Treason's Shore (87 page)

But others could use fishers as spies.

“Walfga followed them in his boat.”

That meant Hegir was still aboard one of the Bren naval ships as a forecastleman. Again, no magical communication. Walfga was Hegir’s contact or rescue, as needed.

“So it’s surrender, then.” Durasnir had figured on that when no one sailed up the strait to reinforce Bren. However, no one knew what sort of mad plan Elgar the Fox—whoever was using the guise—might risk.

Durasnir looked up, and the two scouts were startled by the bitterness in his face. But his voice was neutral as he said, “Was Indevan Algara-Vayir among those who slipped in and out?”

“No. But rumors were consistent about the rest of Bren’s navy sailing east to meet him.” Adin studied his commander, then ventured a question. “No one of ours in Idayago, where Algara-Vayir was reported last?”

“No.”

They understood one another: Erkric had sent dag “military aides” to capture the famed Marlovan commander. The spies had reported failure—Indevan Algara-Vayir was constantly surrounded by at least a hundred of his followers until the day he just vanished.

Durasnir didn’t have to say anything. They all knew that dags were mostly useless in war, in spite of those rumored death spells.

“What can you tell me about Bren’s available wood?”

“Not a stick but what’s been claimed. Their prince and princess have been fighting over who should get precedence. The navy got its share during winter, in preparation for defense against us, and sailed with it. Guilds have all the rest against rebuilding after the typhoon damage.”

Durasnir dismissed the scouts and began issuing orders for a peaceful entry to the harbor.

A day later his ships ranged in the vast line just beyond the outermost island of the bay. The long, martial skyline looked impressive, and as the ships would be hull down from the spyglass of the inner island lookout, no details of fished masts and repaired spars should be visible to the Bren.

Durasnir sailed to the inner harbor accompanied by his elite squadron of nine warships, every one precisely on station, the
Cormorant
observing flag etiquette.

Prince Kavna, watching from the highest tower of the palace on the eastern ridge, lowered his glass when his scroll-case tapped. He said to Kliessin a moment later, “Dalm on Island Point says they’re hull down.”

“What does that mean?” Kliessin asked impatiently.

“It means they’re far enough out so he can’t see details. So we can’t see what kind of shape they’re in.”

Kliessin turned on her brother, anger and fear spiking her irritation. “They could be patched with paper and still thrash us.”

Kavna knew how worried she was, and what a terrible position she was in. Their father had always promised he’d step down from the throne before he got too old to think on his feet . . . but he hadn’t. His mind wandered back to his youth these days; one never knew what year he thought he was in.

Kavna said, “If Durasnir’s in bad shape, he’s going to want wood. Look, there’s only nine of them coming in. He expects surrender.”

Kliessin twitched a shoulder impatiently. “Well, we expected spies reporting to him. I just wonder if he’s also got ’em with Chim.”

“I don’t think with Chim,” Kavna said. “Those people all know one another. In the navy? Maybe.”

Kliessin chewed her lip. “So he knows we’re going to surrender, and he probably knows where all our wood is.”

She wished once again that the Venn would attack on land so they could bring their guard down out of the hills on them from behind. Bren’s long, successful history of defending its borders depended on knowing every hill, cave, grotto, and stream. On the ocean, everyone could see everything.

And as a young girl, she had seen these same ships, or ones just like them, sail in triumph through the wreckage of their old fleet to dock at the king’s pier. She had hated ships and the sea ever since.

“I’m going to try to stall.” She gripped her hands together until her rings pinched her flesh. “If that shit Durasnir wants to see Papa again, let him listen to the stories about court fifty years ago.”

Durasnir reached the palace precisely at noon and was ushered to the most formal hall, which seemed largely unchanged from his last visit in the company of his son Vatta.

Kliessin’s first sight of the tall warrior in gleaming silver and gold armor and the winged helm threw her back nearly twenty years. The memory just made her angrier.

Durasnir took in the sword-backed princess in her stiff brocade glittering with gems, her hair twisted up in a complicated knot behind the golden circlet she wore banding her head, and knew that he’d read the signals correctly.

The Bren guards had lined the main road, as if to herd the Venn along. Weapons at the ready, but no word of attack. No word at all, challenging or friendly. As if he and his Drenga Honor Guard were wild beasts.

Durasnir slowed his step incrementally, waiting for the princess to speak. Old King Galadrin was not present, though Durasnir knew he lived. Prince Kavnarac stood at his sister’s shoulder, also dressed in a brocade robe stiff with gems. Durasnir did not remember seeing him when he negotiated the previous treaty; Kavnarac would have been a small boy then. And as always happened—like bumping a bruise—the words “small boy” brought back images of Vatta’s face as he had looked around this marble room . . .
Halvir in Erkric’s grip?

He must concentrate. Within a few heartbeats, it became clear that Princess Kliessin was not going to speak first. She might stand there until the sun fell out of the sky, but she would not speak first, underscoring that he was an invader.

All right, he was an invader. “Princess Kliessin,” he said in Sartoran. “Or is it queen?”

“My father,” she replied coldly, “sits in his chamber, counting peanuts. You may visit him and view him if you wish. We cannot make any decisions until he regains cognizance of his surroundings, which he does from time to time.”

Once my people would have forced him to sail for the far shore
, Durasnir thought.
Mercy or expedience? Was Brun merciful when she bound me to life?

He set that aside. “I am aware that you effectively rule this kingdom, therefore this stalling ploy is ineffective. You know by now that we keep our word—”

“What word,” she cut in, her voice thin, “did you give those Marlovan children out west?”

“Is it children, now?” Durasnir retorted.
Brun’s mercy . . . Brun, be as vigilant over Halvir as you were over me. I hope to better end
. “That castle was full of warriors, who happened to be women and girls. Trained. Probably better than these fellows in the orange I see all around me, judging from the way some of them hold their weapons. The women refused our offer of peaceful surrender and fought to the last. Are you prepared to fight to the last? Because if you are, we are likewise prepared, and can commence at any moment.”

Her gown shimmered as her hands flexed, then she said, “No. My commitment is to preserving the lives of our people.”

“Then my men will stand down. I will assign a captain to supervise the harbor. You will be given a list of our requirements as tribute, and once those are met, you will carry on your trade unmolested. But supervised through our headquarters.”

“And if we don’t meet your demands?”

“We will take what we need,” he said, the pain from his head shooting down through his jaw. “I encourage you not to put me to that trouble.”

“Inda.”

Fox rarely used that tone, quick and serious.

His partner lifted his hands and stepped away, freeing Inda to roll to his feet. He’d been demonstrating how to turn a defensive fall into an attack as he conducted the drill on the forecastle under the swaying light of lanterns. It was supposed to be Fox’s sleep watch. Inda wasn’t surprised to find Fox still awake.

Inda motioned the ship rats back to double-stick drill and trotted aft to the cabin, working his right shoulder absently. Double-stick drill seldom bothered it, not like grappling or sword work. But that fall hurt. He knew how to land—why did falls on his right side send those lightning bolts up through him like that?

As soon as Inda reached the cabin Fox slammed the door. From the still air, Inda knew the scuttles had been closed. “Something wrong with Barend?”

“No. He’s fine. Reached this headland.” Fox touched a chalk mark on their chart. “Look here.” Fox walked to the desk, where he had the mirror chart spread out and pinned down.

As Inda watched, Fox whispered the words and made the pass. The lights glowed, as usual: patrols along the north side of the strait, a few in the south, neatly spaced, what they called a search net. Rigid lines representing ships on station just above Bren.

But Nelsaiam’s bay showed complicated clusters, some of them blurred. “So the Venn attacked Nelsaiam,” Inda said. “So? We can’t see what Nelsaiam is doing and the dots don’t make sense.”

“They do when you make a pass every other glass,” Fox said. “And now, look here.” He pulled from his desk a sheaf of papers covered with splotches. “This is their progress,” he said, throwing the sheets down one at a time. “I figured out what the blurs are, they have to be double tings from various ships. Over a watch, they’d cover enough distance to blur here, and if I compare them against all these intersecting lines, I can see not only the direction of the fastest ships, but their approximate speed.” He sat back in triumph.

Inda bent over the papers, looking more closely. “So . . . we can guess what the enemy is doing.”

“More than that. If you assume tactics along the Venn patterns—see on this paper, I put what I think are the Nelsaiam ships in red dots—then it makes even more sense.”

Inda whistled. “We’re getting a lesson in what they’ll bring against us.”

“It’s not as good as being there, but it’s better than anything else.”

Inda grinned, then slapped his hand down. “Wait. How often are you doing it? What if the magic wears out?”

Fox grimaced. “I hadn’t thought of that. Did Dag Signi tell you there was a limit?”

“No, we didn’t talk about it. But I can’t imagine the magic on that thing is limitless. Every pass probably was laid down with a spell, and I don’t know how many times she did that.”

“Do you think watching the evolution of this battle worth the risk?” Fox asked.

Inda frowned down at the sheaf of papers. “We need to learn, but we also need to know when they’re coming at us. And how.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk as he studied the spread of papers.

“D’you see it? They’re breaking and reforming in triangles. I think the raiders are interlocking with the capital ships. If so, they’re tight.”

Inda sighed. “Watch the battle. I think that’s most important. If the magic runs out, we’ll have to scout ’em the old way. It’s not like their coming is any surprise.”

“Soon as it slows, I’ll go back to once a watch. And when it’s done, back to once a day.”

Brun had only a heartbeat’s warning when her front chamber thrall entered, her face pale.

Alarm burned through Brun. “Fricca?”

“The Dag of all the Venn. In the Tree room. For you, Vra Oneli Stalna.”

Alarm chilled into dread. Brun carefully stoppered her ink, wondering who would next touch her desk, and what they would make of her translation as she rolled up the scroll and set it neatly on the rack. How would Erkric put her to death—or was he merely going to steal her mind?

While her trembling hands moved to neaten the desk in a frantic but futile effort to postpone whatever horror awaited, she tried to calm herself.

Finally the shock wore off enough for her to realize that calm was not going to happen until she knew the worst.

“Oh Fulla, I trust it is not about you,” she breathed out as she twitched her plain, spring-green-dyed work over-robe into flatness, swiped an errant strand of hair behind her ear, then marched toward her own formal parlor. How terrible, when an enemy enters your citadel and, with merely the sound of his step, erases your boundaries of safety.