The Fox (59 page)

Below, Cama Tya-Vayir, Noddy Toraca, and Cherry-Stripe Marlo-Vayir strode fast along a narrow accessway, the ringing of their high-heeled black-weave cavalry boots echoing up the stone walls.

“
He
doesn’t see,” the first man said. “All that matters.”

The second one, fighting a sharp twinge in his knee, massaged the spot with one gnarled hand as he reflected. “No.
He
wouldn’t expect anything.”

Everyone knew who
he
was, but until he gave his oath as king, no one knew what to call Evred. Strictly speaking he was the Sierlaef, the heir, but his brother been Sierlaef too long for people to shed the prejudicial associations.

The second man hefted his load of torches, glowered at the remaining stairway, and cursed under his breath. “What I’d like,” he said in an undertone, “is my grip on the shithead who decided war kings have to do coronations at midnight.”

Below, the three walked faster, Cherry-Stripe glancing behind him, his long yellow horsetail swinging over his shoulder and back.

Above, on the inner castle walls, stood two women and a girl, the women part of the Queen’s Guard, the girl newly arrived from far south, here for the queen’s training.

The sun beat down on their heads, and even though the women’s summer robes were now mostly made of the new light fabric, a mixture of their old linen and the plentiful cotton brought from Idayago, those robes were worn over high-necked linen shirts sashed at the waist, and sturdy loose trousers. All three were already damp with sweat. Not that they paid any attention.

“Mmm-mmm,” said the tallest and oldest of the Queen’s Guards, looking down at the three young men with deep appreciation.

“Why are they alone like that? No Runners or anything? ” the new girl asked.

The two older women grinned. “A secret meeting. Look, there goes my choice out of all of ’em, right into the old tack rooms.” She pointed a bow-calloused finger down at Cama, whose splendid body was enhanced by the gray coat of his ancestors, tight to the sashed waist, the wide back-slit coat skirts swinging against his boots.

All three gazed appreciatively at his long horsetail of curling black hair, the sharp-cut bones of his cheeks and chin, the fine mouth below the dashing and slightly sinister black eye patch.

“Who
is
that?” the girl asked.

“Oh, that’s Camarend-Dal of Tya-Vayir,” said one of the women. “They call him Cama. He acted as Harskialdna after the Conspiracy, before handing it off to Barend-Dal.”

“There’s young Cherry-Stripe,” the second woman said.

“And they call that third one Noddy, I’ve heard, though no one knows why. Like Cherry-Stripe, they all get these names in the academy.”

“I know,” the girl said with an air of vast experience. “My brother came home called Dogbreath his first year, and now he won’t let anyone use his real name.”

“Noddy looks like one of the track-hounds,” the first commented. “Some might say he’s not as easy on the eyes as Cherry-Stripe and Cama Black-Eye, but I’d take a gallop if he was offering just fine.”

The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she caught the affronted glance of her duty mate, and they turned guilty glances to the girl, who was in the long, sturdy smock and loose trousers that looked much like what her brother was no doubt wearing over at the academy. She was probably fifteen, the usual age at which the girls who would be future Jarlans or Randviars came for their two years of training with the queen’s guard, and while everyone knew girls reached the age of interest before the boys, at fifteen some were still a long way off. Proper was proper: you didn’t talk about sex before someone in smocks.

The serene smile of this girl made it clear that she was envisioning nothing more intimate than a horseback ride on the plains next to an agreeably handsome fellow; the first guard said, somewhat hastily, “So anyway that’s part of ’em in on the secret meetings. The organizers, you might say.”

“Secret meeting?” the girl asked, a little worried—remembering the bloody stories the second year girls had told her the first night after her arrival—but mostly excited. Secrets were always interesting, but they were twice as delicious when they concerned people of rank.

The other two laughed. “Secret in a way, young ’un, only in a way. They’re here instead of at home because they are
his
Sier-Danas, see? Only one that doesn’t know is
him
. He was a second son, see, and he always does everything proper, so he just ordered twelve drums for the coronation. His Sier-Danas, well, they’re going to make sure it’s done the way everyone else sees as proper.”

“Oh,” she said. “Does Hadand-Edli know too?”

“Of course!” said the first.

“It’s she who worked out the details, as ’t should be.”

The girl clasped her hands. “And she’ll be Gunvaer, too, and not have to wait until she’s old, because everyone says the old queen is going back over the mountains.” She used two different words for queen: for Wisthia the Iascan
Sarias
, taken from Sartoran. But Hadand was a Marlovan queen, a fighting queen, so they used the Marlovan
Gunvaer
.

“All as it should be,” the girl said happily, for she loved romance. She added in a rush, “The second-year girls told us that Hadand and the new king were ever so close, all their lives, though they were each intended to marry someone else. It’s like one of the old love ballads!”

The guards’ eyes met over her head, and the first one said, roughly, “Hadand-Edli is a good woman. She deserves to be happy,” though no one had been arguing.

The two guards hefted their strung bows and resumed their patrol, no longer speaking—leaving the girl, on her very first watch, wondering how she’d managed to offend them.

Chapter Seven

"INDEVAN-Dal is dead!” Spittle flecked the old woman’s wrinkled lips. Her mottled face, hard-furrowed with decades of anger, contrasted nightmarishly with that of Joret Dei, who stood against the window wall of Fareas-Iofre’s formal interview chamber, her remarkable blue eyes blank.

Marend-Edli, once Randviar, jerked a gnarled thumb in Joret’s direction and said, “He’s long dead. Give it up, Fareas. Joret should marry Branid. Now. Branid should have been Branid-Laef ever since your boy Tanrid was killed, but you can fix that now. Give my grandson the title, marry him to Joret, and he can take up his proper place as heir to Algara-Vayir. That Noth boy can be Branid’s Randael, and Tdor here can marry him and be Randviar as before.”

Fareas-Iofre spoke, cool and austere. “My son is Indevan-Laef, not Indevan-Dal. His becoming heir was my husband’s decree. You were there. You heard it. And I will not believe Inda is dead until I am shown proof.”

The old woman gave an ugly laugh, more of a harsh, humorless caw. “There’s never any proof at sea. Unless you’ve found a fish that carries letters?”

Standing at Fareas’ right shoulder, Tdor bit her underlip, her hands hidden in the sleeves of her robes gripping hard over her wrist sheaths.
Inda is not dead
, Tdor thought furiously.
You just want him to be, you old carrion-eater.

Joret’s eyes met hers, and Tdor saw anger in the flicker of her long lashes, the tautness of her high forehead. But Joret did not move or speak, and she was the subject of this confrontation between the princess of Choraed Elgaer and the Randviar of two generations ago. So Tdor remained silent.

Fareas-Iofre said, “How many years did all Iasca Leror believe the Harskialdna’s son Barend-Dal dead at sea? But he returned alive. My son Indevan was seen a bare five months ago, no longer than a fighting season on land, and I have every reason to believe he lives yet.”

“Lives? Maybe. But not here, taking up his responsibilities. Word is he prefers a pirate’s life,” the old woman said, her scorn undiminished. “
My
grandson will do his duty. Uphold the family’s honor. But you must cede him his rightful place.” And seeing Fareas’ compressed lips, old Marend shook her head. Her voice stayed gruff with emotion, but no anger, for once. “I know what it is to have to give up. To give place. Your Jarend turfed my husband and me fifty years ago, after his own father died. Jarend put his brother Indevan and his wife in our places. As was right. He inherits, he trained Old Indevan. A brother should be Randael to a brother. That’s the Marlovan way.”

She paused, and Fareas-Iofre opened her hand.

“And I said nothing when Jarend-Adaluin’s first family were all killed by attack thirty-some years ago. I said nothing when he should have taken my son as his heir and my nephew as Randael, instead keeping his old Rider Captain as Randael and marrying you. It was need. The Rider Captain had more experience than my son, who was just out of boyhood, and my nephew a mere babe. But now your sons are gone and Branid is full-grown in the eyes of law. If he marries Joret and takes his place as Laef, everyone has time to learn his ways, and he will learn your husband’s ways before Jarend dies, as is right and proper. Branid is Algara-Vayir,” she added. “Who has more right?”

“No one,” Fareas said. “Outside of Inda. I must consult with my husband—”

Marend-Edli snorted, a disgusting liquid sound. Her ever-ready anger was back. “Who does what you tell him— when he can be made to hear anyone outside of his ghosts.” The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “Take another six months. A year, if that eases your conscience. But after that year, whatever happens will be on your head: you can transfer the title peaceably or not. As you choose.” She twitched her robes closer about her meager body and stalked to the door, her silent Runner, nearly as ancient but strong as a century-old ash, walking silently after her.

Tdor watched her go, angry disgust her foremost reaction until she thought,
Will that be me in fifty years? Old, ugly, doing my duty until I’m displaced, then disappointed again and again?
She winced, remorse cooling the anger like snow on fire.

Through the open door Tdor and Joret caught sight of Branid lurking in the hall—tall, broad, blond, his customary sulky expression twisted into anxiousness as his grandmother stalked past him. “What did they say? What did Joret say?”

They could hear his voice diminishing before Chelis, Fareas-Iofre’s Runner, shut the door.

Fareas lifted her head. “Whipstick? You heard it all?”

The inner door leading to the Iofre’s private room had been open a crack. It opened and tough, wiry Whipstick Noth stepped through. He seldom revealed any emotion, but his bony face now twisted with derision. “Enough,” he said. “She threatened you.”

Fareas-Iofre turned her palm up. “She gave herself away.”

Tdor said, “Everyone has been talking about her promises and bribes. Now we know toward what end.”

Whipstick said, “No one would follow Branid otherwise. ”

Tdor said, “No one will follow him at all. But some might think they can run him if he inherits Jarend-Adaluin’s place.”

None disagreed; Fareas just looked tired. “She and my husband have hated one another for more than half a century, so she won’t dare to disturb him,” Fareas said. “And without his agreement, nothing will change, and she knows it.”

Unspoken was the alternative: that the Adaluin, whose health was more frail with every winter he survived, might die before Inda’s return. He spent his winter days prowling the upper rooms, seeking the ghost of his beloved first wife, which had departed after the death of the Harskialdna.

He was out on his duty ride now, the weather being clement. They had all been glad to see him take horse; he strengthened during long summer days in the open air.

Whipstick said, “Fareas-Edli, a royal Runner appeared just after Marend-Edli came upstairs.”

No one spoke, but the subtle signs—no more than tight shoulders, a fast glance or two—revealed their apprehension. There’d been far too much bad news conveyed by royal Runners over the past year.

Whipstick said, “I bade her wait in the watch room, Fareas-Edli.”

“Bring her in, if you will.”

A swing of coat skirts, the twitch of a long brown horsetail, and Whipstick was gone. Fareas studied Joret, who had not moved from her place next to the window, the summer sun glinting in the blue highlights of her silken black hair. She stared out the window, her brow troubled.

It was not Joret’s fault that once again a man was making trouble on her behalf. She was cool, sober, hard-working, and in spite of her astonishing beauty she was quiet and self-effacing, the opposite of the aunt she so closely resembled. The older Joret, the Adaluin’s first wife, had been the opposite: lazy, capricious, loving luxury and ease. Her single passion had been to live as the center of attention and desire, and to that end she had exerted herself.

Joret had never been seen to exert the smallest sign of attraction to anyone. She did not even visit the pleasure houses. Yet ever since she’d reached the age of consent she had been, like her aunt, the center of trouble—first the king’s son and now Branid at home.
Beauty is a weapon,
Fareas thought.
Even if she doesn’t use it, it cuts on its own.

Whipstick opened the door, letting in a royal Runner in a blue tunic, the gold crown stitched over her heart indicating that she bore an official communication.

The Runner held out a message, and Fareas, Tdor, and Joret recognized on her forefinger the plain ring, inset with a small emerald, that indicated a message from Hadand.

Fareas-Iofre opened the scroll, then exclaimed softly. She handed the letter to Joret; dusky rose bloomed in her smooth, honey-colored cheeks, then faded.

Joret handed the letter to Tdor, who glanced at Fareas in question, saw a slight nod, and moved so that Whipstick could read over her shoulder. In surprise they discovered two breaks with tradition: an invitation to Fareas-Iofre to see her daughter crowned and then stay—and an invitation to Joret to accompany Hadand and the former queen, among whose women she’d spent a year, to Anaeran-Adrani.