The Fox (65 page)

The light changed just after dawn, brightness hardening to the peculiar blinding glare that makes one’s eyes ache, turns the sea’s color a restless green marked by choppy waves. All ships struck down the upper masts and set out storm sails.

And for a long day and half a night they fought as hard as they had last winter against the Brotherhood, only this time not against inimical pirates but against the dispassionate cruelty of high, chasing waves, punishing winds, bands of rain that hit from the side, roaring as loudly as the thunder directly overhead.

They saw no other ships—including one another. They were grateful only to be afloat, having passed not only the Venn (who had mostly withdrawn to the shelter of harbor on the eastern side of the strait) but the tall, misshapen rocky spires called The Fangs, against which many a storm-driven ship had smashed before.

When the bleak sun rose behind a streaky eastern sky that second morning, shining on a rough gray sea, Fibi of the Delfin Islands stretched her aching body and then stretched her arms between the spokes of the wheel. She looked around at the ragged clouds stretching from horizon to horizon. No other ships in sight.

She leaned on the wheel, rejoicing in the faint warmth of the sun and the fresh breeze that brought a hint of cold northern wind, a promise of winter, but none of the suffocating air presaging thunder. She was too tired to think about anything but the ship beneath her feet. She pressed into the wheel, feeling the ship’s vibration resonate through her bones and teeth, trying to descry any judders or creaks that would warn of damage to keel, hull, or mast.

No sickening shiver of a wrung mast. Movement on the deck caught her eye; Inda trudging to his cabin at last, after standing on the foredeck since the onset of the storm. Gillor stopped him, said something. Inda snorted a kind of laugh, the short, breathless bark of the very young man he really was; like all young males, no matter how tired, his interest awoke on the instant.

The two vanished into the cabin together, watched by Fibi with approval. She liked young Inda, she liked Gillor. And best of all, she knew there was no romance between them, only the fun of the moment, no expectations. No trouble, therefore, for the crew. If anything, Fibi suspected Gillor’s guarded heart yearned for that red-haired blade Fox, but those green eyes of his never rested on any crew member, man or woman, with desire. Only with unyielding expectation, whether the drill was ship-handling or fighting. An expectation set at a high standard which he himself met, so they all exceeded themselves in trying to match it.

Expectation. Yes.

She leaned her cheek against one of the spokes as she studied Fox, who prowled along the gangway as if he had not been on his feet since the day before, his sharply boned face highlighted by the rising light as he squinted up at the sails. She closed her eyes, thinking
bide your time . . . bide your time...
then jolted when a hand touched her shoulder.

Sleep had almost taken her. She lifted herself away from the helm, which she had been handling entirely by instinct. Every bone and muscle ached.

One of the young sailors waited, someone who looked slightly more rested than the rest, and so she relinquished the wheel and retreated down to her hammock, later not remembering climbing in.

She woke when firelight flickered on her eyelids. She was up, feet on the deck, hand fumbling for a weapon, when she recognized Mutt. “Inda wants ya,” he whispered.

Fibi worked her dry mouth, suspecting (rightly) she’d been snoring. “We cleared the Fangs, yiss?”

“We’re safe of the Chwahir coast.”

“Fleet?”

“
Vixen
hove up not long after you went below,” Mutt said, following her to the deck. “Spotted
Cocodu,
hull down, foremast gone. Schooners stayed together,
Vixen
found ’em about noon. Now Loos is out scouting our perimeter, Inda’s orders, in case the Venn are searching.”

Fibi stepped up on deck to a vastly different sea than that she’d gone to sleep on. Blue, placid waters reflected the smiling sky; a cable or two away, sailors were lowering a new foremast onto
Cocodu
. Voices drifted over the water, sounding almost like gulls. She paused at a rain barrel, took a deep drink of water kept magically clean, and then strode up into the cabin, where she found Inda and Gillor looking tousled but rested, Dasta tousled, and Fox neither. Not that he ever relaxed enough to appear tired. His face was just harder than usual as he leaned against the bulkhead, arms crossed.

Behind Fox, big, dark Tcholan stood at the stern windows, looking out at the work aboard
Cocodu.

Inda had the chart spread out under the swinging lamp. “Fibi,” he greeted her as she dropped onto the bench opposite, Mutt flopping down to sit cross-legged on the deck next to her.

Inda leaned forward, giving his captains a fast assessment. All looked alert, if not rested. Fox, he knew, would sleep after this meeting, but not until then.

He said, “We slipped past the Venn.”

Fox shifted. “They’ll come looking.”

“Right.” Inda thumped his fist on the chart on the table. “So the plan is to use all the talk to our advantage and to keep them looking. I want news going out about us all over the seas.” He opened his hand, sweeping it to take them all in. “We are going to split. I’ll appoint a meeting place next spring. If you’re there, I’ll have another plan. If not . . .” He opened a palm.

Dasta thought of the bag of jewels and gold sitting in the cabin aboard
Cocodu,
then realized what Inda meant. It jolted him inside, made him feel queasy, the way the ship feels when it wallows on a windless sea. There was one big bag of treasure for each ship—enough to buy outright a couple of warships and outfit them right down to the smallest rat, promising a year’s pay. Dasta thought back to the confrontation in the treasure cavern on Ghost Island, and for the first time he really considered what Inda meant: either they did what he wanted, or . . . they took the treasure for themselves. And then what?

Inda looked up, pointing a finger at him. “Dasta. You are now confirmed captain of
Cocodu,
instead of acting.”

Dasta glanced in surprise at Fox, just to meet his usual ironic smile.

“You were the next hired, Tcholan, and since you two and Gillor are same in skills, we’re going in order. Tcholan, you’re acting captain of
Death,
and Gillor, first mate. Take sail for the Fire Islands, and roust every pirate you can find. I want raids, and stories of raids, going all over. If you can also attract a fleet of likely prospects, all the better.” He turned back to Dasta. “But you’re going to be Elgar the Fox, see?”

“Me?” Dasta smacked his hands against the smooth skin of his chest, his former speculation windblown in the face of this new surprise.

“You
and
Tcholan.” Inda waved over at Tcholan by the stern windows. Tcholan looked up, flashing a rare, brief grin. “You two didn’t see the Guild people come aboard us in Bren, but they went right up to Fox. Rumors had to have picked Fox out from the fight against the Brotherhood.”

“But you were in command,” Dasta said, rubbing his jaw.

Inda shook his head. “There isn’t all that much command in that kind of battle, I told you that before. You set things up, and about all you can do after the first smash with the enemy is scout around dealing with the pieces. As far was what people saw, I don’t think many saw me. I was mostly on the scout craft, going from ship to ship, and Fox was seen on the deck of Boruin’s famed black-sided trysail and boarding some of the bigger pirates, and he does stand out.”

Everyone observed Fox’s mocking tilt to the head.

Dasta grimaced. “But neither of us has red hair.” He didn’t need to point out that they were about as unlike Fox as any in the crew: he himself was rangy and tall, hawk-nosed, eyes, skin, and hair a similar shade of sun-bleached wood; Tcholan was the same height but powerful in build, his skin chocolate brown, his hair long, black, luxuriant.

“So you make sure you’re only seen from a distance. And you wear a black fighting scarf and black togs.”

“I hate black,” Dasta mourned. “Hotter ’n fire in summer. ”

Inda snorted. “People see what they expect to see. We’ll use that by making rumors. You two have to trade off being Elgar the Fox, wearing black and sailing under the Fox banner. Gillor, you as well, if you can be seen from a distance. ”

Gillor made a flourishing gesture with her hands in a kind of ironic half bow.

“You attack no one but pirates. Gain a fleet if you like, but tell them nothing. Communicate through others, hold aloof. You have to be Elgar the Fox, because that’s the only protection we will have.” He turned his thumb toward Fibi, Fox, and himself.

Dasta scratched his salt-laden scalp. “You mean you’re going out in disguise?”

“Yes.” Inda turned his attention to Mutt, who still squatted on the deck. “You, Pilvig, and two of the other new mates are going to crew
Vixen
and make a run to Freedom Islands. Your job will be to spread rumors of the fleet’s success, talk about us rousting pirates at Fire Islands, and talk to Commander Dhalshev.”

Mutt’s eyes rounded. “Do I lie to him?”

“No, but you won’t tell him everything.”

Mutt fingered his scruffy braid, then said, “Will he even talk to me?”

“He’ll recognize the
Vixen
. Will want real news. I’ll go over what you say and don’t say before you set sail, but it’s important to remember, talk to no one else about our plans. Where we are. You’ll be getting plenty of offers to join our fleet, if I guess right. Only take the ones Woof or Commander Dhalshev vouch for.”

Mutt felt dizzy. He knew he was tired, but it wasn’t that. He loved the idea of being in command of
Vixen,
and he loved ruses and secrets and action. But he only loved it when Inda was right there nearby. “Where will we meet you?”

“Meet us at Danai on Flower Day.” Inda turned his head. “Dasta, you’ve got to be drilling them all winter.”

Springtide. Mutt nodded, thinking,
At least there’s time for fun before we meet the Venn. If we meet the Venn
.

Chapter Eleven

THE elaborate terraces of the Adrani royal city, cut into the side of forested mountains, looked strange to Hadand, especially from the inside of a carriage—a hot, jolting, stuffy wood-and-canvas box. She leaned over to Joret. “Impossible to defend once an enemy gets inside the city gates.”

Wisthia, sitting across from them, said, “Remember. No Marlovan in anyone’s hearing.”

Joret opened a hand. Hadand saw the tension drawing tight the fine skin of the queen’s brow, and said, “We’re agreed. Sartoran only, until we master Adrani.”

Wisthia smiled a little, then turned to survey the city of her childhood, seen again after all these years. Very little had changed other than the layout of the formal gardens. It all looked exotic yet congenial, after the ubiquitous stone of Iasca Leror.

Her expression softened into reverie. Joret gazed out the other window, her profile impossible to read. Did she like this completely indefensible city? Hadand had to admit that the gardens all looked lovely, as did the artfully shaped waterfalls and canals—apparently emulating the famed canals of Colend’s royal city with their pretty brick banks, but how would one defend such a place?

Joret, framed against the window, was even more striking with this artistic greenery as background, like something from an old painting. Maybe it was that gown selected by Wisthia’s friend, a baroness—which was a new title to Hadand and Joret—named Lady Ialari. This gown the baroness had insisted was the very latest fashion with its low square neck, the draped ribbons and lace, the smooth line of its bodice flaring out into arm’s-lengths of rich silk. In the two weeks they had stayed at that lady’s private home, Hadand had learned a great deal about that mystery called “fashion.”

There was no fashion in Iasca Leror. People wore what they had worn for generations, aside from occasional alterations of stitching along hems and seams; the only change that Hadand could name was the men’s preference for fighting in the plain gray long-coats over the old, bright House tunics that were now reserved for formal occasions. As for the women, you could inherit a beautiful robe from your grandmother, wear it at a formal House celebration, and be admired. Not here, where, they were earnestly assured, to be seen in the same court gown twice would earn scorn. The waste of that had at first scandalized Joret and Hadand, until Wisthia explained that all but the most wealthy had their overgowns taken apart and remade with differing trim after each wearing, wasting not fabric but the efforts of teams of seamstresses.

“Lest you think it frivolous and meaningless,” Wisthia had said on the first day, “look here. These are the fashions of fifteen years ago.” And they stared at the sketches of clothing shaped around bodies of massive size, the lines broad and impressive. It looked very fine, especially if one wished to appear larger than anyone else around one, Hadand thought—but how could one move with any celerity?

Wisthia had said, “Look at it in pieces. That stiff lace ruff about the neck is to hide extra chins. The huge quilted sleeves increase the proportion of the arms to match that of one’s body, if one has a very large girth. These fashions were preferred by my brother and his wife, so everyone had to wear them.”

Joret was shocked into speech. “Even in summer? One would die of the heat!”

“They were uncomfortable, I am told, yes.”

Hadand said, “Are their bodies in truth so large beneath the clothes? I remember being told that the queen was beautiful; does this mean that for the Adranis beauty is measured by size?”

“She was a slim beauty when she first came. All the letters I got claimed her to be, even from those who very shortly had little reason to like her. But years of rich food affect even princesses, if they do little else besides eat through the day and night. Anyway, look at the current fashions.”