The Fox (23 page)

“Don’t have to.” Tau laughed from his window vantage, the spring light gleaming in the short hair that waved back from his brow. “Whatever you do has become interesting.”

Fox felt a spurt of resentment as he always did when Inda listened to Tau.

“I don’t see why I’m interesting. Dhalshev talks to a lot of people, and no one knows what’s said up in the octagon. ” Inda rubbed the side of his face. A healing salve had faded the purple scar running from his cheekbone to his jawline to white, but rubbing the scar had become a habit.

“They ask us.” Barend grinned. “We all say we’re going after the Fire Island pirates. And meanwhile Mutt is at the charthouse buying this chart here, with the latest details of The Fangs at the mouth of the strait, which everyone knows is Boruin of the Brotherhood’s cruising station. And we’re all either out in the water or else up on the hill behind the Lark’s hothouse in the worst weather, drilling until we drop, in order to go up against someone you turfed once already.”

“And everyone knows every detail of Boruin Death-Hand’s wretched career and that her flagship is a pirate trysail and faster than damnation,” Fox drawled. “You don’t seem to understand that nothing is more interesting than notoriety.”

Inda tossed the chalk on his palm. “Are we notorious? The harbor is full of suspicious ‘independents’ and privateers whose letters of marque are mostly excuses for reprisals.”

Tau opened his hands. “We’re more interesting.”

“Because of our drills?”

“That,” Dasta spoke up. “And because not a one of
them
thrashed the likes of Gaffer Walic. That’s why half the brats on the island spent the autumn gathering feathers for us, against our return.”

Barend added, “And everywhere people want to sign on.”

“I thought the feathers was Nugget rousting her friends to work for us,” Inda said, grinning. “I’ve certainly had most of ’em wanting to join us. Eh, doesn’t matter.” He sat back. “Here’s what does. If everyone is blabbing about us, then what we know, the Brotherhood knows.”

Dasta pointed at the map. “If you mean Boruin knows you’re comin’ for her, yeah. If anyone will talk to her.”

“Brotherhood spies’re everywhere. Even here,” Tau said.

“Anything for a price?” Fox asked, sending a derisive glance toward Tau.

Tau gestured, a mocking flourish in semi-salute. “You tell me,” he invited.

Fox flicked up the back of his hand.

Tau smiled as he got to his feet. “If we’re departing, I want a last meal on dishes that stay put in front of me.”

That signaled a general exodus. Tau found Inda next to him, eyes serious. “Is there trouble between you and Fox?”

“Ask him.”

“Did,” Inda said grimly. “He said to ask you.”

Tau laughed.

“Is it a sex thing? Are you rivals? Or is it each other?”

Tau contemplated Inda’s earnest face. What to say?
If only it was that simple! He wants you, Inda. But not your prick; he wants your mind, your soul, he wants to
be
you. And so he resents anyone you listen to except for him.
In some inexplicable way Inda was still twelve years old. It was that boundary he’d built between him and his childhood Tau suspected, simply from what Inda had steadfastly refused to talk about these past five years. Yet it was still with him, as evidenced in his new banner, in the speed with which he’d adopted these two newcomers from his homeland.

In matters of war Inda was the smartest of them all but in matters of the heart, he was still twelve. If Tau spoke those words, Inda would not understand, would become self-conscious in that way peculiar only to Inda. “Just friendly competition,” he said, when he saw Inda still waiting for an answer.

“Keep it friendly,” Inda retorted, looking at him askance. “We’re sailing toward enough trouble without having it on deck.”

Chapter Fourteen

"I THINK I see smoke,” the lookout shouted from the masthead of the Sarendan warship
Nofa.

Captain Taz-Enja squinted at the eastern horizon behind the dawn haze. Sea and sky blended into an infinitude of gray shades.

“Sail hai!” the lookout shouted, and the captain reached for his glass in the binnacle. The horizon leaped forward and flattened, but he could make out a tall triangular shape inside the slow whirls of smoky fog.

“. . . ship on fire?” someone muttered in the tops and was hushed with a hoarsely whispered reminder they were at battle stations.

A sliver of sun imbued the scene with color. Yes. There. The captain made out the faintest smudge of whitish brown as it swirled up into the breeze ruffling the rippling water.

“Raffee!” the lookout yelled next, his voice cracking. “No kingdom banner—a pirate!”

They’ve got the wind—what wind there is
, the captain thought bleakly, but he said only, “Fighting sail.”

His lieutenant, who had pounded up to the captain’s deck after the lookout’s first yell, started issuing a stream of orders to the crew who’d already begun scrambling into place.

As running feet thudded on the deck the captain kept his glass trained on the shadowy shape that glided slowly closer. Tall masts. On the foremast, a sharp-cut triangular mainsail. Square fore-mainsail—definitely a raffee.

And on that topsail . . . something black, with some sort of face. He rubbed the eyeglass on his trouser leg, though the blur was fog, not smeared glass. What was that, a hawk? Eagle? No. Ears—muzzle—ruff—a fox with raptor eyes.

“Isn’t that Gaffer Walic’s raffee?” the lieutenant murmured at his shoulder, just audible above the clatter and thock of blocks, the whuffle of sails being readied and bow teams ascending to the mastheads.

“Never seen it,” the captain answered, not taking his eye from his glass.

“I saw it once. When I was a mid,” the lieutenant replied. He, too, had not taken his eye from his own glass. “They outran us. Never forget the cut of that raffee sail. Sharp. Like a royal yacht. Tight rigged, raked masts, like this one.” He lowered his glass, his expression bemused. “But they said he always sailed blank. Swore he would until he could join the red sails.”

“Admiralty posted notice that he lost it. Last summer,” the captain said. “You were on leave. Some other pirate. Get the list, please.”

The lieutenant smacked his glass shut and gestured to a waiting boy, who returned with the most recent list issued to all harbormasters.

The captain lowered his glass and took the paper. The light was now strong enough to read the close-written sheet.

The raffee drew nearer. It had the wind, which was so mild the
Nofa
could not possibly outrun it.

Captain Taz-Enja felt the pressure of imminent decision; there was no time to peruse that long list, so he wordlessly handed it to his lieutenant. While the latter pored over the paper, the captain watched the pirate ship, his bow teams crouched above, weapons to hand, the sail crews gathered in silence along the companionway to either side, boarder-repel teams armed and waiting. Everyone waiting for orders.

“Here it is,” the lieutenant exclaimed. “Update end of last summer. Walic defeated by one Inda Elgar, pirate, operating out of Freeport now. This same Elgar was posted as a pirate end of oh-nine.” He brought the paper close to his nose. “Known under some other western-sounding name, hard to make out in this light. A prince?”

“Prince?” the captain repeated. “What would a prince be doing with Gaffer Walic? If he wants his own ships, why doesn’t he send a minion out to buy some?”

The lieutenant flicked the paper with the back of his fingers. “That’s what it says here. At least, so it seems. Why do they have to write the side-notes so tiny? Description: blond, brown eyes, short. A boy? Marlovan out of Iasca Leror. Mutiny, took three trading brigs, reward—tagged as wanted by the Venn. Must have been some mutiny to catch
their
eye!”

“All Marlovans and Iascans with any kind of rank get that tag,” the captain said low-voiced as the pirate ship drifted closer, its towering triangular sails bellying gently. “A prince would go straight to the capital list as soon as he crossed their border, no matter how law-abiding.” Taz-Enja could make out details now: the tops full of bow teams, though they had not stripped to fighting sail. And there was no battle pennant at the fore, though he knew pirates did not always signal their intentions. “There’s no brig in sight, only the raffee, and that sloop windward.” The captain brought his glass down and rubbed his eyes, blinking rapidly to get his focus back.

“Scout cutter, too,” the lieutenant said, swinging his glass. “Approaching! A little girl at the tiller, looks like a mid tending sail. What does that mean?”

Captain Taz-Enja brought his glass back up to his eye. After a moment, “Pirate ruse?” He voiced the worst, though the signs did not add up to an attack: the cutter moved far too fast to be loaded with pirates below its narrow deck.

Still his heartbeat was loud in his ears as he moved from the stern rail to the side, then gestured to the starboard bow crews to take aim. Anyone who could take Gaffer Walic would be clever as well as bold.

The scout craft was clean, beautiful in line, its long sail curved in a smooth, elegant line like the raffee. Typical pirate arrogance. It glided as effortlessly as a swan over the glassy sea. The strengthening light marked out a girl no more than eleven or twelve with a head full of unruly curls. She controlled the tiller. The youth tending the jib sail line appeared unarmed. He put a bare foot up on the rail as he peered up under his hand at the warship.

(“Inda, Inda, he’s looking at me! He is, he is!” “That’s all right, let ’em look. Long as they don’t start shooting.”)

The captain swept his glass past their lifted faces and studied the raffee. So far it had made no move to close. Its crew was not motionless; though the tops were full of bow teams, he could make out a work party busy aft, repairing what looked like fire damage, and arrows spiked the hull below the mainchains. Near the wheel a tall figure in black lounged, a glass dangling from his hands, a lock of red hair loose from his queue lifting in the weak breeze. As Taz-Enja scrutinized him for any sign of imminent order to attack, the redhead leaned his forearms between the spokes of the wheel, the glass still dangling from loose fingers; he ignored the war ship as he observed his work party.

The pirate ship had been fighting, and recently, too; from the look of things they’d just put out a fire aboard.

The racketing of sailcloth brought his attention back to the little scout craft, which had spilled the wind as it drew alongside.

The captain nodded to his lieutenant, who bawled in Sartoran, then in Dock Talk, “Hail the boat.”

(“Inda, please let me answer, pleasepleaseplease!” “Go ahead—but not threatening, just official. Remember, Nugget, they might think we’re pirates but we’re harmless, friendly,
nice
pirates.”)

The curly-haired little girl straightened up proudly. “
Vixen
scout craft belonging to
Cocodu
independent, out of Freedom Isles,” she shrilled in Khanerenth-accented Sartoran.

Freedom Isles—though the Khanerenth government officially condemned them as pirates, everyone knew who they were and why they were there. And Khanerenth’s new royal navy was not gaining friends these days with its recent policy of stop-and-search on every vessel they met—their excuse was they were looking for their own former navy, now condemned as criminals. Some of them interpreted their orders to include the confiscation of “suspected smuggled goods.”

“How long out?” the lieutenant shouted.

“Two days,” the girl replied promptly.

(“Inda,
please
let me hold my knife. Or my bow!” “No, we’re supposed to look nonthreatening.” “But that boy on the mainmast shrouds stuck his tongue out at me!” “Stick your tongue out back at him, if you want. But no weapons.”)

The captain did not see the exchange between his cabin boy and the girl at the tiller in the scout craft. He stared up at the lean pirate vessel, considering. Anyone sailing from Freedom Isles would go straight north through the Starborns, or else west past Prince Sahan Island, and then either swing north or continue on westward toward Sarendan. They’d left Prince Sahan two days ago themselves. So it was plausible they really were just out of Freedom Islands, which meant they were either privateers or independents, because former Fleet Commander Dhalshev had no dealings with real pirates.

Though these sailed an infamous pirate ship. And what about those notes on the capital list?

So far no challenge—no arrows, no flags, no shouting. Yet the big, sinister pirate ship was in arrow range now.

Both captain and lieutenant tensed. Now would be the time for the raffee to haul over and attempt a boarding if it was going to; they were glumly aware they did not have enough wind to evade.

“Stay off,” the lieutenant warned, at a look from the captain. “Or we will shoot.”

The boy in the scout craft’s bow spoke up for the first time. “We’re not looking for a fight.” His voice was not as high as a boy’s. Young man, then. “Just finished one, with the brigantine
Brass Dancer.
” His Sartoran was peculiar— both aristocratic and quaintly old-fashioned.

Captain and lieutenant exchanged glances, each seeing his amazement mirrored in the other.

The captain said, “That was the pirate we have been chasing.”

“We caught him cruising too close to Freeport Harbor. Took a prize.” The young man waved toward the sloop windward of the big pirate—all they could see were its sails.

Captain Taz-Enja called, “There’s a reward, a big one, in Sarendan for anyone who captures the
Brass Dancer.
Or Dal Raskan, its captain.”

The young man looked like a youth again when he grinned.
Blond, brown eyes, short
. “I’m afraid the ship itself has already sunk. There seems to have been distilled liquor in the captain’s cabin, and fire reached it—” He waggled a hand.