Treason's Shore (96 page)

Tau heard a soft chuckle on his other side.

“What is the purpose, Lord Taumad?” asked Ymar’s new king.

He was just Tau’s age, a slim fellow beautifully turned out in sober hued pearl gray cambric and linen, his brown hair worn short around his ears, which emphasized his round face and slightly protuberant eyes. Those eyes would be a mark of pride, Tau had learned during his stay at his mother’s: the royal family of Sartor, the Landises, tended to come out with frog eyes according to generations of portraits, no matter who they mated with. The frog eyes also appeared when they married out, silent testament to the highest royal connections.

If we lose, the Venn will kill me anyway,
he had said when first introduced to Tau, his smile rueful.
I may as well go in the free air and not smothered in some dungeon
.

“They’re dressed like pirates.” Captain Deliyeth’s voice thinned with suppressed vehemence and disgust.

The king said softly, not lowering his glass, “Green and yellow brocade? Do pirates really wear such things?”

“Some do. They like to be noticed, they like sumptuous fabrics. And fashion . . . is adaptable,” Tau said, hand open. He liked that Marlovan gesture. Everyone seemed to comprehend it without him having to commit himself to words that he might later wish unsaid.

The king’s shoulders shook with half-suppressed laughter. “So is the pirate clothing a challenge to the Venn?” he asked at last.

Tau said, “In some wise. I suspect it’s also a way to bolster their own courage.”

“By acting like pirates?” Deliyeth asked, snapping her glass to, and pacing to the binnacle to put it down.

The king turned an enquiring look to Tau, who said, “Not like real pirates. Who tend to be just as sneaky, nasty, and untrustworthy as Captain Deliyeth believes them to be. Cowardly, sometimes: most of the pirates I have encountered only took action when they knew they could win. But once they were cornered, they fought savagely, because they knew there would be no mercy.”

“It could be that some admire their freedom from the constraint of law,” the king said. “So I’ve been told.”

“Yes, and their freedom from responsibility. A man gains a sum in a city, he puts it into his work, his home. Maybe in a trip for his loved ones. A pirate spends it on pleasures.”

“And crimson shirts. Is that what Elgar the Fox does?” the king asked with a glance at Deliyeth.

She watched the Sarendan ships tacking into place, then brailing and reefing to match speed with the rest. But she was too still; Tau knew she was listening. “He’s not a pirate. He fights pirates. And for a while, spent money like a pirate—but on ships, not clothes. Then he went home to his responsibilities. He’s married now, with a home and a new little son.”

The king’s mouth rounded in an unspoken “Oh.”

“He’s here because he felt responsible.”
Because his king ordered—later, later.
“He was asked to keep an old promise he made. He’s here to keep it.”

The king still held the glass to his eye. “So tell me.
Why
is he keeping his promise? Does Elgar the Fox intend to take his turn on a throne?”

“What he wants,” Tau said, practiced by now, “is everyone to agree on harmony in the strait. Trade guaranteed by all.”

“I want that,” the king said.

“Would you sign a treaty to that effect?” Tau asked as he tracked a low-flying sea bird.

“Would anyone else?” the king retorted mildly, watching the nearest ship put its helm down and turn in its length. “Beautiful maneuver. Pirates or not.”

Late the following night, at the other end of the fleet, Inda, Fox, and Prince Kavna stood alone on the foredeck of the admiral’s flagship.

“What are you trying to do?” Inda said. “I don’t have enough ships to send you safely back of the line. Why are you here?”

“You can leave responsibility for my survival to me,” Kavna stated. Even in the weak light his heavy face was grim. Determined. “As far as you are concerned, I am a second mate, so put this vessel where we can best function.” And, at Inda’s hesitation, he said in a low voice, “They invaded your land last time. This time it’s mine they are invading. I have to be here.”

“You are more liability than aid.” Fox lounged behind them, indicating the firelit line with one lazy hand. “What do you think will happen to your shipmates if they go home without you?”

In the ruddy light Kavna’s face was stubbornly desperate. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing. My sister made that clear when I left. I’m nothing but a spare anyway.”

Kavna looked out to sea, then back. He jammed a hand in his pocket and brought out a scroll-case. “My father woke up enough to abdicate. My sister is now queen. She’ll have chosen a consort within another year and probably have an heir within a short time after that. If she doesn’t send me off to marry some princess for treaty purposes, I will stay at sea—which suits her just fine.”

He lifted his gaze to the firelit faces before him. Their expressions were characteristic: Fox’s grimly amused, Inda’s troubled and oddly distant.

Kavna said, “First we all have to survive. And that means you put us where we can fight best.”

Chapter Twenty-three

“. . . AND there’s nothing more to address to Battlegroup tactics. Keep your eye on your flag, and if your Sea Dags begin performing magic on the orders of the Dag of the Venn, stay out of their way.”

The captains murmured and shifted a little on the fine benches set below the carved bulkheads in the captains’ wardroom aboard the
Cormorant
.

Dyalf Balandir tried to shut out Old Man Durasnir’s voice, thinking:
Why do these doddering old fools hold on to command so long? They like power too much, that’s why
.

“So my remarks are confined to that observation about the dags. Stay out of their way. We have been ordered to heed the fact that their purpose is no longer confined to navigation. If an ensign is put in charge of a dag’s ting charts, do not demur.”

Balandir glared from his one good eye at Seigmad, half of whose face sagged. The old man looked terrible, sitting like a lump there on his bench, left arm dangling.
What a commander to inspire the younger men,
Balandir thought scornfully.

Durasnir noted who was paying attention and who not. He tightened his middle in order to add force to his voice, though it took more energy than he had to spare.

“Here is where we stand. According to the count Scout Walfga relayed yesterday, they have gained no more capital ships, which gives them just under two hundred to the two hundred forty we have with us now. We’ve got roughly equal numbers of smaller rated ships, or they have a few nines more. One Battlegroup has left Nelsaiam as reinforcement, though without their Drenga complement. Their Drenga remain in Nelsaiam, on the king’s order . . .”

Balandir slowly turned his head. Unfortunately, he couldn’t sneak looks any more, but a captain—once and future Battlegroup Chief, one time a Breseng youth and then an heir—should not
have
to sit here sneaking peeks like a scolded ensign.

“. . . and your orders are clear. If any ship from Khanerenth, Sarendan, or Bren surrenders, you will treat them politely. You’ll know them immediately, because they’ll fling their weapons down or flap white flags or even kerchiefs at you. You will treat them with politeness, because they have complicated rules of honor which suffice to shift the conflict to theoretical, and the side with the best manners gains the moral high ground.”

Several captains shifted, and a couple of the older captains chuckled. “It’s true,” someone muttered.

And you old men can dance around with those eastern cowards,
Balandir thought.

Beigun sent Balandir a fast look and a smirk: oh yes. The younger men would go where assigned—madness not to—but they could burn through the idiots until they reached the Fox Banner Fleet. Everyone knew what they looked like: outright pirates. That’s where the real glory promised to be.

“. . . if the Chwahir try to offer surrender, be aware of a ruse. They fight to the finish, the Chwahir. Always. If one surrenders, he will be flayed if sent home.”

Another stir and a grimace.

Balandir thought,
Slowbellies all. Ugly old tubs, but we need the wood. Ugly, and easy wins
.

“And finally, the leaders. We are told that the king has offered rank and land to anyone who brings the head of Elgar the Fox. Either of ’em,” Durasnir corrected. “I’ve seen the one. He’s quite short, scar-faced, brown hair. Broad through the chest. Fights like a berserker, as effective as the demons of ancient lore. You will have heard stories from Andahi Pass. Those do not exaggerate, for I was a witness. The other is tall, red-haired, dressed in black, and reports claim he is as formidable, or nearly. I suggest you shoot them if you can. Questions?”

“Does the king sail with you?” Seigmad asked the question most were thinking.

Durasnir looked down, then up. “I have not been told. I will assume unless instructed otherwise that he remains aboard the mage ship—”

“—for his own protection.” Dag Erkric spoke from the door, his voice rusty with exhaustion, but his sunken eyes were quick and alert. “The banner will fly at the head mast of the flagship when you launch toward attack and victory, I am enjoined to inform you.”

Durasnir said, “And my son?”

Erkric smiled. “At the king’s side, the place of honor, O my Oneli Stalna.”

“Phew. When is the last time you changed the king’s linens, Uncle?”

“Less than a week!” said Dag Yatar to his nephew.

“It smells more like a year.”

“Why? All he does is sleep.”

“Must get hot in here during the day. Did you work an Air Funnel Spell? I notice the scuttles are closed.”

“The Dag’s requirements.” Yatar dragged the ensorcelled bucket over, loathing this thrall duty. At least it was the king, though these past months had proved that royal flesh was exactly like any other flesh in the most mundane regards. “Why go to the fatigue of creating an air funnel when they won’t notice? It’s not as if they’ll smother, not in a leaky ship.”

The other thing that made this duty bearable were Erkric’s spells that lifted the king and turned him. Yatar could not imagine how much magic had been expended, though he was grateful. It must be akin to the spells that enabled those winged folk up in the mountains above Sartor to fly.

“You done with the boy yet? You could help me get these robes over him. Even when he’s like this—” He indicated the king motionless in the air. “—he’s become so fat . . .”

“Why do we have to dress him in the whites?”

“The Dag said the Oneli might expect to see him out there under the banner when they form the line before the attack. Ulaffa says he thinks it will be tomorrow. Maybe even tonight.”