The Fox (82 page)

He waited until the pang of regret eased, then said, “It’s all right. You run home. It’s better if I go on alone.”

She straightened her back, and said with somewhat desperate bravery, “I’ll help.”

Tau smiled. “No, I promise you I’ll be all right. Go home. Don’t tell anyone you were here.”

She hesitated, and when Tau reached for the door, she fled, her tough bare feet smacking on the mossy stones.

Tau waited until she was out of sight, made certain his knives were loose under his lace cuffs, and then kicked the door open.

Everyone inside froze. A bleeding figure lay on the floor in a circle of men, their faces startled, some angry, a couple fearful. The biggest and oldest flushed with fury.

“Who are you?”

“I am sent by Prince Kavna, Captain Wenald,” Tau said, pitching his voice to be heard.

The name was better than a weapon.

The burly man paused in the act of drawing back a foot. “The prince?” he repeated.

“I am to take this man into custody, by the order of the prince.”

The others exchanged uneasy glances, and when Captain Wenald scowled, another man, after a scared look Tau’s way, whispered something that included the word “Angel.”

They did not answer. Captain Wenald had spent eight terrible years chained to a pirate galley with the tacit permission of their Venn allies. He burned for justice—but not at the cost of the prince’s ire. Everyone knew that Prince Kavna, unlike the king and the princess, was the sailors’ friend.

And so he motioned his men out, and he started to follow, then stopped on the threshold the light from the single lamp cutting across his heavy face. He glowered at Tau. “If we ever see him nosing around again, we won’t stop.”

“I understand,” Tau said. “Thank you.”

Wenald slammed the slat door in answer; from beyond it the sounds of departure dwindled.

The man was fair-haired, dressed like the locals. He lay, breathing with difficulty, his hands over his face, which was swelling into distortion.

Tau winced. Every sign of a broken jaw.

He bent and whispered, “Lie quiet. They will not be back. I will, with help.”

And so poor Vedrid lay, wondering if he’d dreamed that soft, kindly voice.

His life had gone from bad to worse after spending days slinking around these filthy streets, avoided by most and distrusted by the few who did take notice of him. His story about a cousin named Elgar had not convinced anyone, but he hadn’t known how to lie any better. A year ago, the Fleet House had readily given out information, but now, for no reason he could discover, the words “Elgar” or “Fox” caused everyone to clam up tight.

He’d been about to give up. Only the thought of Evred-Harvaldar’s disappointment had kept him trying another day, and another, until he’d been set upon without warning this very evening, and dragged here, while these madmen screamed at him for being a Venn spy. They hadn’t listened to him—just knocked him down and started kicking him while shouting “Spy! Spy! Venn shit of a spy!”

Now he was aware only of an endless sea of red pain, drowning him in waves. He was moved, which caused lightning flashes of new pain in his broken feet, in his jaw; for a brief time he sank into the cool darkness. When he woke, he gazed up blearily at a fair face lit by a candle.

“Drink,” the voice said in a soothing tone.

He did not question. When a strong hand lifted his head, he tried to get his broken jaw to move, and almost passed out again. Patiently, a drop at a time, the man—had they really called him an angel?—got warm liquid into him, and the pain gradually began to recede.

He slept, half aware of the whisper of magic. Tau had brought the prince’s own healer, who used magic to bind the broken bones and to give what ease he could.

Vedrid woke again in time to hear, “He must rest. Magic only holds together the broken bones. Time and nature reknits them.”

“I will see to it.”

Vedrid might have slept again; when he woke, the fresh scent of steeped listerblossom leaves was in the air, with a tinge of the bitterness of green kinthus.

Angel held a cup to Vedrid’s lips. This time he could swallow without killing pain. An agreeable lassitude stole over him, and Angel set aside the cup and smiled. He asked questions in a couple of languages, but Vedrid shook his head minutely. Then he said in Bren, “Who are you?”

“Vedrid.”

Angel’s brows rose. This time he spoke in perfect Iascan, “Vedrid is not a Venn name.”

“No . . . Iasca Leror.” It hurt to speak, but he wanted to cooperate with this lifesaving Angel.

“Ah. What are you doing here?”

“I’m . . . Runner. King. Order. Find. Elgar. Fox. Or news.” Pain through his skull made him break out in sweat.

Angel looked up, then back. “He is very far from here. It might be best if you were to return to your king, and tell him that Elgar the Fox is out on the sea far away, and will never return.”

“Yes,” Vedrid sighed, and there was no mistaking his relief.

The kind voice went on. “You are here with some people who will care for you, but you must promise not to leave until you feel strong enough to go straight from here to the border, and then back again across the mountains. And do not return. They believe you to be a Venn spy.”

Vedrid was too weak to nod. He sighed again.

Warm fingers touched his. “Remember. You will find money waiting for your journey. But do not pause, or speak to anyone. Just go. Tell your king that Elgar the Fox will never return to the west.”

Chapter Twenty-two

FOX lay on the Beila Lana garrison roof staring up at the Venn flag, a black shape against the starry sky. He’d climbed up before dawn, darkness being the only time he could reach this vantage unseen.

It was the perfect hiding place once he was in position. All he had to do was wait for his target to get off duty at the midmorning watch change. The man would come through the narrow passage directly below to enter his room, where Fox could land on him without being seen by the sentries on the walls behind and above. Or—he hoped—heard by the man’s roommate asleep in the small chamber beyond the door at the end of the passage.

After careful listening and a few questions to under-servants and messengers, he’d discovered that this was the man who’d killed Elgar the Fox.

So he’d be the first to die.

But that meant a long, wearying morning lying flat on old stone, peering down at the passage between a slanting roof and a rain gutter at the occasional sounds of footsteps. He was sheltered from the tower sentry walk above by another slanting roof. The garrison was picturesque, with its jutting towers and many levels and uneven rooftops, but as an unbreachable military establishment it was a disaster. Fox figured the Ymarans knew nothing about clear fields of view, at least judging by this part of the garrison, where the low-rankers were housed. There were some Venn guards—far more effective judging by their stations—they seemed to be restricted to the garrison prison and the officers’ headquarters.

Promptly at the dawn bell, the day-watch emerged from their rooms, leaving the passage and the tiny court empty. Fox lay back again and watched the light come up, first outlining the flagpole with thin color. Slowly the strengthening light warmed the banner from gray tones to green and white and blue and gold: the figure on it appeared to be a flame, but was actually a great tree, highly stylized.

The banner waved and snapped in the rising wind. Fox wondered who had decided on that pattern of interlaced roots that resembled a crown, and how long ago. The Venn had supposedly been sea folk who’d sailed a fleet of long-ships through a world gate millennia ago—so why did they choose a tree? It seemed to have something to do with the concept of Ydrasal, which his mother had never been able to explain satisfactorily. It wasn’t honor, nor was it the imperative to sail out and conquer for the greatness of the Venn, but appeared to fall somewhere between, with an emphasis—that his mother had been quite sarcastic about—on clear sight, honesty, and above all choosing the greater good over risk to oneself.

As with all fundamentals, the Venn knew what it meant so well no one had ever defined it, at least in any of the written materials possessed by the Montredavan-Ans. One had to divine it by inference and examples given.

Ah well. Fox turned his head to study the little court and the old buildings, which had been haphazardly amended over the centuries. He figured that this area had once been a castle brewery.

The midmorning watch bell rang at last. Fox knew his officer had switched to the midnight watch. He should be along soon—

Steps.

He rolled, face pressed between the roof tile and rain gutter.

To his surprise an old, frosty-haired mage in a white robe had entered the tiny court, but instead of moving on, he stood right there. A mage!
Move along, old man
.

But the old man stood in the precise spot under Fox.

Fox cursed under his breath. It had taken days to track down the officer, learn his schedule, and map the garrison, all while remaining undiscovered.

Days! And now—

Approaching footsteps. The old man stilled. The officer appeared an arm’s length below—and when he saw the old mage he stopped so quickly he rocked back on his heels. His face blanched.

“Mage—Dag Ulaffa?”

“I have only a question,” the old man said in rather stiff Sartoran. “I do not intend a long interruption.”

“I gave my report to Mage Penros,” the officer said defensively.

Dag Ulaffa raised a hand. “Peace! I know. Our commanders are satisfied. But we did lose a man, whose family is grieved. I merely came by to ask, in all charity, if the young man wounded in your own guard is recovered.” And as the officer’s mouth rounded, Ulaffa added, “The young guard taken away somewhere, badly wounded? We had hopes he is recovered.”

The officer’s face had gone so pale Fox’s anger vanished, leaving curiosity.

The officer flicked a fearful look to either side, moistened his lips, then said, “Please put all questions to our mage. Or the count himself. I know nothing.”

“So your wounded guard was taken all the way to Wafri’s palace? He does not seem to be here. That is well— I know that the count’s Mage Penros is an accomplished healer,” Ulaffa said soothingly. “I shall report, then, that all is well with his recovery?”

“Yes. All is well. And if there are any other questions, you must address them to the count.”

Dag Ulaffa placed his hands together. The officer walked into the passage directly below Fox, who got a close view of beaded sweat at his hairline before he passed by, opened the door to his quarters, and closed it.

Ulaffa walked away; Fox never saw his face, only the untidy white hair.

“Do your Marlovans have those accursed skalts?” Wafri asked. “The first thing I will do when I take my country back is kill all those shit-brained Venn yammerers with their thousand-verse tales of who smote whom.”

Inda shut his eyes. He couldn’t move, much less prevent Wafri from sitting at his bedside. As long as the damned soul-sucker didn’t touch his face or his hair again. That was the worst of it. The beatings were bad enough, but far worse was the stroking and petting afterward—that, and the hand feeding.

Inda had learned if he talked, then Wafri talked. If he didn’t, he got petted like a sick child.

“Skalt?” he said, his jaw flaring with agony where the guards had rapped their sticks. Who knew there were places in your jaw that, when touched, went sun-bright with pain? The effort to speak made him sweat.

Wafri’s dark brown gaze searched his face. “Shall I call Penros?” His brow furrowed in sadness. “Indevan. Why do you insist on prolonging what is so unpleasant? Never mind, I did promise not to ask anymore. I don’t want to make you any more stubborn. I want you to think about the good things waiting for you. A bath filled with fresh herbs, and an experienced woman to tend you. Or do you prefer men? You shall have whichever you wish—both, if you like. Whatever you prefer to eat. Silken sheets—the room is ready for you now. It is dusted fresh every day.”

Inda saw him lift his hand, and tensed all over. “Skalt?”

Wafri had seen how Inda hated to have his brow stroked. He struggled between the desire to touch his cherished commander and to comply with his promises. You show that you are in complete control, but then compromise a little, to give a taste of what can be won by obedience. “The Venn have these people much like heralds whose entire purpose in life seems to be to recite verses of the dullest historical poems. All the same rhythm, de-DAH-da, de-DAH-da, de-DAH-da.” He tapped out a galloping rhythm on his silk-covered knee. “I assure you they are thousands of verses long, or seem to be when one has heard, for the hundredth time, of Falki Ax-Hand smiting yet another host of faceless enemies. And the strangest thing is, half of these fools know
all
those verses. I’ve seen Hyarl Durasnir, the Fleet Commander, who is far from being a stupid or dull man, whispering along with the sea tales.”

He paused and smiled. Inda forced himself to say, “Sea tales?”

“Ah, those are far worse than the land battle ones. It takes a few hundred verses merely to name all their ships—and the history of each—before they even get to whom they smote. Did you know all their ships are named after seabirds? Birds and trees! What could possibly be more incongruous than these overgrown, vinegar-eating Venn and their birds and trees? Yet the Venn cannot hold the least celebration without skalts droning on and on. Much more pleasing are the hel dancers, I assure you— though they shroud themselves up so much you can scarcely tell if it’s a man or woman inside those robes.”

Inda gathered his strength. Wafri had the water carafe beside him, but Inda knew how much pleasure he got out of pouring it for him, even helping him to drink it. So Inda always waited until he was gone.