Treason's Shore (70 page)

Chapter Seven

B
Y the time Mutt’s crew had finished cleaning up the
Cocodu
’s deck (a spectacular mess) and had begun replacing all the grease-smeared standing rigging (worn, frayed stuff put up for the gold bag run), the King’s Saunter was undergoing its festival transformation. Everywhere people hung up big colored rice-paper lanterns, most with tiny glowglobes inside, and the poorer emporia with little candles. The result was a galaxy of brilliance above tables loaded with refreshments.

Dasta had hired a group of musicians to play from the other end of the terrace. The younger girls had decorated the rail with garlands made with flowers raided from every garden a day’s trudge from the harbor, with silk lilies donated by Lark Ascendant to eke out the ends.

Midsummer’s Day was as popular as Flower Day for weddings; when there wasn’t a Flower Day due to bad weather, all the weddings got saved up. The Fox Banner Fleet had two. As these involved three popular captains, the crews of most of the fleet crammed into the Chart House, dressed in their best—or their most colorful—and many had begun their celebratory drinking and dancing long before the wedding pairs appeared.

Eflis took in the drunks and slapped her thigh, laughing. Her hilarity was irresistible; even Sparrow, so still and serious, briefly smiled, the chimes braided in her hair tinkling sweetly at every step.

That sharp, bloody battle against the Venn had accelerated a number of changes in ship command as well as relationships.

Gillor had avoided entanglements with any one person her entire life, though she’d looked Fox’s way ever since Gaffer Walic forced them on board as crew.

Looking Fox’s way had become habit. After the Venn fight, when she had time to reflect on the long, nasty battle, she’d realized her worst worry was about Tcholan, who was her most frequent lover, and she hadn’t spared Fox a thought at all, except irritation when
Death
hove up late to
Cocodu
’s rescue, the scuppers running with red after repelling two Venn boarder attacks.

Life was short and precious. Before they’d faced Finna last year, she and Tcholan had handfasted in secret. It had felt good to face battle with the prospect of something permanent in a life full of farewells.

So here they were, the four of them, all wearing wedding green and white. Off to the side stood the youngest two Marlovan orphans; Jeje had given the ship rats to Eflis to train after the battle, and to everyone’s surprise, the two youngest and Eflis had bonded.

Eflis bent over the islands’ official scribe—hired from Sartor to write Freedom Island contracts, as there was no recognized government. “Family name Zhavala. Eh? We’re all agreed?” At a solemn nod from Sparrow and foot-hopping, happy grins from the tow-headed boy and girl now being officially adopted, the official smiled back, and wrote all their names down.

As the children each spoke their names (the boy with a slight tremor in his words) and watched their legal status take form, Eflis stared at them in amazement. She’d taken on children for years. Some stayed, some went, a few died. There were five of these Marlovan rats, all orphans from that battle out west, but somehow these two had become hers. Their happiness mattered. She didn’t go to bed until she’d seen them asleep; she made certain they had clothes and food and had found herself wondering if she should put them to a tutor. When the boy stuttered, she knew he was anxious; if they hurt, so did she.

Sparrow’s hands tightened. “We’re a family,” she whispered.

“Almost.” The official held up her sved. “After the vows.”

“All right! Let’s go!” Eflis yelled, twirling around.

Eflis had chosen a magnificent gown of gold-edged lace over green silk; Sparrow wore layers of pale green moth-wing silk that floated in hypnotic swirls when she moved.

Gillor strode in, decked out in her usual swashbuckling trousers and puffy shirt, but the trousers were wedding green instead of blue-and-white striped. Tcholan wore a green shirt and white deck pants. He was proudest of the fine gold-stitched sash that Jeje had given him, bought when the fleet had touched at Sarendan’s coast the previous autumn.

The four stood under the wedding arch of green boughs, each couple holding hands. They spoke their vows more or less together, Eflis’ voice trembling with laughter when someone or other stumbled. The newly-weds kissed to a roar of approval from those crowded round, and bottles passed from hand to hand.

The Sartoran scribe flourished her hand a little as she affixed the sved and said the magic spell over it. The crowd roared in approval as each contract vanished with a faint glimmer of light, to be stored in the Guild Archive in Sartor.

The two families looked at one another with pride and delight.

Then Nugget, barely waiting for the formal part of the evening to be over, swung down from the painted ceiling and began a rope dance over everyone’s heads.

The band began tapping and jingling in time, and people clapped as Nugget whirled and danced through the air in a way no one had ever seen before. The guests howled and cheered.

Dhalshev backed from the door, where he’d stood long enough to see the couples wed. He was about to walk on down the Saunter to the other weddings he’d been invited to when a gleam from high up brought his attention to the Octagon silhouetted against the stars. In one of the windows at the top someone flashed a deadlight: blink-blink pause, blink-blink.

Signal from headland
.

Dhalshev elbowed through the crowd to gaze across the harbor toward the rounded hills that formed the mouth of the harbor. Nothing visible, naturally. He pushed past a couple of Tcholan’s upper yardmen singing a bawdy song with their captain’s name inserted for a pirate infamous for sexual adventures, then checked when the darkness intensified at his side.

Fox was there, dressed in black as always.

Instantly suspicious, Dhalshev asked, “You expecting someone?” He waved toward the distant headland.

“News only,” Fox said.

Dhalshev was uneasy at winning that much from Fox. Something was amiss, all right. But it never did to ask. Instead, “I noticed your wedding pairs hired the scribe to make up treaties. That means they own something to be negotiated. You given your captains their ships?”

“No. Anything taken by us belongs to the fleet, which still belongs to Inda. That idea still holds them together, tenuous as it is. Except for Eflis. She came to us with her ships, and she adopted two of our ship rats.”

Dhalshev was surprised to learn that much and reflected that the signal might signify news. And Fox wanted to be there to hear it. Give a little, get a little.

The surging, yelling bands of merrymakers in the square gave way as Dhalshev and Fox made their way to the stair to the Octagon. Dhalshev peered upward, one foot on the first step. The signals flashing overhead indicated someone coming in, awaiting permission to dock at the pier.

Dhalshev cursed his knees, then forced himself up the stairs three at a time. Fox was right behind him.

At the top, the young woman on signal duty met Dhalshev, eyes wide. “Three Khanerenth warships, flying truce flags at the foremast above the crown-and-clover. Can they dock on the pier?”

. . . and a price of a thousand golden royals for the person of former Admiral Garjath Dhalshev, living or dead
. “Usual policy,” Dhalshev said. “One in, others out.”

Because of the Midsummer’s Day Games, the pier had been cleared, and all ships except
Cocodu
were anchored out in the middle harbor.

Dhalshev peered through his glass. By now the three big brigantines were visible, lanterns at foremast and mainmast, all stripped to fighting sail.

Dhalshev observed with deep appreciation the precision with which the topsails and jib vanished, then the mainsail, as the flagship rounded into the wind and drifted gently up against the dock. “Midsummer’s Day. Is this timing a coincidence?” he asked as he started across the square toward the main pier.

Fox drawled, “Traditional day of weddings, treaties, beginnings? Hmmm.”

Dhalshev cut him a sharp look, wondering if Fox intended to make trouble. Fox ignored it, his eyes on the expert way the flagship was moored, all sails beautifully furled. He didn’t have to see the deck to know each rope was set to the precise degree he’d been trained to when he was a boy.

They were halfway down the pier when the first figure leaped over the rail to land, hands on knees. When the tall young man straightened up, Dhalshev’s breath caught.

Laughing, exclaiming random words of happiness, Woof Woltjen closed the distance and clasped his former admiral’s arms.

“Where have you been?”

“Prison.”

“What?”

Woof glanced up at the warship as the crew on duty boomed out a ramp.

Woof said quickly, “Admiral Mehayan and an envoy have the royal communications. When I left you to look for Nugget, I never got any farther than Sarendan. We got caught in a sweep. My accent betrayed me, and they put me in another prison as a Khanerenth spy.”

Dhalshev cursed under his breath.

“Oh, it was just as bad as you think. They dosed me with kinthus, and of course I told them everything, including all your signals. At least I had the comfort of knowing that we—you—change them every three months, so what I told them was long out of use. But then they used me as a game token in their negotiations with Khanerenth because they wanted some ranker back who’d been caught where he shouldn’t be. I never saw the fellow. If it was a fellow. Anyway, they shipped me back to Khanerenth, and once again, I was under threat of death.”

Dhalshev shook his head. “I wish I’d known.”

“Well, I wished I could send a message. Over what felt like the next ten years I was questioned by two dukes, one herald-advocate, Admiral Mehayan, the count who got my father’s land, and finally the king. Had three interviews with him. I could tell he didn’t want to kill me, especially when the count—my own cousin though to the third degree—tried a little too hard to get me put out of the way. Then, just days ago, came the news that the Venn are in the strait. Took Llyenthur, right after a typhoon that smashed its way up both coasts. The Venn sent a white flag to Bren saying they had a year to surrender their harbors, or next year this time the Venn will come in force and take ’em. Get this! According to some fishers who ran cross-channel, they did the same to Nelsaiam just on the other side of the strait.”

Fox stilled. Dhalshev whistled softly.

Why didn’t you tell me, Ramis?
Fox thought. No answer.

Woof waved his hand toward the brigantine. “So suddenly our king concluded the peace treaty with Sarendan that’s been in negotiation for two or three years now, and he declared amnesty for all the former adherents to the old king who would swear fealty. And the next thing I know, I’m on my way here with the admiral and this envoy with Official Communications.”

On deck, there was an orderly flurry as civilian and military protocol were strictly observed. Dhalshev successfully recognized an attempt to compromise, blending the old ways with the new—that is, new as of nearly twenty years ago, when the present king took the place of his predecessor.

Woof said softly as the two men boomed down the ramp, “So I have my lands back. Rank if you return. I’ll have you know I’m no longer Woof.” He grinned, his narrow face wry in the brilliant light glowing from the Saunter. “
Lord
Woof. Lord Walaf, that is.” A mocking gesture toward the brigantine.

Four men approached. In front, a smooth-faced man in fine civilian dress and a round-faced, balding man wearing the light blue coat with large gold buttons belonging to an admiral. A coat akin to one Dhalshev had folded away in his clothes chest, untouched for nearly twenty years.

“Mehayan!” he said, his hands behind him to avoid the doffing of an invisible hat of salute.

Admiral Mehayan had had strict instructions. He flicked his hand to his forehead and then out in the full doff. “Dhalshev. It is good to see you. May I present Lord Hamazhav?”

Dhalshev bowed, the old politenesses coming back to his tongue. They exchanged the proper words, suave as a meeting in a marble palace and not on the dock of an infamous privateer lair, as music and laughter drifted over the water.

“There is much to hear, I gather,” Dhalshev said, gazing past the admiral’s armed marines waiting at a respectful distance, and the pair of lieutenants Mehayan could use as messengers or as backup muscle, as needed. Dhalshev took in the clean, familiar lines of the second and third warships, which were floating at station midway between the inner harbor and the entrance.

Warships. The crews on board would not be sitting on their hands. And no doubt they were backed up by a fleet sitting outside the harbor.

He turned Fox’s way to catch a slack-lidded glance, and Dhalshev knew that Fox could shoot one of those weird warbling arrows of his, and his fleet would be armed and ranged across the harbor before anyone could sail in.

Even if you didn’t like the man, you had to admit he was useful. If on your side. Dhalshev laughed to himself as he led his surprising guests past the warehouses to the Octagon’s stair, where he paused. “You really don’t need the marines, Mehayan. Keep the boys, but down here. There’s not enough room up there for us all. Woof, shall I send someone for Nugget?”

“She’s here?” Woof asked, grinning, then he made a quick gesture. “We’d better talk first. It’s enough to know she’s fine. All the rest can wait a bit longer.” He made an unobtrusive sign to the two lieutenants, whose faces betrayed quick grins before they stiffened into duty mode.

“Very well. Follow me, Admiral. My lord.”

As Mehayan dismissed his marine guard to take up a stance on the dock midway between the ship and the Octagon, and waved the two lieutenants to stand down to informal mode, Hamazhav said to Fox with just a little too much hauteur, “I am Lord Hamazhav of Khanerenth, Royal Envoy. Who are you?”