The Fox (66 page)

The new fashions looked light and airy, perhaps too airy to Marlovan eyes. But once you got used to the idea of men’s clothing being tied on by clusters of ribbons and the women’s dresses fitted in the bodice so you could see their shape, you could perceive a grace in line and design.

“That,” Wisthia said, “is the effect of my nephew.”

“So Martan-King and Nalais-Queen no longer lead the fashions?” Joret asked.

“Titles first, my dears. And only when you refer to them. To their faces, you must use the honorifics: even I must address my brother as Your Majesty. We will practice that. As for your question: no, they no longer lead fashions.” Wisthia smiled again, an enigmatic smile that reminded Hadand once again how very little they actually knew of the private thoughts of Evred’s mother. “It is my nephew, Prince Valdon, who leads the fashion now,” she said.

Joret shook her head; Hadand said, “What does that mean?”

“We shall find out,” Wisthia promised, smiling.

Inda and his fleet separated that day, as soon as the
Cocodu
’s shrouds had been tightened down and the sails raised.

The last he heard of Dasta, as he climbed down into his gig with a bundle of Fox’s clothing under his arm, was, “I hate black. It’s hot!”

Fox was lounging against the rail of the schooner
Skimit,
which was to be Inda’s home for this next cruise. “It doesn’t show dirt, and better, it doesn’t show blood,” he called down with no sympathy.

Inda thumped the rail next to Fox, and flashed his rare grin. “Remember, you are invincible!”

Dasta’s reply was lost as the coxswain gave the command to start rowing, but they knew it was both pungent and idiomatic.

Inda found Mutt lurking at his elbow. Mutt’s mute expression of worry, of trust, made Inda feel old—he had to remind himself he had survived a mutiny and was expected to lead in all but name a band of marine defenders when he was a year or two younger than Mutt. “Just remember, don’t blab,” he said, and then he stepped closer. “Woof will be there, soon’s you land in Freeport.”

Mutt’s brow puckered. “What do I say about Nugget?” He added, tentatively, “Pilvig offered to tell Woof. They were hammock-mates all last winter.”

It hurt to remember Woof’s sister, barely thirteen that winter, her happy laughter, those tousled yellow curls. She’d been so gallant, so thirsty for adventure—even in the midst of battle she apparently couldn’t believe anything could happen to her. The other young ones had obeyed the orders she’d been too reckless to heed about shields and defense.

“Good for Pilvig,” Inda said, not adding how glad he was that the youngsters had resolved their feud. He knew how much he would have hated such a comment at scrub age, seeing it as condescending. “If Woof asks for details, she must give him the truth, ending with the fact that we don’t know if she recovered. But Nugget’s tough. And Parayid Harbor would be a good place for her, if the villagers took her there. We liked it when we had liberty there. Tau knew the people. There’d be plenty of work with the rebuilding, so they’ll need hands.”

Mutt’s throat worked in his skinny neck. He turned away. “I’ll tell Pilvig. And get my gear.”

The transfer of belongings did not take long. Mutt, too, was given a heavy bag of pirate treasure whose clinks had been smothered inside a small barrel. Inda and Fibi were exact about what sort of hires to look out for, once Dhalshev had vouched for them. They also described what to say to them, to which Mutt listened with narrow-eyed concentration. Young he was, his only weakness was a penchant for practical jokes—and inexperience at making the decisions instead of carrying out the results.

And so Mutt sailed away on his first command, the oldest of the four youngsters, all recent hires except for Mutt. Only Jug was staying aboard Inda’s schooner; he was fifteen, and Inda needed to ask him some questions—though not yet.

Inda watched Mutt standing there so proudly at the tiller as he called something to Pilvig. She crouched on the masthead, her black hair twisted into cub-ears that bobbled when she turned her attention downward to listen.
Vixen
’s beautiful curved mainsail tautened, the slim scout craft taking wing.

Inda turned away. All the orders had been given. Now it was a matter of waiting to see if they would be carried out, or if circumstances—and ambition—would destroy his plans.

That, or the Venn, Inda thought, turning his attention to the squalid
Rippler,
wallowing slack-sailed on the water as it awaited the last transfer.

A hard thump on his shoulder. “Let’s do it if we’re going to,” Fox said, looking unfamiliar in Dasta’s old vest, his drawstring trousers, the skin of his arms and chest pale. But even now, he would not go in bare feet, which were impossible for fighting, he insisted. Below the wide, ragged hems of the trousers were his black-weave cavalry boots.

No matter. If they stayed with his plan, Fox would never leave the deck.

“Let’s go,” Inda echoed.

After the promise not to speak Marlovan, the Iascans fell silent, and Wisthia watched with nervous tension as they rolled past low gates, pretty gardens, discreet buildings with climbing, flowering vines hiding the bare stone.

They had progressed up the slow switchbacks to the palace that lay along the top tier. And now to find out what message her brother was sending her.

Wisthia had not told Hadand and Joret about the gates; she was not certain why. Pride, probably, she acknowledged with an inward flinch.

But here at last they were, rolling past the outer palace annexes with their familiar spreading terraces and wide windows, and inside the first court.

No more than she expected. To have stopped her outside of that would be the deadliest insult, and though her brother had inevitably changed over the years, at least he hadn’t gone mad.

Through two vine-covered archways, under glass-windowed buildings, and into the second court, the nobles’ court where the nobility who came with royal invitation were greeted.

Up on one of the walls someone signaled; Wisthia could not see it, but she felt it in the check of the driver on the horses. The pause was very slight, and the girls did not notice, or at least did not question, before the coach resumed rolling. She relaxed as once again they moved sedately under an archway and along the narrow road at the pinnacle to the private royal court. Well then. No insults, at least. She returned with her old status, that much was clear; the rest would be easier.

Her slow breath of relief revealed to Hadand that they hadn’t been told all, and there was significance in where their carriage was ordered to stop.

The last court was within the building complex itself. Wisthia smiled. Hadand understood that the inner court was a mark of prestige, invisible unless you knew. How subtle, how dangerous!

The carriage halted. Someone opened the door, letting in the fresh air that the Marlovans, used to traveling by horseback, had craved. They disembarked, waiting to the right and left as previously arranged, so that Wisthia could step into the center.

Holding the door was a tall man wearing a livery that looked both impressive and impossible to fight in, Hadand thought. The main color was a deep violet, almost black, with highly stylized white swans embroidered down the sides of the sleeves, their necks entwined. These sleeves had broad white cuffs, as did the straight trousers; the herald himself wore a stiff hat that was not a helm, but resembled one. A single white swan embroidered on the front of this hat seemed to identify him; Hadand saw Wisthia’s eyes lift to it before she faced the man.

He was older, his bow low and practiced. He spoke rapidly in Adrani, too rapidly for Hadand to get more than a word or two; Wisthia said in clear Sartoran, “My royal brother and sister invite us straight to court, expressing a kind wish not to postpone so long delayed a reunion, but if you wish to rest and refresh yourselves first, they will await our pleasure.”

Hadand could tell from the queen’s tone, the tiny smile at the corners of her thin lips, that this was the greeting she had hoped for.

Hadand knew that it was important that the barbarians be heard speaking Sartoran. “I hold myself ready, if that is your wish, Your Majesty.”

“And I, too,” Joret said.

Hadand and Wisthia watched the sober herald stare at Joret and then shift his gaze, the effort visible. Joret was thinking:
We were told to wear our very best traveling gowns, after which we sat motionless in the coach for a short drive. Rest and refresh from what?

But she straightened her spine, even though she felt exposed in this gown with its tight bodice and open neck. This had to be what pleasure house girls felt like, except they were within the confines of their house of business, and they knew what to expect. Joret did not know what to expect, other than what came next would not be war, except perhaps of words. It was clear from the swift exchange between the queen and this herald that she and Hadand would have to practice far more: the Adrani words were spoken too swiftly to follow.

But then they were moving, and she was relieved at this chance to stretch her legs. She tried to walk with the quick, scudding steps the queen’s friend had shown them, but gave up after two long corridors, all with wood panels etched with gold leafing in swirling patterns, and some kind of beautiful milky-white stone forming swans diving, gliding, posing with their pretty necks arched. She and Hadand gradually lengthened their paces until they were walking with their customary long strides, their skirts billowing despite their straight-armed attempts to hold them still.

Cushioned little chairs lined the last hall, all of them with the low rounded backs that reminded Joret of harps. Chairs built for wide skirts, for people who did not expect attack from behind. No raptor chairs here.

Down broad marble stairs. Marble was even more beautiful than described, a translucent stone veined with faint colorations.

And then great carved double doors were thrown back by twin young men dressed exactly alike, small swan-hats on their heads. Wisthia walked in, tall and proud, the two Iascans behind her in what both thought of as Honor Guard position. Then they didn’t think at all.

Joret blinked at all the color within, a brilliant display that resolved into ranks of men and women, all in clothing far more elaborate than hers—something she would have thought impossible a moment before.

Hadand gave them all a single sweeping glance, her attention drawn to the two people on the thrones, difficult to make out among all the gilt and carvings and rich folds of fabric.

The herald spoke in Adrani, pronouncing their names in the middle of the stream of words, Joret’s name third. Then with a whisper and a rustle the entire room full of people made their bows.

At first Hadand and Joret had laughed at the notion of bowing—of sticking your butt out at the hapless person standing behind you—but these courtiers made it look good. It was in the bending of the knees, the way they held their backs straight as they inclined their heads.

Now Joret fell in behind Wisthia and Hadand, who, being queens, walked side by side up the carpet, which was again a deep violet, only now the swans were faint outlines worked in pure silver, toward a dais on which were two couches.

“Bow,” Wisthia barely breathed, and Joret realized the other two had begun the movement they had practiced so long. She performed her bow, then straightened up.

Hadand regarded the woman of impressive size with the painted cheeks and lips, who reclined on her couch-throne in a gown glittering with ropes of pearls and clusters of diamonds. The gown was decorated by a profusion of silken roses and loops of ribbon as well as glittering gems, the skirts so voluminous they draped over the back of the couch and down onto the floor, rich, gleaming lengths of exquisite fabric.

The king was larger than his queen. He wore a spectacular embroidered cloak obscuring half his body, like the queen’s skirts, so long it trailed two men’s lengths before him on the floor. His nose was purple from drink; that, at least was a familiar enough sight. Mad Gallop Yvana-Vayir had had the same purple nose, though he’d been less than a quarter the size of this man.

The royal pair spoke ritual words of welcome, using Sartoran, the language of civilization, but their accent was unfamiliar, and Hadand and Joret struggled to comprehend.

Wisthia was stationed at the queen’s right, Hadand at the king’s left, and Joret was bade stand at Hadand’s side— as all eyes turned to watch her.

For the remainder of the formal court, which was a long series of ritual speeches, goings and comings, flattery, music, capped by a meal at a long table in an adjacent chamber equally as large, Hadand observed those clever, smiling faces. Jewels winked, betraying subtle movements made by courtiers who were covertly observing the newcomers. Especially Joret.

Hadand saw the expected admiration, interest, curiosity, except for the pretty, artful blonde at Wisthia’s right, who watched Joret from beneath her eyelashes, her mouth tight with . . . anger? Hatred?

Wisthia ignored her. She kept her attention on her brother and his queen. Her quiet smile, the tone of her soft voice as she spoke to them in Sartoran, convinced Hadand that Evred’s mother, powerless in Iasca Leror, had indeed laid deep plans for her eventual return to her homeland. Plans she had imparted to no one.

When at last they withdrew to ready themselves for the evening’s entertainment (which, Wisthia warned them, would not be materially different from the morning’s, just with more music—maybe dancing, certainly gambling) Hadand wanted to discuss her observations with Joret. But Joret was absorbed as she admired the scrollwork rippling artistically in drapes and crimps along the vaulted joining walls and ceiling. A quick glance showed most of the Adranis admiring Joret’s profile.

Hadand decided for now to keep her thoughts to herself.