The Fox (43 page)

Late that second day the outriders signaled a lone Runner approaching.

The Sierlaef stopped his cavalcade, his heart beating hard when the anonymous blue tunic and black woolen cap resolved into Nallan. He held up his hand flat to keep the men in place and rode ahead for privacy.

Nallan rubbed his gloved fingers over his cold-numb lips, then said, “Vedrid’s alive, dressed civ. He met with Barend-Dal, your cousin. He was in a sea battle, led by—”

The Sierlaef waved his hand impatiently. Right now he had no interest in sea battles. “Vedrid. Said?”

“I don’t know. Could not get near without them seeing me. They talked a long time along the northern road. Then

Vedrid sent Barend-Dal to the east into Choraed Elgaer. Vedrid rode north along the coast.”

Vedrid alive! The Sierlaef shivered with the neck-gripping chill of impending threat. It could only mean one thing: treachery. No,
treason!
Treason from the Marlo-Vayirs! And Barend, the sniveling little rat, no doubt racing straight to Tenthen Castle to blab to the Adaluin, and from there he’d gallop home to tell the king whatever Vedrid had yapped about Tanrid Algara-Vayir’s death.

The Sierlaef raised his hand again, this time with two fingers up to summon the flight captains forward.

When they halted, side by side, he had his words ready. “You. Go to Darchelde. Escort Joret Dei. Royal city.” He waited for the man’s acknowledgment, hand to heart, then turned to the second one. “We go back.” Then he waved them off. To Nallan, he said, “Take two. Kill Barend. Before. He reaches r-r-r-royal city. He’s a pirate,” he added, and watched the horror in Nallan’s eyes.

He hadn’t meant to lie, it just came out. How easy! Everyone was afraid of pirates. “Ride.”

Two days later the Sierlaef and his tired force finally spotted the towers of the royal city stitching the gray-white sky to the snow-covered plains on the horizon.

The men were tired, relieved—and annoyed. Four days on the road, no explanation for the trip or the return. While bedding down that first night, under the cover of darkness, more than one of them had muttered variations on, “Good taste of what life’ll be like under a new king.”

The others shushed the mutterers, not in defense of the Sierlaef but for their own safety.

The Sierlaef noticed nothing. Now that he was in sight of home, he slowed the pace. He hadn’t figured out how he was to explain Tanrid’s death to his father. Even if he’d managed to gain time by ridding himself of Barend, it was only time, not freedom from trouble. If the sniveling little toad had indeed gone to Tenthan Castle in Choraed Elgaer, the Adaluin would soon be galloping north with a war banner to demand his blood.

Angrily he considered various explanations, always coming back to the fact that he shouldn’t
have
to explain. He was the future king. It should be enough.

To anyone else he could say that, but not to his father.

His uneasiness was at first allayed when one of his outriders came plunging back down the road toward them, mud splashing up to either side.

“Big force,” he said, striking fist to heart, his breath in clouds. “Marlo-Vayir and Yvana-Vayir banners, northwest. Looks like at least a wing altogether.”

Marlo-Vayir? Aldren-Sierlaef thought immediately of Vedrid, not killed by Buck after all, and knew he was in trouble. Not soon. Now.

“At the g-gla-glala—run!” he shouted, sending his startled horse plunging. He kicked the stallion’s sides and galloped for home.

After nearly three long, grueling weeks on the snow-covered roads, Vedrid rode his tired mount in through the gates of Ala Larkadhe, lying far to the north of the royal city and the royal heir charging for home just ahead of retribution. He had used old Runner trails and a few trusted contacts for changes of mount, which had put him more than half a day ahead of the Yvana-Vayir men with their secret orders.

For the last distance he’d used the road closest to the coast so he could stop in Lindeth Harbor, and sure enough, there was the low black pirate ship he’d glimpsed in Parayid what seemed so long ago, riding far out on the bay. He did not risk changing his horse or even eating. He did risk one brief conversation to gather information, then turned eastward to the old city built at the base of the mountains visible in the purple haze from the harbor, Ala Larkadhe.

It was not far, though it seemed far to one tired and cold and hungry, riding a plodding horse that was equally tired, cold, and hungry.

When he reached the castle, he left his drooping mount at the outer stable used by visitors and castle folk other than the military and Runners. Stable hands took one glance at those sweaty sides, the lowered head, and closed in around the animal.

Satisfied, Vedrid shuffled toward the gate. In civilian dress he did not draw the eye; he waited until a group of merchants went in to discuss a matter of trade with the kitchens. The sentries still scrupulously counted them, checked for hidden weapons, and a bored herald apprentice wrote names and belongings down on a long list, then turned them over to a Runner-in-training to be taken to the kitchens.

Security was even tighter than it had been at his last visit.

When it was his turn, Vedrid brought out a sealed letter he’d prepared as he said, “I’m here from the harbormaster in Lindeth Harbor to deliver a bill to Runner Toraca.”

The sentry waved in the direction of the white tower as he said, “There’s the door. Runner will take you to him. Wait there if you don’t see a Runner. Don’t wander around unless you want to be either bitten or questioned under white kinthus, whoever gets at you first.”

Several Runners waited inside the round room, a Fire Stick making the small chamber bearable; from the smell they were drinking cinnamon cider with a generous dollop of bristic. All was quiet, orderly, and warm inside the glistening white tower, a contrast to the blue cold of the snowy city and the mountain heights above.

He was duly handed over to Nightingale Toraca, who greeted him with raised brows in his lugubrious, houndlike face as scout dogs sniffed all over his muddy coat, their ears flicking. “That real or an excuse?” he asked, taking the paper.

“Excuse. Evred-Varlaef said not to write, only to speak to—” A sudden yawn seized Vedrid and his eyes watered. “Speak to him.”

Nightingale led the way four steps at a time up to Evred’s tower office, where Evred looked up from a desk almost covered with neat stacks of paper.

“Indevan-Laef Algara-Vayir is here,” Vedrid said, too tired for preamble, his thumb angled toward the west—and as it happened the doorway.

“He’s
here?
” Evred got to his feet, peering past Vedrid into the empty doorway.

Nightingale poked his head out, looked both ways, then shut the door.

“Coast,” Vedrid said, pawing vaguely behind him. His hands were numb, his gloves sodden. “Lindeth. Been here for a week, I discovered this morning.” He yawned again, and stretched his hands to the fire.

“A
week?
” Evred repeated, a flush of annoyance reddening his cheekbones. “Why have I not received a report from my guard there?”

“Because they don’t know.” Vedrid gestured at his own civilian clothing. “They accepted me as a messenger from the Guild Fleet in Bren. Your men don’t seem to know one ship from another, and Elgar the Fo—that is, Indevan-Laef, was not permitted ashore until their business was at an end. Which it is today, according to the harbormaster’s chief scribe. They need to settle about the captured ships—”

“Captured ships,” Evred repeated, perplexed.

“From defeated pirates. There was a pirate war in the southern waters, against the red sails, and he won.”

Evred frowned. “Lindeth has known a week, and no word reached me of that either?”

“There were no Runners in Parayid Harbor when I was there. I came directly north—the roads are mostly snowed in. Any Runners sent by anyone else have to be at least a day or so behind me.”

“But that doesn’t explain the silence from Lindeth,” Evred said, and for the first time Nightingale and Vedrid saw him really angry.

His resemblance to the king was striking, and Vedrid squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think, then shook his head. “I was there a short time. It was the scribe who told me, and that only because he thought I was from Bren. Whatever the reason, the harbor authorities kept the news to themselves. I’m not certain even the regular folk know.

Maybe they wanted to wait until Indevan-Laef’s fleet left. The scribe referred to them twice as pirates.”

Evred’s brow cleared. “Ah. Perhaps they expect trouble from me for their harboring of pirates—either that or they anticipate some sort of wicked Marlovan collusion with the wicked pirates.” His tone was wry, almost humorous, and the flush faded from his face, but no one smiled.

Vedrid said, “So maybe a messenger will come when their ‘pirates’ are safely gone. Oh. I should have told you before, I met Barend-Dal at Parayid Harbor—”

“Barend? My cousin? Alive?”

“He was with Indevan-Laef. But he rode inland while Indevan-Laef sailed up here. Anyway, I began to say that Indevan-Laef himself is coming in on the late tide, to settle the trade of captured ships for repair and stores. Then they expect him to be gone on the tide’s ebb.”

Evred stared at Vedrid, realizing he did not even know what a tide’s ebb was. “Today. Inda in Lindeth. Leaving Lindeth. Then . . . I must go now.”

He must go right this moment, but hard on that conviction was the equally strong one that he did not want a clutter of guards, questions, explanations.

Ah. His blue coat.

He sent Nightingale for the coat and to Vedrid he said, “Go to the stable. Two fresh horses. Stop for something warm to drink. I know you are tired, but you must take me to him and I do not want anyone here or in Lindeth to know. Afterward you will have time to rest, I promise.”

Vedrid made another of those pawing motions toward his chest in salute, and turned to obey.

Presently two Runners rode out through the gates past four men in Yvana-Vayir yellow and blue entering the city, but neither party stopped. The Yvana-Vayirs, who had only glimpsed the king from a distance and had never seen his sons, were intent upon their purpose. They knew they were about to make history, and had no interest in a civilian or a Runner in unmarked blue.

Evred-Varlaef recognized the blue-and-yellow eagle stitched over the hearts on their coats, and decided whatever message Hawkeye was sending could wait.

The world could wait.

It was time to keep his promise.

Evred never clearly remembered that journey down through the snowy hills to Lindeth Harbor. Only impressions remained: the color of the light on the snow, sometimes gold, sometimes blue; a trail of animal tracks winding away toward the hills; the sound of his horse snorting, its breath clouding and then falling. The smell of snow giving gradually over to that of brine as they neared Lindeth.

His own heartbeat, drumming in his ears.

His mind, repeating what he would say.
That justice I promised the king will provide.
Did that sound too full of frost? He was certain his father would agree to the justice—yet he had never spoken to the king on the subject. How about this, then?
Come home. You are now the heir, and you are needed in Choraed Elgaer.

And Inda would say . . . what would he say? Memory kept sliding back to the eleven-year-old boy. “What do you think, Sponge? How about we try this ruse next game, Sponge? We always have to have a backup plan, Sponge!” It seemed impossible that Inda could have become a pirate—but who was he now?

They reached the snow-covered outskirts of the new harbor, which consisted of streets neatly laid out with an eye to defense. The plan was one of Evred’s own, based on an old Sartoran record. The Lindeth guild leaders and harbormaster had fancied having their new buildings patterned on Sartoran design; the style being two centuries out of date mattered not a whit to either Marlovan or Iascan.

They slowed, Evred timing his ride across the sentry path until the outer perimeter guard would be too far away to easily make out his face. He did not look right or left, relying on his blue coat to keep him unnoticed. And it worked. The Lindeth people paid him no attention, other than a few scowls at the coat that marked him out as a Marlovan messenger—a spy, as they said among themselves.

Vedrid kept an anxious watch ahead, for the weather was lowering and the water looked gray and choppy. “That black one is his ship,” he said at last. “Tide’s turned—it’s coming in now.”

Evred lifted his head and saw the long, low, raking black-sided vessel riding far out in the bay in the midst of several other ships. It drew the eye immediately, a sinister ship that could only belong to pirates. He fumbled for words. “Why don’t they come all the way in to the docks?”

“Harbormaster wouldn’t let them. Ah! That’s got to be his boat.” They peered through the soft haze of drifting snowflakes as a small boat dropped down to the water from a huge wood-and-rope structure at the side of the black ship. The snow prevented them from seeing who climbed down into the boat. All they could make out was one, possibly two shapes, and long sticks that were probably oars.

Evred felt snow touch his face, cold and numbing. He ignored it as he sought a vantage from which to observe the rowboat now working its way slowly toward the shore. This end of the harbor city was mostly smoothed ground below the high street along the ridge, marked off by small stone plinths awaiting spring, when there would be more money to commence construction on the larger buildings. Until then, the high street served the cluster of little cottages thrown together in no order above and below, much as they’d found the Nob last spring.

So it was easy to see with an unimpeded view. Evred stopped his horse in a half-finished archway connecting two warehouses and stared at that distant boat, overwhelmed by a wish to speak to Inda alone, with no witnesses. Not even Vedrid. There must be no alarms, no mistakes. “Take the animals to warmth and food, and see that the sentries do not come this way.”