Treason's Shore (107 page)

Dyalf Balandir had talked himself into believing that he was reclaiming the glorious heritage of the Venn.

At least, so he said in the letter he sent through the dispatch relay, as soon as Durasnir wrote to ask why he and his Battlegroup were not on station.

Durasnir read the paper, then set it aside for a moment. The previous dispatch had reported that Battlegroup Chief Seigmad (whose mind remained clear, despite his difficulties in speaking) had asked for a spice-milk, picked it up, looked surprised, then fell over dead.

Regret was sharp, but Durasnir knew his old friend would have chosen just such a death: quick, probably as painless as such things ever are, and in service. He picked up the report, and left the cabin. From the positions of the Erama Krona, he knew that Rajnir had climbed into the main top once again. Probably with Halvir.

A signal ensign hovered, waiting to be sent aloft, but Durasnir dismissed him with a gesture. Thinking that he could use the time as well as the effort, he climbed up.

The weather had turned cold, the sea gray-green, the wind brisk. It had been far too long since Durasnir had been aloft: he could not immediately recall the last time.

Two faces turned his way when he swung down from the shrouds. He hated how breathless he was and tried to hide it as he looked down at the game of ticky-bones. Rajnir had played the strategy game with Vatta, Durasnir remembered, and waited for the heart-seize of memory.

When it had passed, he made his obeisance. “Two reports. First, Battlegroup Chief Seigmad is dead. Whom do you want as Battlegroup Chief?”

“Whom do you recommend?” Rajnir asked.

“Baltar. He acted for Seigmad at Nelsaiam and acquitted himself well.”

“I think I remember him—long nose, a squint. His ship, the
Katawake
.”

“Yes.”

“Make it so.”

Durasnir acknowledged, then offered the paper to Rajnir.

The king cast his eyes down the page. Then he sat back. “Did you expect something of the sort? I did.”

Durasnir was forced to make a sign of negation. “I admit I did not.”

“You’ve been busy,” Rajnir said. “And you were not meant to see what he did behind your head. But I could see. He had so denied me any authority that despite his empty words of allegiance, even when Erkric’s spell was gone he went on in exactly the same way before my eyes.”

Durasnir gazed out to sea, upset by his own blindness.

Halvir gazed unhappily at the deep furrows in his father’s face. He hated it when his father looked so old and tired. But he said nothing. The king had trusted him with yet another secret:
You are so like your brother, who was once my greatest friend. And he really was a friend. I’ve decided there will be no more Breseng, and covert wars over boys who are chosen to forward others’ goals. Nor will I have a son, for who’s to say what he will be like? You are going to be my heir, but no one will know until you are old enough to hold the kingdom if they kill me over it.

Rajnir said, “You cannot foresee everything, Uncle Fulla. Nor can I. Except this: I wish Battlegroup Captain Hyarl Balandir joy of his encounter with Elgar the Fox.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

L
OW drifts of smoke rolled slowly across the wharf to blend into the pall dissipating westward, out to sea. Crews on board ships had finished dousing fires and now faced the task of repair. In the harbor, the previous day’s truce had required both sides to withdraw from the long, low harbor headman’s buildings that Pilvig, two of her friends from the
Sable,
and some adventurous young Delfs had attacked and liberated in a short, vicious skirmish.

Pilvig had known about the tunnels underground.

The Venn hadn’t.

The locals crept out cautiously during the night and set up a bucket brigade since the wintry wind for once did not bring rain. But at dawn, when the Venn rowed to the wharf again, the locals vanished, leaving the buildings to smolder. They’d have to be rebuilt anyhow.

Dyalf Balandir motioned his captains to wait on one side of the wharf and strolled out to the center alone to meet Elgar the Fox.

Once he’d secured Geranda after a disappointingly easy fight, he’d made what he considered a brilliant strategic decision—to take the Fire Islands to assure himself a first line of defense—but who could have known the damn harbor would be full of Delfs busy refitting?

They were not only root stubborn, but he knew they somehow communicated with one another over the world. It was legendary how what happened to one Delf at the northern reaches of Drael was soon known to the Delfs south of Sartor, though the Venn were the sole masters of deep sea navigation.

He set fire to their ships at once. Vastly outnumbered, they vanished into the thickly forested hills—which were a lot like the thickly forested hills of their own islands. He was still trying to hunt them out of hiding when the rest of them appeared hull up on the horizon, along with Sarendan, Khanerenth, and the Fox Banner Fleet. His scouts had vanished without a trace.

A day’s battle and heavy losses had caused Balandir to make what he considered his brilliant tactical decision. He sent Beigun (who had begun to annoy him with his constant questioning and arguing) with a truce flag to demand that Elgar the Fox face him in a halmgac duel. At dawn. Only they wouldn’t row away to one of the islands, they’d settle things right here, before all witnesses, on the broad wharf at the end of the short pier inside the bay.

The sun had just risen, barely warming the bitter winter air. Balandir stood alone, knowing his carefully picked Honor Guard was at the ready in case of pirate treachery, his Battlegroup captains nearby to function as witnesses.

He watched his breath freeze and fall and resisted the impulse to stamp. He had warmed up his muscles with the ship’s armor chief well before dawn. His sword was loose in his baldric; he’d left behind his winged helm with its new gold torc twisted about it as a crown. He’d decided after a single practice that the winged helms were terrible to fight in, and these barbarians would not know what a crowned helm signified anyway.

A host of small boats drifted over the water from around the black-sided ship on the opposite side of the bay. Beigun’s boat was in the lead. He moored it, climbed up, gave Balandir an indecipherable look, then retreated to stand with the other captains.

So Beigun had returned alive, much to Balandir’s surprise, and behind him strolled a tall figure dressed entirely in black, except for the wink of silver in a belt buckle. The low northern sun, a pale silver disk, outlined the man from behind while keeping his face in shadow. His hair glowed an unpleasant red.

Balandir said, “I said Elgar the Fox.” He’d spoken in Venn; he began to search his mind for the words in Sartoran when the enemy spoke in Venn.

“You’ve got Fox. There are more than one of us. It happens to be my watch.” Fox’s accent was strong, but he was understandable.

Balandir snapped, “I knew that.” Then, feeling he’d somehow lost a step, he snarled, “Where’s the scar-faced short one?”

“As well you have only me,” Fox retorted. “He only faces kings and Nor sundrians. I may not be as good at fighting, but I am far more merciful.”

A rustle and whisper behind Balandir caused him to jerk around. He bit back a command to
shut up!
and confined himself to a glare.

“Get your sword,” Balandir said, drawing his.

Fox crossed his arms and tipped his head. “Don’t need one.”

Balandir wasted no more time. He roared, charged, swung—and found himself attacking air. The man in black snapped his hands out, blades gripped in each. Balandir swung again, with all his strength. The whirling knives came at him, and he died before he hit the wharf boards.

Fox looked past him to the still captains, who were divided between stunned disbelief and grim anticipation of what that black-sided ship would signal next.

Fox said, “The rest of you may wait here for Sarendan’s representative, who will land shortly. If you don’t come to an agreement by midday, we’ll use you for target practice.”

“That was almost fun,” Fox said a short time later, as he walked into
Cocodu
’s wardroom and stamped to warm up his numb toes.

Death
was under repairs, it having been the target of Balandir’s primary raider packs. Though Inda was still a formidable warrior even without the use of his right arm, Fox and Barend had seen after the battle how much such effort pained him. Inda was asleep when the Venn appeared under the truce flag demanding a duel. Fox and Barend privately settled their response, and just before dawn, when Inda woke Fox reported the news as he strapped on his knives, adding, “You took
Vixen
against Rajnir and Erkric, and I didn’t squawk.”

“Yes, you did,” Inda said, laughing a little.

Fox shrugged. “So squawk. But now it’s my turn.” And he’d left before Inda could finish getting dressed.

Now he was back.

“I thought Venn were better trained than that.” Inda waved his spy glass. “He was a big enough fellow. What happened?”

“Oh, he’d had the rudiments of good training, but my guess is, he’d never had a serious bout in his life. Probably thought any enemy would consider himself to be privileged to be killed by so exalted a fellow. He was arrogant right up until he was surprised.” Fox saw Barend sitting at the table, then his eyes narrowed. “There a reason it’s just us?”
Us three Marlovans,
he meant.

The wardroom door opened, and Tau entered. “Jeje and Eflis have everybody on the
Sable
for the victory party, except a nominal deck watch.” He tipped his chin up toward the weather deck.

Fox dropped down on the bench, hands on his knees. “Inda?”

Inda got up and prowled around the enormous room. His restlessness seemed to fill the space, large as it was, and somehow magnified the outer sounds, making them distinct: the wash of water down the hull, the creak of masts, and through the far doors, in the captain’s cabin, a high female voice.

“. . . and when have you ever heard me tell anyone my name is Waki? When, Mutt? Name once.”

“Almost everybody’s at the party,” Fox murmured.

Inda paused midstride. “What’s the problem with those two now?”

“Nugget’s become the toast of those young fellows in the Khanerenth navy.” Tau opened his hands out. “The ones with titles.”

“So? He’s got all the young female mates after him.”

Tau said, “But Nugget likes to share. Mutt does not.”

Inda shook his head, his shoulders, waved his left hand, then resumed his prowl. “Our other alliance captains. Everything was fine until yesterday. Everyone agreed we’d use Gillor’s and Tcholan’s plan—they’d fought at Fire Island longest, had charted this bay—”

The low and high voices had tangled, fast and angry, then abruptly Mutt’s voice rose, distinct: he had to be standing at the door to the captain’s cabin. “. . . as long as it suits you. But when you’re tired of us, you can go off to your damned castle and be Lady Waki. I hate that!”

Inda began to rub his hand over his face, wincing when he encountered a pair of cuts, and an enormous bruise on his cheekbone. “Should I say something? No.” He hit the table with his hand, then moved on, touching bunk, bulkhead, table, opposite bulkhead, and around again. “Everything was fine. Then we launch the attack. That’s fine, too, though it got mighty hot when they hit us with those six raiders. Have to remember that formation—two inside trying to board, four outside laying down arrows.”

Tau thought,
Why didn’t I ever notice that before, how Inda touches things in a pattern?
But he hadn’t done it for a long time. Since the days right before the battle at Andahi.

Barend whistled under his breath. “Worst fight we’ve been in since the tussle at Jaro.”

“Well, with the Delfs coming out of the hills, like we figured they would, we got them bottled. Just like we thought. Right?” He paused, all made motions of agreement. “So here’s this fellow wants a duel, Fox, you go off, but ever since the sun came up and I walked out on deck, our allies’ve been watching me with their glasses. Not you and that Venn fellow on the wharf. Me. Why?” He turned around, rapped the hull, the table, the back of a chair, his right arm in its sling knocking against his ribs; the pattern was drawing in. “Last night when I rowed around to look at damage, they were
all
watching me. I mean the hands put down buckets to stare. Is it because I took a couple of cuts, they think I turned soft?”