.”

  The captains all signified agreement.

  “So we want to damage them enough to make them feel their test has failed for a generation or more. How? Sail right through their midst, and let ’em chase us. Then we shoot ’em up. If they board, we’ll board them, make as much damage as we can, then leave.”

  Eflis chortled, and Gillor sat back in her chair, arms crossed. “Schooner ruse, I’m guessing?”

  “Right.” Fox drummed his fingers on the chart. “Fangras, if you or one of your fastest craft want to be our chase, that’s fine. Be aware they might not let you through unscathed.”

  Fangras grinned. “I’ll take that position meself, then there’s no arguing.”

  Fox lifted a hand in acknowledgment. “Here’s the twist. Those of us on the chase are going to be running the red sails.”

  “Red sails?”

  “Brotherhood sails?”

  “But those are pirate sails!”

  Fox waited for the noise to die down. When no one got an answer, they shut up. “I hope most of you have your red sails in storage.”

  “We turned the red storm sails into hammoc
ks,” Dasta said.

  “Then unstitch them and make them sails again. The rest of you, dye some of your older summer sails with red paint. They just have to get through this one ruse. Now, we’re all going to be trailing smoke, hunters as well as prey. The red sails behind me. What I want Khanerenth to see as they start their battle line is this ship, the Death, at the head of the chase, and behind that a gray cloud full of fire and red sails.”

  Gillor hooted. “I see where you’re going.” She hooked her thumb out at the weather deck. “We’ve got a bad enough rep on this tub to look like ten sails all by ourselves, especially in smoke.”

  Fox grinned. “Right. They won’t know if this is a separate attack or a defense by Freedom’s confederation. Throw them into confusion and fear. Above all fear.”

  Eflis chortled. “Red sails. No wonder we been prinking and prettying!”

  “But if we’re all smoking, how do we maneuver?” Tcholan asked. “We don’t want to risk ramming one another.”

  “We’ll sail straight through them, fire arrows both sides only at targets you can see. Then continue on straight north. Dhalshev and the Federation can deal with the mess.”

  Thoughtful looks, then Eflis said, “Why are we going north?”

  “Thought it was time to investigate the strait. See if the Venn are back, or gone, or who thinks they rule the waters.”

  Eflis whistled on her way out.

  Dasta, Tcholan, and Gillor waited until everyone else was gone. Then Dasta shut the door. “That’s an Inda kind of plan,” he observed. “The strait, I mean.”

  Fox tipped his chair back on two legs. “So no one else would think of sailing up the strait but Inda?”

  Gillor and Dasta turned questioning gazes to each other. Tcholan just scowled down at the deck. No one knew who was in control of the strait anymore. No one had thought Fox would care one way or another.

  “Sounds all right to me,” Dasta said, and the other two signified agreement.

  Chapter Thirty

  CAMA and his front riders reined up.

  None of them had believed the war was over, just like that. But following the Venn through the silent canyons day after day gradually brought them to think of it as true.

  The pass was a long, narrow, twisting canyon of ever-changing shadow. Over the echoing rumble of a departing army rose the closer rustlings of brush as some unseen animal passed, the distant scream of the gliding raptors, and all around them the steady hiss, drip, and trickle of water after the frequent, short thunderstorms.

  The Venn did not dispatch skirmishers to cover their retreat, though they guarded their tail. Venn occasionally caught glimpses of Cama’s force and the other way around. As long as the Venn kept moving, the Marlovans would remain at a respectful distance.

  The Venn fires at night beat with a ruddy reflected glow all the way up the cliffs. Prudently the dragoons made no campfires except once, when one of Cama’s scouts discovered a curiously scooped-looking cave as if a gigantic hand had reached down and poked into the stone with a knuckle.

  Morning poured warm light on water-smoothed walls, highlighting stripes in the stone. Once, unimaginably long ago, this pass had been the bed of a river. Cama frequently eyed the enormous cliffs overhead, aware of the silent power of stone, and water, and time. He tried to guess at the scale of the cataclysm that had caused a river to change its pattern of flow.

  When the gradually widening bluffs gave a glimpse of the sea, the Marlovans ranged up. They’d been told that the castle lay two or three bends below that prospect.

  There had been no letters from Inda in the magical gold case since the one informing Cama that he was now a Jarl—with his new orders—so Cama knew the Venn hadn’t come back for a second try in the south.

  “We’ll wait here,” he said in a low voice.

  It was going to take a long time for the Venn to get through the tunnel. Cama surveyed the scene, then said to his dragoon captain, “We’ll camp. Cold. Send scouts to watch ’em go.”

  Fists thumped scruffy travel-worn coats. They wheeled the horses and started a slow walk back, looking for a good spot to camp. The pair starting a perimeter inspection reacted, and Cama heard why a moment later: distant, faint cries.

  Those were not birds.

  One of the men said, “Up there.”

  The sun was dipping toward the western side of the pass, which lit up the eastern side with rare clarity. The seemingly solid cliffs had more cracks and crags than one assumed; just visible in an old crevasse a little figure waved.

  Cama’s dragoon captain exclaimed, “It’s a girl.”

  A thin, filthy child of ten or so slid carefully around a water-carved rocky spire on a crag about castle-tower height. “You’re Marlovans?” she called down.

  Her voice was so thin and high Cama decided against a joking, “No, we’re Venn.” Despite the distance the sinking sun shone clearly on her filthy face and clothes, her thin limbs. So he lifted his voice. “I’m Camarend Tya-Vayir, sent by the king.” And waited while she took in the riding coats, the Nelkereth horses, the tear-shaped shields. Runners in blue. The horsetails, the curved swords. Not Venn.

  The time it took her to check everything, her head jerking birdlike, wiped every smile away.

  She vanished behind the spire.

  That released the men to action, amid the rough jokes that had become habitual as they followed the enemy along the pass, camping when they did.

  The Runners carried around journey bread and jugs of water filled at the last waterfall. The men were just beginning their meal when the perimeter guard gave a shout. Everyone set aside their bowls to fetch weapons, lowering their hands when a line of dirty, gaunt children emerged from a barely discernable trail beyond a rockfall. The two tallest girls bore on their shoulders small children barely out of babyhood. Two other children carried a small one in a makeshift sling made of two packs tied together.

  Cama said, “We’ve got food.”

  “Food.” The word whispered along the line. The men offered their journey bread. Most of the children grabbed it and stuffed their faces. Two or three just stood, staring downward, and a couple of very small ones sucked in air and sobbed, a quiet, helpless, broken crying as if they’d been doing it for a very long time.

  Every father and brother there ached to comfort them. But one look at the distraught faces, and they waited, distraught themselves, for the children to make the first move.

  One girl silently surrendered the smallest to offered hands. Two of the babies—they really were scarcely more than babies—went willingly to strong arms, quiet voices. The third clutched a girl’s trousers with one hand, thumb in mouth.

  “I’m Han—that is, I’m really Hadand Tlen,” the first girl said. “Rider-family, cousin to Liet-Jarlan. They call me Han.” She wiped her nose on her dirt-gritty sleeve. Her face was smeared with snot and mud and moss stains. Cama realized the dirt was purposeful—camouflaging—as the child said, “Liet-Jarlan put me in charge. We were to wait for—” She clamped her mouth shut.

  “Sit down.” Cama made a sign to his Runner in charge of meals. “Find a cave that will smother most of the light. Start a fire.” To Han, in a calm voice, “Eat. You drink coffee? We have just a few beans left in the bag. We were saving it for—well.” He didn’t usually yap, but the silent struggle this girl made to keep control rattled him.

  She stared down at the bread in her hands, her mouth working, for what seemed a long time. Then Cama said, “You can report after you eat.”

  She crammed the bread into her mouth with both hands.

  Cama went around and spoke a little to each child. Most of the very smallest were frightened by him, and shrank near the one with the baby clutching her. “I’m Lnand,” she said, and made a little business of fussing and petting them.

  The two nine-year-old girls were too exhausted to speak, but the freckle-faced one smiled at the men, her relief at rescue clear to them all.

  Cama paused when he came to H
al, whose thin face was familiar. Cama ruffled his hair. “Name?”

  “Hal.” Hal did not know why he was whispering. He was safe now. Maybe it was just being hungry. “Haldred. Mondavar.” He cleared his throat and said in a stronger voice, “I ran as scout. Me and Dvar.” Pointing at one of the girls.

  “He was a good scout. He was the best scout I ever saw,” Han said thickly, around a bite of bread.

  Cama smiled down at Hal. “I know your brother. He was just a scrub when I was a horsetail. He fought in my army a couple of times, on banner games. Name’s Moon, right?” And then, “Know what I think? I think you should join him next year.”

  Hal blushed furiously at having someone say right out the thing he’d wanted most, and had been told (with sympathy and understanding, but firmly) that he couldn’t have. “But da’s just a Rider captain. They said only one son could go.”

  Cama laughed. “You’ll see. Now eat that journey bread. If you get any skinnier your trousers will fall off, and they’ll all be calling you Moon Two.”

  Hal grinned, dizzy with happiness.

  When the children were done eating, many took a child or two into their tents and tucked them up into their bedrolls. The smallest ones were slumbering within a couple of heartbeats. The older ones sat up, listening through the open flaps of the tents as Cama said, “Han. Are you ready to give me a report?”

  “Yes.” Han squared her shoulders.

  Her report was disjointed at first, as she jumped back and forth in time. When she got to the name Gdir she hunched up, face distorted in a rictus of pain.

  Cama’s Runner scorched the last of his precious coffee beans—all the way from Sartor—then pressed them into powder with a spoon. He poured boiling water over them and handed her the fresh coffee before Han spoke again.

  She held the mug in her hands, her light eyes glimmering with firelight from the low fire in the cave fifty paces away as she said in a dull monotone, “We—some—thought we were cowards if we didn’t go back and check. But there were our orders to stay put, fight only if they discovered us. Gdir got mad.” She turned her head, sent a long look at the other girl, who sat with a slumbering three-year-old on her lap, firelight glinting in the little one’s red curls.