The Fox (29 page)

The conspirators grinned at one another. Their mothers and grandmothers had handed down the simple codes they used: names of dogs and horses and flowers standing for people and places and political issues of importance. When the code did not suffice, convoluted poetry in the Old Sartoran alphabet did.

Shen said to Dnar, “By the time enough letters cross the kingdom no one will ever be able to track where the original news came from. Or how it is spreading! But we must write everyone to make it work, not just our friends. My first letter shall be home to Marend and my mother about Foxy, for I
will
believe it’s he, somehow, with Inda. But Dannor Tya-Vayir is second on my list. She’ll be bored wild by now, stuck at home with Hawkeye’s father, who scares off all her favorites.”

“Being unworthy of the soon-to-be wife of a son of a princess,” Mran said, watching Carleas stitching grimly away on her betrothed’s wedding shirt. She was embroidering it with yellow suns, the old Cassadas symbol, though she was not fond of needlework. “Bored and that means looking for some way to stir up trouble.”

Shen observed wryly, “One thing you can trust our old Mudface for is making trouble.”

The older girls smiled at the private nickname from their girlhood years. Dannor “Mudface” Tya-Vayir, who was as proud of her fine looks as she was of her lineage, had as a small girl done something so reprehensible that Tdiran, the king’s sister, who had married the Jarl of Yvana-Vayir, had once marched her down to the vegetable garden and scrubbed her face in the mud.

Mudface and her equally unpopular brother Horsebutt loathed the Sierlaef twice as much as they loathed the Harskialdna for bypassing their family favorites when he created those new jarlates up north. Not that Horsebutt cared about his father’s liegemen; his hatred was personal, going back to their academy days.

“But Dannor won’t be at Convocation this year,” Mran pointed out. “The Jarl of Yvana-Vayir insists they have the wedding at home, and on New Year’s.”

“Hadn’t heard that.” Carleas glanced up from her stitchery. “What’s the truth?”

“The king didn’t give him permission to have Hawkeye and Dannor wed in the throne room,” Tdor said. “Like the royals. Hadand told us the Harskialdna wrote in the king’s name, saying if the Jarl wanted his son to marry at Convocation it could be held in the great hall, like the other Jarls’ sons and daughters.”

Everyone knew the Jarl of Yvana-Vayir’s pretensions were shared passionately by Dannor. It was the single thing they agreed on.

Mran added soberly, “He would not have dared that if Tdiran-Jarlan had still been alive.” But Tdiran had died falling from a horse that had slipped on ice and now there was no one who could rein in Yvana-Vayir’s ambitions.

Shendan laughed soundlessly. “So no royal wedding for Mudface. Oh, but it’s perfect, don’t you see? I report it to her as gossip, and we can safely trust her poison pen to spread the news about Inda and thereby raise again the question of why he vanished in first place. She’ll have it all over the royal city before Convocation, just to make the Harskialdna—and the Sierlaef—squirm.”

“News about pirates never needs a source, not after that battle at the Nob and the pirate retaliations against the coast all year long.” Carleas gave her sudden caw of laughter, and flung a pale blond braid impatiently back. “We’ll have every city talking about the heir to Choraed Elgaer out in the world fighting pirates—we will not mention the other two. We need proof they really are Savarend—Fox, that is—and Barend, and anyway their situation is not the same. Let’s keep the attention on Inda. If everyone’s talking about how he is at war against these damn pirates who have been destroying our harbors, well, the boyhood mess—particularly the cowardice accusation—would vanish like fog in the sun. Even the Harskialdna couldn’t gainsay his efforts for the kingdom. ” She smiled over at Joret. “And if your future husband’s triumphs are on everyone’s lips, the Sierlaef has even less excuse to come seeking you. Finally, if people ask questions about why he vanished, eventually the Harskialdna will be forced to answer.”

“Future husband.” Joret sent a quick look at Tdor, a look of muted concern.

Shendan, watching, said, “You come stay with us next, Joret.”
Dear, practical Tdor. Is she a romantic after all?

Carleas laughed. “It’s a perfect idea, Joret. You have to go next to Darchelde.”

Shen added mockingly, “Even the Sierlaef cannot invite himself there without breaking the treaty, and if he tried, watch the Jarls rise up on their hind legs at Convocation, howling,
Why? What was he doing there? Are we to set aside the shackles binding the evil Montredavan-An family to their lands?
”

“The Sierlaef will be furious,” Mran said, gloating.

“But not nearly as much as his uncle will be when Inda’s name is on everyone’s lips,” Shendan promised. “We had all better get busy now, because we’ll want to get our Runners across the kingdom and back at least once before the heavy snows come. Give that gossip a chance to take root, so it’s growing branches and leaves by the turn of the year.”

The others laughed. Tdor laughed, too, though it was forced. She felt a pang of grief, though she knew it was foolish. Inda had probably forgotten them all. Six years he’d been gone—years she’d counted off one by one, celebrating his Name Day alone each autumn, or in private with Inda’s mother.

He was eighteen now. And though she was half a year away from twenty, sometimes she felt younger than the bossy, self-righteous near-thirteen she’d been when she and Inda had last seen one another.

He hadn’t even reached twelve yet, but when he made a typical little boy joke about looking forward to his father’s planned skirmish with some local brigands, she’d snapped,
Just remember this plan is not a war game, you haywit
. How many times had she excoriated herself for her pompous, oh-so-superior nagging—the last words they ever said to one another?

She looked at Joret’s sky-colored eyes and repressed a sigh. If Inda ever came home, he’d be delighted to find Joret waiting as future wife, as lovely as she was good. And Tdor did like Whipstick, she did, she
did
.

Nevertheless, when her Runner Noren came to her chamber that night to get her orders, she saw in Tdor’s puffy eyes and red nose that she had been weeping, all alone.

Chapter Eighteen

AT year’s end, high in an ancient tower in Ala Larkadhe, Evred Varlaef entered his private room to an astonishing—but not new—sight.

On the old stone floor a dark-haired young man no older than he lay motionless, his eyes wide with fear, his hands trembling, as two huge dogs stood over him, saliva dripping from bared fangs, fur raised the length of their spines, ears flat.

Sindan, just arrived, held his sword tip under the young man’s neck. “Assassin,” he said briefly in Marlovan. And nudged with the toe of his boot the long, wickedly sharp carving knife lying nearby where it had fallen.

The would-be assassin did not understand that language, but from the way his desperate gaze snapped between Sindan, the dogs, and Evred, it was clear he expected the worst.

Evred hunkered down next to him, one hand resting on the nearest dog, whose growls diminished, though he did not move from his guard pose.

“Why are you here?” Evred asked in his accented Idayagan. “What is it you think I have done?”

The man’s pupils shrank, revealing a change in emotion, though Evred could not descry what. He did not answer.

Evred swung to his feet and said, “Let him go.”

“To try again?” Sindan asked, low-voiced.

Evred waved tiredly. “If not he, then another will come.” He glanced at those trembling hands, so soft on the palms— no training here. Just desperation. Why? “Let him go.”

Sindan snapped his fingers and the dogs sat, though their ears remained flat against their narrow skulls and both sets of pale gold eyes watched, unwavering, as the assassin climbed to his feet, warily turning.

Evred waved a hand toward the door. The man licked his lips, took a step—another—another—and then came the swift hiss of running footsteps down the stairs.

Sindan bent to pick up the carving knife. “If you are going to continue letting them go, you must agree to keep the dogs with you. I would not have sent them, except that the night Runner saw a cupboard door open at the back of the summer larder that he remembered being locked, and on examination, discovered another passage.” He held up the knife. “This is our own kitchenware. We search every stranger who enters the gates now. But next time all our precautions might not be enough.”

Evred sighed. “The dogs may stay.”

Sindan laid his palm to his heart and vanished through the door.

Evred forced himself to sit, to pick up a report, and as snow patted cat’s-paws against the windows, he bent his mind to the neat columns of winter supplies to the newest outpost, plus the list of promotions to man it.

When his heart had resumed its accustomed measured tread, he paused, glancing at the bare walls of glistening white stone smooth as ice.

New Year’s Week was soon, which meant Convocation at home. Evred was glad he was not there, though he longed to discuss with his father what he had learned about ruling a new land. He also missed Hadand, but he did not want to see his uncle or brother—or hear the gossip about the fact that the heir to the throne was twenty-five yet there was no mention of a royal wedding.

Evred looked out the window as the wind off the mountains brought the ghost of a sound, so subtle you could not really hear it, you felt it.

It was a curious resonance, like what music was before there was melody. Like wind instruments blown by someone who did not pause to breathe: a long, steady hum that made your thoughts drift down the flow of time . . .

The wind died, and except for the snapping of the fire, silence closed over the room.

He sighed and returned to the letter he’d received that morning from the Lindeth Runner.

She could have kept it, Evred thought. Her returning it was honest, but it might not be indicative of good will. He considered summoning her to find out how she had received the money. Surely Inda was not there in Lindeth, merely half a morning’s ride away?

The idea made him half start out of his chair, even as his inner voice insisted
impossible, impossible
.

“Evred-Varlaef.”

He looked up, relieved by the sight of Nightingale Toraca’s jowly hound-face. Evred had a personal Runner now, thanks to his academy friend Noddy Toraca. Noddy’s younger brother Branid Toraca—nicknamed Nightingale when it was discovered that the gap between his front teeth enabled him to whistle with amazing fluidity—had cried himself to sleep at age twelve after hearing the story of Dogpiss Noth. He’d wanted nothing more than to train to be a Runner for Noddy or one of his circle of friends since then.

“Vedrid’s here.” Nightingale gestured over his shoulder. “Stashed him in my own room, on account of what you’d said.”

“Anyone else see him?”

Nightingale shook his head. “He stopped in the city at a tavern and hired a boy to bring up a message to the royal Runner, and that being me, I went for him, like you told me to last winter. Everything spoken, nothing on paper.”

Had it been a year since Noddy had sent his brother?

Nightingale had appeared with a typical Noddy message—
If you need another runner, I recommend Nightingale. He whistles, doesn’t sing
—but Evred had since mentally thanked his old friend over and over. Didn’t sing indeed. Evred’s other Runners—he had a staff of ten now—were competent men, provided by either the king or the Harskialdna. They would do their duty, but it was to Nightingale he had slowly begun to tell things that before he only dared keep in his head. It was Nightingale who covered for him when he ventured out in anonymous Runner blue to listen, inspect—or visit a pleasure house.

“Bring him up,” he said. “Listen. I forgot about New Year’s, but it’s on us in two weeks. If you want to go for home leave, you may. You’ve been here an entire year.”

“Captain Sindan said that royal Runners ought not to ask for home leave in wartime.” Nightingale shrugged, that same turtle-on-a-fencepost shrug that characterized Noddy—shoulders up under his ears, arms dangling. “Because you don’t get it, either. Anyway, my brother’ll be on duty at the royal city, our sister married away, Dad’s in the south with the Sierlaef, and Mama is staying with my sister, so there’s no one home to visit.”

The sudden clash of steel stilled them both for a heartbeat. The sound was cadenced, followed by a shout and then two more clashes: time for drill. The day watch had begun.

Nightingale left, and Evred frowned down at his letter. Maybe he should invent a reason to go to Lindeth. It wasn’t very far, but then distance wasn’t the problem, it was the endless political repercussions of his moving about, necessarily with a suitably large force if he rode as himself and not anonymously. The assassination attempts made his danger clear enough.

Captain Sindan’s most trusted Runners had reported that Mardric, the Olaran Resistance leader, had gone to ground, reappearing in Lindeth to try to organize the disaffected Idayagans there. He might have been behind the assassination attempts, or there could be any number of angry Idayagans, determined to strike a blow against the Evil Enemy.

Evred, on his anonymous rides, had begun hearing some of the rumors about the evil Marlovans and what they were supposed to have done.

The door opened then closed behind Vedrid, who was almost unrecognizable. He had cut his hair and wore a shapeless tunic belted with weave and a cloak. Idayagan clothing.