Inda (78 page)

Still, he could not resist crouching down to listen to the low voices, despite rain dripping off the half-built roof onto his neck. He had to be certain.

They spoke in the local language that Evred had studied so hard on the ride up the peninsula, their conversation not even remotely one of passion—and all the names and places were unfamiliar. Another jab of self-mockery caused him to turn away, but the clink of glassware froze him.

Then the unfamiliar voice said, “I should run. This is usually the time your fierce little prince shows up.”

“Not until day after tomorrow. I think he thinks he’s being unobtrusive.” And Dallo’s familiar laugh, musical and just a little sardonic.

“Have you put Mardric’s questions to him yet?”

“No,” and again, the careless laugh, once dangerously attractive, but now, in the cold, with no sight of that teasing mouth, just sounding smug. “It can wait. I want him devoted to me first, body and soul. Give me two weeks.”

This time Evred did get away, backing up straight from the wall so no one inside would glimpse him, though the windows were shuttered against the rain.

He backed up until he was between two other buildings, and nearly tripped over a pile of bricks awaiting the next day’s work. He swerved, orders to secure and kill the spy—to arrest everyone in the family—shooting like arrows through his mind. No. The family probably knew nothing. Mardric, Evred had learned, was the name a local resistance leader went by.

Evred drew in a deep breath. Yes, he had been a fool. He would do nothing foolish now. Dallo was a spy, but had learned nothing, so far, beyond that the Marlovan commander was a fool. He had even admitted they were enemies, the very first time they met and Evred had returned that stupid answer that at the time he had thought so very sophisticated. Whether or not Dallo’s words were fair warning was immaterial. Dallying with the enemy had gotten people executed before.

Evred wandered at random along the new street being built for the harbor officials. Humiliation made him long for isolation. His position in command, which he had come so very close to jeopardizing for the sake of a dangerous smile, required him to think through what he’d learned, and what he ought to do, before he faced anyone he knew.

But he’d scarcely passed ten buildings when a tall, thin young woman caught sight of him in the generous golden light pouring from the windows of the harbor guild house, and her brows rose. Despite the pouring, shockingly cold rain (a cold he did not yet feel) her lips parted and she changed direction, pulling her green cloak tighter against the wind.

Evred had just time to recognize the harbormaster’s chief scribe when she said, “You wanted to meet someone. She said she will meet you.” Her Iascan was heavily accented.

Evred thought about spies, assassination, but his mood was so vile that right now he did not care. He lifted a hand, palm out: show the way.

“In here.” The scribe gestured to the harbor guild house, which was now a warren of little makeshift rooms occupied by officials and displaced families.

She opened doors and shut them again three times. Very soon he sat down, shedding pools of water, in a tiny parlor that smelled of baking bread, furnished with a small rough-planed table and four chairs. A young woman sat in one. The room was made smaller by a curtain drawn across half of it. From beyond the curtain the little clinks and scrapes and rustles indicated someone preparing a meal in a tiny space.

The scribe motioned for Evred to sit, and so he took his place across from the tall young woman. For a moment they stared into one another’s faces, Evred seeing heavy dark brows, a mutinously angry mouth, thick black hair braided back, travel-worn clothing.

And she saw, instead of the expected arrogance or contempt or cruelty, a young man with dark red hair, clear hazel eyes, and a courteous air.

From the doorway came the voice of the harbormaster’s scribe. “Ryala Pim just arrived from the east. She saw the Fleet forming, but said she’d talk to you only if you answer some questions.”

Ryala flicked a look beyond Evred at the scribe, then returned her dark, unfriendly gaze to Evred. “Are you really the Marlovan Prince, or are you some underling dressed up?” She poked a finger toward his travel-stained riding coat with its crown stitched on the breast.

“I am Evred-Varlaef Montrei-Vayir of Iasca Leror,” he said, adding wryly, “I don’t know how to prove it unless you come to my camp. You can ask anyone there who I am.”

“I don’t want to go to your camp. I want restitution for my ships,” she said. And then stunned Evred with the words, “Your Prince Indovun Algraveer stole them.”

“Indevan. And he’s not a prince.” Who said that? Evred realized he’d spoken as shock gave way to a flood of delight and then apprehension. The whipsawing emotions, after what he’d just experienced, made him feel slightly dizzy.

Ryala slammed her hand on the table. “But he
is
a pirate.” And at his expression of disbelief, “If you don’t want to listen—”

“Speak.” Evred rapped out the order quite sharply. It was unconscious, and he’d meant to be polite, but the tone reassured Ryala that he really was who he said he was.

“They
said
the ships would have been taken anyway. That the embargo made them targets. But they sold our ships. At least one, probably all three. Sold our cargo, and my mother and I, we have nothing left. Nothing. I have to go back to Lindeth and tell her we have to hire out as cooks, or scrubbers, because all we know are ships, and you Marlovans made it impossible for us to do any trade.”

“How much?” Evred asked.

“How much what?” Ryala was so ready for disbelief she struggled to make sense of this unexpected response.

“How much are you owed?”

She drew in an unsteady breath. “Three ships—the cargo—”

Evred gestured, and the two women saw it as kingly command. “Find out how much you are owed. Bring it to me. I will pay whatever it is.”

That simple! It couldn’t be true. It had to be some Marlovan trap. Ryala glared across the table, her limping thoughts trying to fight their way to clarity, but then the young man leaned forward, his eyes wide, the pupils large, so large she saw the lamplight reflected in them, pinpoints of golden flame. “When did you see him? What did he say?”

“Who?” she squeaked.

“Inda. The Dal—you would call him Lord Indevan.”

“I saw him in Freeport Harbor. Just before winter. It-it’s a pirate island somewhere east of Khanerenth. He was all battered up. Some battle, supposedly against pirates, I was told, though I don’t believe . . . well. He was there, with Handar Kodl, who was once first mate to Captain Beagar—”

She stopped when she saw the young man rub one hand along his jaw. His fingers shook. Her voice stuttered to a stop.

The hand came down, and his face was calm. “Is that all you can tell me about him? That he’s, what, become a pirate?”

“Yes. Well, they are calling themselves something else, but—” Again she stopped, remembering that she had no evidence, really, except her own angry assumptions. “Whatever they are or aren’t, they won’t get hired anywhere honest, being Iascan. Everyone knows about the embargo, thanks to you Marlovans, and the Venn take Iascans off ships. No one sees them again.”

The prince said, “Bring your total to—” His eyes went hazy, and then he looked up. “To the harbormaster. I’ll see to it that your sum is made good.” He looked in question at the scribe, who gestured agreement, not hiding her surprise.

Ryala stared in even greater surprise, but before either could speak the young man rose, his soggy clothing smelling of wet wool, and stepped out, closing the door quietly behind him, and Ryala said, “He didn’t even ask about the Fleet.”

The scribe dropped onto one of the chairs, letting out her breath in a slow whistle. “I suppose we can send word of what we know through the harbormaster. It’s not like we know much, but I guess we owe him that.”

Ryala did not respond. It was so much easier to hate these Marlovans, to regard them as so many mindless killers, all alike in their evil. To be dealt with fairly by one was almost as upsetting as the clues—covert, but there—that they cared for one another.

Chapter Twenty-eight

E
VRED realized he had no one to send to Tanrid.

That was it, the thing that had been bothering him all along—ever since Mran Cassad exhorted him to send word if he needed her help. How could he send word? Everyone had their own Runners, trusted Runners, Runners who kept their own business quiet and reported everything of everyone else’s. Everyone except him; he’d never wanted a personal Runner because he knew they were all spies for his uncle.

Runners . . . and sex.

There was nothing, Evred thought grimly as he toiled straight into the rising wind, like humiliation to force clear sight. Now he could see what had probably been obvious to everyone not only along the main street but in his camp: that Dallo had been on the watch for a likely connection with the Marlovans, and instead of having to exert himself to seduce one of the warriors, it was the prince himself who’d come to heel at the first hot glance.

Well, he wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last to be blinded by lust, and suddenly those songs, too, made a lot of sense. He grimaced, but there wasn’t any pain, at least not yet; not in the face of the news about Inda.

Inda, alive. And . . . a pirate.

Evred had promised Tanrid, but there was no one to send—a general message would be opened. They had not set up a code.

I need my own Runners,
he thought, as the first perimeter guard called out the challenge, and Evred responded with the day’s password. Chuckles behind him made his ears burn, and accelerated him toward his tent, before which he paused. How simple! How easy. He was in command, so no one could stop him from taking the news about Inda to Tanrid himself. Meanwhile it would get him out of Dallo’s territory.

Evred ducked inside, and as he shivered out of his wet clothing into dry, he mentally reviewed the situation here at the Nob. There was nothing that couldn’t be done by Sindan.

By morning he had his gear packed and his story ready. The captains were surprised, and Sindan concerned, when he announced that he was riding east to perform a surprise inspection himself along the north coast, which he still had yet to see. Sindan insisted he take two Guards and two Runners and then suggested Evred wear Runner blue, at least along the peninsula, so he wouldn’t be a target. And so three Runners and two Guards rode splashing through the mud that dawn, steam rising from the puddles, the air brisk and clean.

 

 

 

They had a week old report on Tanrid’s movements at Ala Larkadhe below the south end of the Andahi Pass. At Sala Varadhe Castle at the north end of the pass, which would soon be held by the Arveas family, as Evred had desired, the Runners were able to give him a report three days old, and at Trad Varadhe castle in the western region of Idayago called Tradheval, a report half a day old, sending them south on Tanrid’s trail (“Here, take a pair of scout dogs and let them sniff Tanrid Laef’s bed upstairs; they’ll find him faster than a hawk stoops”) as Tanrid rode out just that morning to investigate a report of marauders in the river towns on the other side of a great forest.

They set out after him—a ride almost not made, because they were weary, and the weather was cold. But Trad Varadhe had fresh horses and Tanrid was so close, so very close.

It was near midnight, midway along the forest road, when they spotted, between tall stands of trees on another ridge, the pinpoint of ruddy light that was probably a campfire, and then they heard echoes, faint shouts and the ringing of steel.

Bavas, one of the king’s Runners under Captain Sindan’s command, jerked in his saddle, his face a pale blotch in the weak moonlight. “It sounds like fighting, Evred-Varlaef.”

An attack? Just then someone blew the academy ride-to-shoot signal. Once. And again—until the sound was cut off.

One of the dragoons drew a hissing breath. “That’s not locals.”

“Ride!” Evred shouted.

The horn had brought more attackers. The noise intensified as Evred’s party splashed across a stream, galloped up the ridge and into the camp. The fight was desperate; the attackers looked up, saw the Runner blue, and redoubled their efforts in maddened desperation.

Most of them clustered around Tanrid Algara-Vayir, who was alone except for three ferocious scout dogs trying to defend him. Hot with fury, Evred closed the last distance at a gallop, dismounting in a perfect drop and roll, coming up with sword in hand as the two standing attackers retreated into the trees, leaving Tanrid lying alongside two dead dogs and a wounded one, and surrounded by dead enemies.

Tanrid tried to rise, and sank back. The dragoons chased the two fleeing attackers, the Runners searched for more. Evred cast his sword onto the mossy ground and knelt by Tanrid, who lay facing away from the fire, half in shadow. Evred did not see any arrows or knife hilts. Relief washed through him. “Tanrid.”

“Evred. Not yours?” Tanrid coughed, a ghastly, liquid sound. He turned his head. His mouth opened, and horror froze Evred’s nerves when blood bubbled out. Tanrid gasped for breath, and now Evred saw the terrible wound in his side, under the gripping hands. His eyes were stark, desperate, as he fought to understand. “Evred.” Each word took a breath. “Evred. Not. Your ambush?”

“Ambush?” There were many words for ambush in Marlovan. Tanrid used the word that implied treachery.

Evred looked at the bodies littering the area, saw tattered northern clothing. Idayagan brigands wouldn’t see an attack as treachery, but defense. And Tanrid would know that.

He forced himself to focus, his own purpose coming first to mind. “I came to find you. Tell you myself. I found out where Inda is—” But the words about piracy would not come.