The Fox (58 page)

Tau grinned across the table at her.

“Don’t we?” she asked, less belligerently now.

“How much has Inda ever told us of his motives?” Tau sat back. “My mother always used to tell me that people put different values on sex at different times: sex with our people at the pleasure house, sex with others outside of it. Though she was talking about the way they came at the price of exchange, I’ve come to the conclusion that she spoke a general truth. That is, people put different values not just on others’ lives, but their own, and the exchange isn’t always money.”

Dasta pointed a calloused finger. “You think our Marlovans don’t value our lives? Or their own?”

The swinging lamplight gleamed in Tau’s eyes, twin golden flames. “I don’t think Inda has any value for his own life. Not at sea. That might be one of the reasons he’s so formidable a fighter in battle, though we can all see that Fox has the edge on skill. Just barely, now that Inda seems to have gotten his full growth at last—he might not be tall but he makes up for it through here.” He drew a line across his own chest.

Dasta said, “He wants to go home. I always thought that,” he added in a low voice. “Wondered why he didn’t after we sank the Brotherhood. But he never even went ashore, except before we left, to pay our shot.”

Tau shrugged. “Let’s say Inda can’t go. Not because of some threat. Or even a price on his head. That wouldn’t stop him if he had sufficient reason.”

Jeje nodded. Anyone who had seen Inda in battle could believe that.

“It’s a question of honor, which means—here I’m guessing—he really does have to have sufficient reason, something that supersedes whatever it was that disgraced him.”

Jeje sighed, restless again.

Dasta rubbed his bony chin. He said, “All right. Makes sense. But why would he want to go home if they are all such shits?”

“Because they aren’t. Only the king’s brother and his first son are. Barend spoke well of Inda’s sister, Hadand by name. She will apparently one day have to marry the royal heir. Barend loves Hadand. Says Inda does, too. And she loves him, misses him terribly. So does Barend’s paternal cousin Evred, the king’s younger son. Barend called Evred ‘Sponge,’ I cannot imagine why. Anyway, Barend spoke even more highly of this cousin Evred, or Sponge.”

Jeje drew in a sharp breath, remembering Inda’s first day or two on board. How he’d been staring at the bucket of red sponges just pulled up from the sea, his face drawn with pain.

“This Evred-the-Sponge being the one who is supposed to become the Marlovan Royal Shield Arm, if his brother doesn’t kill him first.”

Jeje snorted as directly overhead seabird feet skittered on the deck. “Figures. The ones Inda misses are the ones who have no power and are probably even dead by now. When it comes to kings, bullies
always
win—because kings
are
bullies.”

Dasta laughed. “So says Jeje, who knows what’s what.”

Tau grinned, and Jeje flushed. “Find me one single exception if you don’t believe me.”

Dasta yawned. “Who cares? We’re never going to meet any kings. Or queens. Rain’s over.” He opened a scuttle and peered out. “Looks like that might be your signal, Tau, aboard
Death
. And I want to get some shut-eye while I can. You know right well that tomorrow, if Inda or Fox don’t set us to rousting our crews out of the bawdy houses, we’ll be grunting supplies aboard in that heat, stowing, and making sail, all before tomorrow’s ebb.” Dasta grinned, an unexpectedly nasty grin that was the more startling because his expression was usually so mild. “Anyone who comes aboard drunk on my ship is gonna wish they was under a Marlovan king.”

Chapter Six

MIDSUMMER’S Day was a month and a half away for the southern half of the world.

In Iasca Leror’s royal city this year it meant a coronation. Not that Marlovans wore crowns. The only metal involved was the steel of swords. But the closest word for kings becoming kings in Iascan was “coronation.” Before taking Iasca Leror, the Marlovans had been commanded by chieftains, usually selected after extremely violent competitions among the three ruling families and anyone else ambitious—or mad—enough to challenge them. But coronations happened in castles, and when the Marlovans took the Iascans’ castles, they adopted many of their customs.

So there would not just be a coronation, but a wedding as well.

Sentries patrolled ceaselessly along the towers and walks, men looking outward, women guarding inward. Memory of the winter’s bloodshed was fresh enough that the sentries were extra-vigilant in case certain Jarls thought they might try their hands at king-making with more success than Mad Gallop Yvana-Vayir had had.

While the vigilant sentries walked under the brilliant sky, pausing only to wipe their damp faces, Queen Wisthia sent a messenger from the residence wing to locate Evred and Hadand.

The queen so rarely disturbed anyone, preferring during the long years of her marriage to remain in the stronghold of her private rooms, that Evred and Hadand, who had far too much to do and far too little time in which to do it, immediately left their respective tasks. They met in the hall on the way to the queen’s rooms.

“Do you know what the problem is?” Hadand asked.

His brow furrowed as he observed Hadand’s worried face. “I do not,” he said. “I thought you might.”

She opened her hands, flicking him a glance. Though he had grown up with her and once would have said he knew her better than anyone, save only his cousin Barend, he could not account for this new habit of hers. If one could call it a habit, that quick, anxious look into his face, followed a heartbeat later by a studied calm, her attention on a distant corner of the room. Or a window, he discovered, as she peered out at the alley leading to the old tack rooms back of the stable’s outbuildings.

“She’s not spoken to me of it,” Hadand said in a low tone. “Not even about changing rooms. Nor would I ask,” she added in haste. “My own rooms are fine until she goes back to Anaeran-Adrani. If she goes?” She looked up in question.

He said, “She’s mentioned no change in plans.”

During her very first interview with Evred after the slaughter of the royal family during winter, Wisthia had said, “May I go home?”

They were now in earshot of the female guards posted outside the queen’s suite across the hall from the king’s suite, where Evred would take up residence in a month’s time. The door to the queen’s sitting room was not opposite the king’s. Wisthia had chosen an entryway at the other end of her suite, and so Evred and Hadand kept walking down the hall. The guard women saluted, palms striking over their hearts.

Entering the queen’s chambers was like walking into another world. Hangings on the walls; low, stuffed chairs; the scent of carefully nurtured foreign blossoms; the distant sound of soft woodwinds and metal-stringed instruments, all were designed to recreate her Adrani home.

Evred had always found his mother’s rooms alien and cloying; Hadand was used to them, and had even come to appreciate the artistry in their design.

Queen Wisthia, tall and thin, her hair grayer than it had been in winter, gestured from her inner chamber. A maid-servant curtseyed to them, a gesture Evred found odd, though he’d seen his mother’s servants do it all his life.

“My dears,” said the queen, as Evred kissed her hands in the way she had taught him when he was small.

Evred said, hoping to please her, “The highest mountain passes have been clear for at least a month. You can go home whenever you like.”

Wisthia looked at her only living son, and again repressed the surge of sorrow for what might have been, what never could be. The truth was, they had nothing to say to one another. After his birth he’d been locked into the Marlovan way of upbringing as had her first son, who had willfully pulled away from her to embrace his uncle’s war teachings. The prospect of enduring that rejection yet again had caused her to avoid Evred once his Marlovan education had begun; consequently he had grown up regarding her as a benevolent but distant figure, removed from any of his concerns.

Both wanted it to be different, but it wasn’t.

So she said, “I will stay to see you take your place as king. For my own pleasure, and because I think it right. I will depart directly after. But I have a last pair of requests before I prepare for that departure.”

“Please speak,” he said, courteous and remote to her as always.

Hadand, acutely sensitive to every shade and timbre of his voice, heard the regret that he would rather have hidden.

“I would like to take Hadand with me, for a visit.”

“Me?” Hadand exclaimed.

“To preside in her place here, I would have you invite Fareas-Iofre of Choraed Elgaer.”

“My mother?” Hadand whispered; then she closed her mouth, thinking,
Mother never leaves Tenthen Castle.
The next thought was:
Would she if she could?

Evred opened his mouth to deny the request as impossible, but the queen forestalled him. “Think on it for a time, my son.” She added with a wry smile, “I know that your negotiations with my brother for the treaty renewal have stalled.”

Evred and Hadand could not prevent reactions of surprise, subtle as they were: no more than his putting his hands behind his back, and her eyes turning upward to his, but Wisthia saw these things. “I have stayed most straightly out of Marlovan affairs, for your late uncle negotiated specifically for my noninterference when I first came here, but I cannot help knowing a little of what concerns my homeland.”

Evred said, “It is true, the negotiations have stalled, and I do not know why.”

“Well, I can find out. I will carry your interests in my heart as much as I can. And I believe that Hadand, visiting as a queen as well as my brother’s niece, might rekindle mutual interests.”

“But is it safe?” Evred asked. “What if—”

He gestured, not wanting to accuse his mother’s relations.

She took his meaning at once, and said dryly, “Only a Marlovan would think of hostages. But believe me, my son, whatever vagaries my brother indulges in now that he is king, he is not mad. No one beyond the Iascan border would dream of threatening you: they are fearful enough of your people charging down upon them as it is.”

“I don’t want more wars,” Evred said, faintly accusing.

“So said your father, once upon a time,” she retorted, but without anger. “As for Fareas-Iofre, if Hadand’s well-respected mother is here overseeing the queen’s duties, it might go a long way toward establishing a sense of continuity with the older people.”

Hadand drew in a slow breath. She had always known that the queen was intelligent, well-read in Sartoran history and poetry, but she’d always thought her to be as distant from Marlovan politics as the clouds from the windblown grasses below.

Evred said slowly, “I can see possible benefits, though our rulers have seldom left the borders. Hadand’s visit would have to be short, as early fall can bring snow to the high passes.” He turned to Hadand, adding, “And if she does not wish to go, then there the matter must end.”

Hadand met his inquiring hazel eyes, so concerned, so scrupulous—and so free of the heat of desire. She tried to match his concerned, equable tone as she said, “I will go. I might be able to learn something of benefit that I can bring back.” Her reward was Evred’s smile.

He said, “Very well.” And to his mother, “You spoke of two requests?”

Wisthia’s acute gaze moved from one face to the other, then she said, “I wish to have Hadand accompanied by Joret Dei.” Another surprise. “I realize that Joret is officially designated as the wife-to-be should the Algara-Vayir heir come home. What was his name?” she asked, watching her son under lowered lids.

“Inda. Indevan-Laef.” Evred said, his voice flat and a little husky.

The queen continued, “But young Indevan, I am told, is nowhere in Iasca Leror, and while I hope he may one day return, I think Joret deserves time away. This past year or so has been a hardship for her, through no fault of her own.”

“Hardship.” A diplomatic understatement, considering how close the Sierlaef had come to tearing the already tense kingdom apart, just because of unrequited lust.

“We owe Joret. Let us offer her the choice, shall we?”

Hadand thought rapidly ahead. What would her mother say? Of course she’d think of duty first—but surely Tdor was capable of leading castle defense. More than capable, as Whipstick Noth was capable of territory defense, especially with his formidable father, Dragoon Captain Noth, stationed not far away. It was a possibility, startling though it sounded. “Permit me to write the letter.”

The queen nodded. “As it concerns your mother and your foster sister, I think it appropriate. But you must convey my personal greetings and best wishes. Make it clear this is not any kind of summons, only a request. From me.”

Hadand struck her fist over her heart.

Evred said, with his customary courtesy, “We will send it with crown Runners, the better to speed them.” Everyone considered the distance to Choraed Elgaer, far to the south, and how hard the Runners would have to ride in order to bring them back in time for Midsummer’s Day.

He kissed his mother’s hands, saluted Hadand, and left.

Hadand waited as the queen outlined more details to be included in the letter. She scarcely heard. Her gaze was out the window, down toward the stables where she saw, right on time, three figures sneaking by.

“There they go,” an old Runner grumped as he hefted his basket of reeking oil-wrapped torches and started up the next flight of steps toward the north tower.

His companion, another gray-haired man who’d been a Guard before a skirmish with brigands ruined his riding, grunted as he shifted his basket to his other shoulder to ease his bad leg. “Do they really think nobody sees ’em?”

They paused on the landing, peering down through the arrow slits of the main residence wing toward the warren of walled courts below, leading to the huge stable complex. No hint of a breeze, even up here.