Treason's Shore (84 page)

Valda gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Tell me about the conspiracies. I overheard some young dags-in-training talking, when I was in the royal chambers. They thought the chambers empty, and safe of spiderwebs, poor heedless children. If I had not just removed all the wards! Never mind. The report was that Nanni Balandir had been killed by that terrible stone magic,” Valda said.

Ulaffa made the sign of Rainorec. “Yes, but not by Erkric. It was Yatar. Nanni was adamant that Signi Sofar had become a Seer, and she would not act against—” He waved a hand as if to push aside the subject. “There is no time. Erkric has taken Yatar to be his assistant night and day. Under his eye. The others have been placed under threat of a stone spell if they use the Norsunder magic except when ordered, and he won’t give them access to any more of those spells. That means his responsibilities just grow. I cannot stay, Brit. Tell me this: Is Signi safe?”

Valda thought of Signi, visibly pregnant, sitting unnoticed among the beginner or unambitious mages who renewed Fire Stick spells. Two months of tedium earned enough pay for a modest year’s living, and furnished all the gossip out of Sartor’s capital. “She is in Western Sartor, serving as a Fire Stick Mage.”

Ulaffa smiled. “Good, useful work, and so many of them, her traces will be buried by all the other efforts. Even if he had time to seek, Erkric could never find her there.” He made a sign and vanished.

Presently Dag Anchan appeared, barefooted, wearing the coarse midden-brown clothing and iron torc of a thrall. She was a young woman, her hands rough and red from daily labors in the laundry.

She straightened up, looked around, and breathed deeply. “Oh.” She clasped her work-roughened hands to tug ineffectually at the iron torc circling her throat. “Oh, it feels good in here.”

“What can you report on the king?”

“I’ve only been able to get near enough to put the spindle through twice,” Anchan said, her blue eyes tired. Then she gave a quick, triumphant smile. “But I felt it work, and Dag Erkric has stationed even more Guards around the king’s chambers.”

“You are the main reason we are met here,” Valda said. “Do you have the spindle?”

“Of course.” Anchan’s humor died away. “If I am caught, I can plunge it into my own heart. Better that than what he does to people.”

From her robe she pulled a sharp-pointed silk spindle which Valda took into her own hands. She’d prepared layers of spells to make this task easier. They were far harder to hold, but she’d gained practice in the past three years. She layered the spells on, casting them to overpower Erkric’s evil shroud of magic lying over the king’s living space. These spells did not remove the mind-magic, alas, but they did remove the terrible protective spells that kept the king isolated.

“I am going to try to get near the king again,” Valda said. “But you know Erkric must first be at a safe distance. Now. I just finished removing all his work at Twelve Towers, and I left my signature over everything. As soon as he finds out, I trust he will transfer back and feel sufficiently threatened to commence replacing all his wards yet again. Maybe he’ll take more time and lay some traps. It will keep him busy and at a distance from Llyenthur.”

“Dangerous,” Anchan said.

“But I do not intend to go back. We are all running out of strength, and time. Our efforts must be concentrated on the coming battle.”

Anchan bowed her head, took the spindle back, and slid it into her clothes. She vanished back to the laundry at Llyenthur, leaving Valda leaning against the wall, forearms across her middle as she recovered from the effects of the magic. Even that was easier to bear here, leaving her to wonder if anyone would ever know of Anchan’s heroism. Not many would have the strength and conviction to wear the iron torc of a thrall and labor ceaselessly in the laundry wherever the fleet went just to gain access to the king’s chambers.

The next one to appear was tall, massive Dag Byarin, attached by Erkric to spy on Oneli Stalna Durasnir.

“We’re about to leave,” Byarin said. “I dare not stay but a moment.” Passing his hand over his eyes, he drew a deep breath, then said rapidly, “It has been terrible. Oneli Stalna Durasnir has had little success in getting wood. There isn’t any. So the war fleets sail as is. Erkric drives him mercilessly.” An inward jolt—some private signal—and he whispered and vanished.

After a time, Valda realized her last two transfer tokens were not going to bring anyone. She made her way slowly out, tears of grief cold on her face as she mourned dags Audir and Falki. She hoped their deaths had been quick.

In Llyenthur Harbor, the remnants of the Southern Fleet not on blockade duty lay with anchors atrip, the
drakans
on station in ranks of nine across the inner harbor, sail crews motionless at sheets and halyards, awaiting orders.

Much farther out, the North and East War fleets were just visible hull down, awaiting their signal to sail. The West Fleet was only present symbolically: in reality they were strung out in orderly patrols all the way to Nathur, the raiders forming a search net to stop and question every ship they could catch at the west end of the strait.

Oneli Stalna Durasnir worked hard on controlling his fury as he finished climbing the long switchback brick-patterned stair cut into the palisade leading to the manse that had once belonged to a prince. That prince had been replaced by the Venn governor when the area fell to the conquerors, who redesigned and rebuilt the house. On the departure of the Venn the house was taken over by a self-proclaimed duke as Llyenthur declared itself part of a new kingdom. The duke—some said a former thief—had vacated in haste, leaving the harbor to the delegation of the guild Durasnir had met the day of the typhoon.

Now the manse—in the process of being expanded to a palace—was the king’s royal headquarters, guarded at every door and hall by silent white-clad Erama Krona. The number of Guards was double what the king required for his own prestige at home. Because the locals had caused no difficulties whatsoever, Durasnir wondered if Valda was having any success against Erkric. He had heard nothing whatsoever for an entire year, but he judged from Erkric’s increasing tension that the silent war in the magical realm paralleled the military efforts.

In silent resistance to Erkric’s magic, Durasnir refused to use transfer tokens. So he was rowed in, had to walk down the long pier, across the wharf, and up the switchback stairs.

It gave him time to think and to get a grip on his emotions. He knew he would lose this contest, but his own sense of justice—his determination to do everything he could to preserve the lives of those under his command—required him to make the attempt.

He reached the doors.

Durasnir was waved through into the circular chamber that had been converted to a throne room. Curved windows were cut to let in the strong southern light. The banner of the Golden Tree hung from the domed ceiling.

The senior captains were all there, winged helms under their arms. At his approach they moved to either side in strict rank order. Durasnir stood alone before the king, who sat on the throne, his magnificent robes hiding how fleshy he’d become. His gaze, as ever, was blank. Durasnir noted, then regretfully dismissed, the faint sheen of sweat across the king’s brow. He had tried to descry signs of intelligence there over the past year, coming to the reluctant conclusion he was fooling only himself. Maybe Rajnir’s clothing was too heavy for the warm weather.

Durasnir’s attention turned to the tall, white-haired Dag of the Venn standing beside the throne.

Erkric certainly looked old and tired, but Durasnir had checked his own mirror before dressing in formal clothes to receive the order for departure. He felt, and looked, ten years aged since the shattered navy limped into Llyenthur Harbor the summer before.

Dag Erkric watched Durasnir approach, morosely pleased at the tension to be seen in the commander’s face. Erkric was too old to be constantly forced to cheat himself of sleep. He could win extra time by chewing roasted coffee beans from the islands, but his hands shook and his heart labored. More bitter than the taste of the beans was the silence from Norsunder. He was so close, so very close, to winning. He just needed one more spell, one that would get him rest beyond time. No, two spells. He needed the ability to place spy spells without physical proximity. Durasnir’s treacherous duplicity was evident in how diligently he guarded his scroll-case and how bland his conversations were within the reach of magical ears.

It was also evident in how, more and more frequently, he spoke directly to Erkric and not to the king on his throne, even when Rajnir had asked the question.

Erkric watched Durasnir narrowly. And yes, Durasnir’s gaze briefly touched the king, then went diffuse as he addressed the air somewhere between Rajnir and the Dag. “The Oneli is ready to depart, O my king. I request your consideration for my continuing Captain Seigmad as Battlegroup Chief.”

“But I am fully recovered,” Balandir protested, stepping forward. “Oneli Stalna Commander.” He sketched the obeisance impatiently to Durasnir, then turned to Rajnir. Erkric was aware, and bitterly so, that he was rewarding the man for his stupidity. But only for now, only until he gained control. “I admit the one eye is blurred.” Balandir touched the healed eye, which was marred across the surface by discernable lines. The healed scars gave his handsome face a wicked cast, one Balandir had secretly come to admire, now that the pain was gone. His own cronies certainly deferred to him.

He squared his shoulders and deepened his voice. “My good eye sees straight and far. Surely what I suffered in the service of Ydrasal and our Golden Path has earned me the right to resume my command.”

Rajnir twitched. Durasnir, facing him, was the only one who noticed, but he shifted his attention back to the circle of faces on either side of the king: Never before had he seen so clearly who had experience of battle at sea and who did not.

“Captain Hyarl Balandir,” Durasnir said. “Your survival is most welcome to all, but surviving wounds even as grievous as yours does not prepare you for command.”
You should not have been taken in the first place
. “Except for this one small engagement at Granthan, you do not have the experience I deem requisite.”

Balandir’s three cronies mirrored his anger and objection. The rest looked relieved and resigned.

Rajnir flinched, distracting Durasnir for just a heartbeat. “Captain Seigmad is experienced with the conditions and tactics we will find there. Moreso than I, in fact, which is why I am sending him to Nelsaiam while I deal with Bren.”

Dag Erkric began smoothly, “We all admire your reasoning, Oneli Stalna my Commander,” as at his side his fingers began to twist in one of the signs—

Rajnir spoke. “Make it so.” His voice was hoarse, strained. “O. Oneli. Stalna . . . my Commander. Make . . .”

Erkric’s fist tightened, his whispered a word, and Rajnir stiffened, his eyes going blind again.

Durasnir spoke swiftly, before Erkric could force the king into negative utterance. Judging from the chalky color of the dag’s face, he was as surprised as anyone.

“Then may we have permission to depart, O my king?”

This time it was the flat voice. “Make it so.”

Durasnir began his obeisance, but Erkric, angered and unsettled, hurried into speech. He’d meant to think this plan over a little longer, make certain all was secure. But now he needed a grip on Durasnir, because something was wrong with this cursed house. Treachery from within or old magic from previous tenants? Twice, now, the king had spoken unaccountably.

“The king was asking me just this morning, Stalna Commander Durasnir. Is not your son Halvir ten this year?”

Durasnir stilled, the only reaction the dilation of his pupils. “Yes, Dag Erkric.”

Erkric heard his breathing, now.
Oh yes, you are afraid. Good
. It was past time to make Durasnir’s suspicion work against himself and not the kingdom, for once. “Would it not be a gesture of gratitude toward our Oneli Stalna, O my king, if you were to bring Halvir Durasnir here to begin his training under royal auspices?” Erkric said to Rajnir, making the gesture for the agreement speech.

Rajnir stirred, and said, “Make it so, my Dag.”

Durasnir gripped himself hard, not even breathing as he bowed. “I thank you, my king.” The words were drier than the picked bones on Sinnaborc’s roof.

As Durasnir led the captains out, Erkric peered down at the king, examining him closely. His gaze was opaque, and he’d given the right responses. So . . . what had happened?

There were far too many anomalies. It was time for the king to shift to the safety of the ship Erkric had been preparing. No more
Cormorant
or access to Durasnir. This would be a magical command center, the king’s safety the given reason. If they launched soon, he could get Rajnir into the middle of the strait, and when Bren and Nelsaiam had fallen, the fleet would unite and sweep down the rest of the strait.