Treason's Shore (99 page)

Hadand laughed unsteadily, her face shiny with high color and the heat. “Tanrid and I started it.”

Tdor saw in the flicker of Fareas’ eyelids, the thinning of her lips, the dart to the heart of grief that never went away, and it was instinct to leap from there to
How will I bear it if my child dies young
? She closed her eyes, struggling against this new and terrible emotion, the fear of losing a child.
Get hold of yourself,
Tdor scolded inwardly.
Nothing has happened. My babe is safe
.

“I never really knew Tanrid,” Hadand went on reminiscently. “Though that day was a good one.”

“I remember hearing about that day.” Fareas-Iofre smiled. “You wrote to me about it, and Tanrid told me when he got home. How proud he was of that display, and of Anderle-Harskialdna’s singling him out for praise. Well, Anderle was the Sierandael then, before the war in the north. You didn’t tell me you added that competition to the games.”

“We had to.” Hadand chuckled. “The girls would have mutinied else.”

“And it’s been good, because when we win . . .” Tdor laughed, giddy with relief to see Fareas’ smile.
You do recover. She has Inda back again. She has grandchildren to love
. “When the girls win, the horsetails always get serious about their knife work the next year.”

The girls sitting nearby drummed their hands on the table in triumph. The horsetails reacted with blushes and elbow-digs at sisters and future wives.

The hilarity was not unanimous, Hadand saw. Evred had that headache strain in his forehead, and she remembered him saying the day before that Inda would be in his ship battle any time.

“Well, let us sing the ‘Hymn to the Beginning’ over our last toast, and then everyone can get some rest.” Hadand held up her wine goblet in both hands. “Tomorrow will likely be very hot. You should get as early a start as you can.”

Evred found the patience to finish the song, and the toast, and then he walked around the table, saying individual farewells to fathers, boys, and girls. Then he slipped away, grateful to Hadand, who lingered after giving him only one glance—as always, they communicated without words.

The moment he was alone in the hallway, he read Inda’s note. They don’t want us? What had that to do with anything? Of course corrupt governments did not want anyone interfering with their corruption!

It has to be battle pressure,
Evred thought and forced himself not to run to his rooms, which were comparatively cool, and were definitely quiet. As he walked, he composed his answer.

He wrote two drafts, and when he was satisfied, copied it all onto a tiny paper.

He was just folding it to send when a quiet, tentative knock sounded at the door. Tdor’s knock. Since he’d waved off the duty Runner so he could be alone, Evred answered it, and as expected, found Tdor.

She said, “Is the sea battle starting?”

“It is imminent.”

Tdor looked away, then back. “Will you do something for me?”

Evred said immediately, “Of course.”

To his surprise, she held out a small square of blank paper. “Send that to him, please? When it’s time. I know he’ll write to you, when it begins.”

“I will, if you wish. But do you not want to write a message on this paper?”

Tdor looked down. “I know it probably sounds stupid. But I kissed it. So did Hadand. Hastred and Jarend slobbered on it. That’s why I didn’t fold it. Still damp.” She pointed. “I think—I want Inda to have it.”

“I promise,” Evred said. “Just before the battle starts.”

She left. He carefully laid the paper on his desk, then sent his note.

At The Fangs, the
Vixen
began to round under the
Knife
’s lee. How beautiful the Venn
drakan
was! The patterns of leaves on the pale gold oak rails had sharpened into clarity when Inda felt the tap of the locket.

Inda gauged the distance between the two ships, then thumbed out the message. The handwriting was tiny but clear and painstaking.

Chapter Twenty-five

H
ORNS blatted down the Oneli south flank.

Oneli Stalna Durasnir blinked against the sun as he peered through his glass toward the signal flags on the nearest raider sailing as sentinel. Enemy in sight.

He lowered his glass, his gaze falling on the Dag of all the Venn, who stood at the rail with his own glass.

Whatever’s happening, he knows about it.
Durasnir held his breath, determined to master the hot rage that demanded utterance.

An ensign dashed up to report, “Fleet coming from the south. Sentinel counts say nine nines, Delfin warships. Red flags at the foremast.”

The rage flared into blinding fury. “Why did we not know about these before?” Durasnir addressed the ensign, whose face blanched.

The only sounds were the creak of masts, the rattle of blocks, the wash of the sea down the sides of the ship. The ensign was not at fault. Durasnir knew his scouts were not either; a fast glance Dag Erkric’s way revealed patently false surprise on the old man’s face.
He knew
. Durasnir turned his attention outward as he got control of his anger.

The airs were too light for the cut booms to gain much force: unless the wind picked up, this would be a bitter, bloody, yardarm-to-yardarm battle.

Durasnir swung around, goaded at last beyond endurance.

“May I remind you of the king’s orders?” Dag Erkric asked, smooth and calm. “Shall I summon the dags to service?”

Durasnir jolted to a stop, knowing how very close he’d come to betrayal. It was not Rajnir’s fault that he had no mind. And now was not the time to destroy what semblance of unity his people had.

He was aware of every pair of ears listening, every pair of eyes watching. They were shortly to go into battle. He must not dishearten or confuse his people; the accusations had to wait. Erkric wanted Durasnir to request the aid of the dags.

That would happen only when Durasnir was dead.

“I believe the Oneli are capable of handling this turn of events.” Durasnir’s tone tightened spines and shoulders all over the deck, but the Dag’s smile deepened at the corners.

“Hull up—
ho!
” the lookout called, the last word wrung inadvertently.

Durasnir had his most trusted lookouts on duty, so this sidestep from the rigidity of proper response caused every eyeglass on the deck to swing out to sea.

And when Dag Erkric hissed, a long painful inward breath, almost a gasp, Durasnir’s nerves chilled. He made out the shape of the foremost ship: the black-sailed
drakan Knife,
once before seen. Only then it had not worn a ten-century-old dragon-head, relic of a fabled king.

Erkric had not known about
that
.

“The Norsundrian must be in command.” Erkric’s voice was husky with terror. “We must turn aside—the battle is here!”

Durasnir said, “It’s a feint.”

“What?” Erkric gasped.

Durasnir paused again. This time the words he wished to utter were “Permit me to command,” but he knew they would only sound petulant.

And in the larger sense, Erkric
was
in command—of the Venn kingdom. Durasnir’s power was strictly confined to the Oneli’s conduct of the battle.

No one had even asked why the king was not among them as they engaged the enemy at last.

Durasnir said, “While I find it difficult to believe that we were incompetent enough not to notice the approach of this force, I find it impossible to believe that we would not have perceived a larger one. We know what lies to the east and how many. Despite the surprising appearance of the
Knife
leading these Delfs, this is a feint, intended to send us into confusion by causing us to change course, so that their main line—what we
know
to be their main line—can strike on the flank. They want us sailing at our weakest, nearly up into the wind.”

He saw comprehension in the sailors. Erkric was impossible to read, save the vein beating in his temple revealing that he was as angry as Durasnir. Maybe angrier.

“We will be straitened now, but not unduly, for our discipline is the greater.” Durasnir said it loud enough for the entire deck to hear. And then he gave the command for two Battlegroups to detach, with all their raiders and cutters, to deal with the newcomers: the main force would stay on course.

From the
Vixen,
hidden in the midst of the cluster of small boats and light schooners that had accumulated, Inda watched the Venn put helm down, rise tacks and sheets.

How beautifully they stayed in their own length! Despite the lazy summer airs, the warships were as quick as their cutters.

The entire fleet had staggered when they saw the
Knife
. Inda could almost feel the tremors through their command: the conviction that they had been tricked.
I can’t believe Barend kept the Delfs completely unseen by the Venn,
he thought.
Either the Venn are incompetent or they’ve got their own command problems
. Didn’t take much to guess which.

As the sun slanted westward, the cluster of curious small craft on the extreme edge of the Delfs slid nearer to the Venn,
Vixen
among them. The detachment was clearer now and it was not the entire Oneli, but just a few Battlegroups.

Well, Inda had not really expected to fool Durasnir so easily. He settled into
Vixen
’s bow, glass pressed to his eye, appreciating the beauty of ships sailing toward battle. He wondered if a charge across the plains looked as glorious as these graceful craft with studding sails extended like wings, as the arched prows plunged through the waters, sending white lace fans feathering down the sides. Inda’s memories of his single land battle were vivid, but included nothing of beauty, only the stink of sweat, the grunts from men laboring to kill, struggling to survive—the blood-splattering chaos of hand-to-hand fighting between sky-high cliffs.

The blood and stink would come soon enough. The Venn and Delf ships closed and met, perfect order vanishing as they curved round one another, seeking the advantage to close, grapple, and board. From this distance it looked like a game, the ships and crew like dolls. You could not see blood at a distance, or hear cries of pain.

The sun hung just above the water on the western horizon, creating a trail of golden spangles.
Is that the image that lies behind the Venn Golden Path?
The darkening east began to glow with the false dawn of burning ships: several Delfs. No Venn.

Then the Venn horns blatted like a herd of attack beasts: in perfect line, red flags at the foremast, Fox’s fleet had begun to engage the main force.