The Fox

by Sherwood Smith

  Expectation. Yes.

  She leaned her cheek against one of the spokes as she studied Fox, who prowled along the gangway as if he had not been on his feet since the day before, his sharply boned face highlighted by the rising light as he squinted up at the sails. She closed her eyes, thinking bide your time . . . bide your time... then jolted when a hand touched her shoulder.

  Sleep had almost taken her. She lifted herself away from the helm, which she had been handling entirely by instinct. Every bone and muscle ached.

  One of the young sailors waited, someone who looked slightly more rested than the rest, and so she relinquished the wheel and retreated down to her hammock, later not remembering climbing in.

  She woke when firelight flickered on her eyelids. She was up, feet on the deck, hand fumbling for a weapon, when she recognized Mutt. “Inda wants ya,” he whispered.

  Fibi worked her dry mouth, suspecting (rightly) she’d been snoring. “We cleared the Fangs, yiss?”

  “We’re safe of the Chwahir coast.”

  “Fleet?”

  “Vixen hove up not long after you went below,” Mutt said, following her to the deck. “Spotted Cocodu, hull down, foremast gone. Schooners stayed together, Vixen found ’em about noon. Now Loos is out scouting our perimeter, Inda’s orders, in case the Venn are searching.”

  Fibi stepped up on deck to a vastly different sea than that she’d gone to sleep on. Blue, placid waters reflected the smiling sky; a cable or two away, sailors were lowering a new foremast onto Cocodu. Voices drifted over the water, sounding almost like gulls. She paused at a rain barrel, took a deep drink of water kept magically clean, and then strode up into the cabin, where she found Inda and Gillor looking tousled but rested, Dasta tousled, and Fox neither. Not that he ever relaxed enough to appear tired. His face was just harder than usual as he leaned against the bulkhead, arms crossed.

  Behind Fox, big, dark Tcholan stood at the stern windows, looking out at the work aboard Cocodu.

  Inda had the chart spread out under the swinging lamp. “Fibi,” he greeted her as she dropped onto the bench opposite, Mutt flopping down to sit cross-legged on the deck next to her.

  Inda leaned forward, giving his captains a fast assessment. All looked alert, if not rested. Fox, he knew, would sleep after this meeting, but not until then.

  He said, “We slipped past the Venn.”

  Fox shifted. “They’ll come looking.”

  “Right.” Inda thumped his fist on the chart on the table. “So the plan is to use all the talk to our advantage and to keep them looking. I want news going out about us all over the seas.” He opened his hand, sweeping it to take them all in. “We are going to split. I’ll appoint a meeting place next spring. If you’re there, I’ll have another plan. If not . . .” He opened a palm.

  Dasta thought of the bag of jewels and gold sitting in the cabin aboard Cocodu, then realized what Inda meant. It jolted him inside, made him feel queasy, the way the ship feels when it wallows on a windless sea. There was one big bag of treasure for each ship—enough to buy outright a couple of warships and outfit them right down to the smallest rat, promising a year’s pay. Dasta thought back to the confrontation in the treasure cavern on Ghost Island, and for the first time he really considered what Inda meant: either they did what he wanted, or . . . they took the treasure for themselves. And then what?

  Inda looked up, pointing a finger at him. “Dasta. You are now confirmed captain of Cocodu, instead of acting.”

  Dasta glanced in surprise at Fox, just to meet his usual ironic smile.

  “You were the next hired, Tcholan, and since you two and Gillor are same in skills, we’re going in order. Tcholan, you’re acting captain of Death, and Gillor, first mate. Take sail for the Fire Islands, and roust every pirate you can find. I want raids, and stories of raids, going all over. If you can also attract a fleet of likely prospects, all the better.” He turned back to Dasta. “But you’re going to be Elgar the Fox, see?”

  “Me?” Dasta smacked his hands against the smooth skin of his chest, his former speculation windblown in the face of this new surprise.

  “You and Tcholan.” Inda waved over at Tcholan by the stern windows. Tcholan looked up, flashing a rare, brief grin. “You two didn’t see the Guild people come aboard us in Bren, but they went right up to Fox. Rumors had to have picked Fox out from the fight against the Brotherhood.”

  “But you were in command,” Dasta said, rubbing his jaw.

  Inda shook his head. “There isn’t all that much command in that kind of battle, I told you that before. You set things up, and about all you can do after the first smash with the enemy is scout around dealing with the pieces. As far was what people saw, I don’t think many saw me. I was mostly on the scout craft, going from ship to ship, and Fox was seen on the deck of Boruin’s famed black-sided trysail and boarding some of the bigger pirates, and he does stand out.”

  Everyone observed Fox’s mocking tilt to the head.

  Dasta grimaced. “But neither of us has red hair.” He didn’t need to point out that they were about as unlike Fox as any in the crew: he himself was rangy and tall, hawk-nosed, eyes, skin, and hair a similar shade of sun-bleached wood; Tcholan was the same height but powerful in build, his skin chocolate brown, his hair long, black, luxuriant.

  “So you make sure you’re only seen from a distance. And you wear a black fighting scarf and black togs.”

  “I hate black,” Dasta mourned. “Hotter ’n fire in summer. ”

  Inda snorted. “People see what they expect to see. We’ll use that by making rumors. You two have to trade off being Elgar the Fox, wearing black and sailing under the Fox banner. Gillor, you as well, if you can be seen from a distance. ”

  Gillor made a flourishing gesture with her hands in a kind of ironic half bow.

  “You attack no one but pirates. Gain a fleet if you like, but tell them nothing. Communicate through others, hold aloof. You have to be Elgar the Fox, because that’s the only protection we will have.” He turned his thumb toward Fibi, Fox, and himself.

  Dasta scratched his salt-laden scalp. “You mean you’re going out in disguise?”

  “Yes.” Inda turned his attention to Mutt, who still squatted on the deck. “You, Pilvig, and two of the other new mates are going to crew Vixen and make a run to Freedom Islands. Your job will be to spread rumors of the fleet’s success, talk about us rousting pirates at Fire Islands, and talk to Commander Dhalshev.”

  Mutt’s eyes rounded. “Do I lie to him?”

  “No, but you won’t tell him everything.”

  Mutt fingered his scruffy braid, then said, “Will he even talk to me?”

  “He’ll recognize the Vixen. Will want real news. I’ll go over what you say and don’t say before you set sail, but it’s important to remember, talk to no one else about our plans. Where we are. You’ll be getting plenty of offers to join our fleet, if I guess right. Only take the ones Woof or Commander Dhalshev vouch for.”

  Mutt felt dizzy. He knew he was tired, but it wasn’t that. He loved the idea of being in command of Vixen, and he loved ruses and secrets and action. But he only loved it when Inda was right there nearby. “Where will we meet you?”

  “Meet us at Danai on Flower Day.” Inda turned his head. “Dasta, you’ve got to be drilling them all winter.”

  Springtide. Mutt nodded, thinking, At least there’s time for fun before we meet the Venn. If we meet the Venn.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE elaborate terraces of the Adrani royal city, cut into the side of forested mountains, looked strange to Hadand, especially from the inside of a carriage—a hot, jolting, stuffy wood-and-canvas box. She leaned over to Joret. “Impossible to defend once an enemy gets inside the city gates.”

  Wisthia, sitting across from them, said, “Remember. No Marlovan in anyone’s hearing.”

  Joret opened a hand. Hadand saw the tension drawing tight the fine skin of the queen’s brow, and said, “We’re agreed. Sartoran only,
until we master Adrani.”

  Wisthia smiled a little, then turned to survey the city of her childhood, seen again after all these years. Very little had changed other than the layout of the formal gardens. It all looked exotic yet congenial, after the ubiquitous stone of Iasca Leror.

  Her expression softened into reverie. Joret gazed out the other window, her profile impossible to read. Did she like this completely indefensible city? Hadand had to admit that the gardens all looked lovely, as did the artfully shaped waterfalls and canals—apparently emulating the famed canals of Colend’s royal city with their pretty brick banks, but how would one defend such a place?

  Joret, framed against the window, was even more striking with this artistic greenery as background, like something from an old painting. Maybe it was that gown selected by Wisthia’s friend, a baroness—which was a new title to Hadand and Joret—named Lady Ialari. This gown the baroness had insisted was the very latest fashion with its low square neck, the draped ribbons and lace, the smooth line of its bodice flaring out into arm’s-lengths of rich silk. In the two weeks they had stayed at that lady’s private home, Hadand had learned a great deal about that mystery called “fashion.”

  There was no fashion in Iasca Leror. People wore what they had worn for generations, aside from occasional alterations of stitching along hems and seams; the only change that Hadand could name was the men’s preference for fighting in the plain gray long-coats over the old, bright House tunics that were now reserved for formal occasions. As for the women, you could inherit a beautiful robe from your grandmother, wear it at a formal House celebration, and be admired. Not here, where, they were earnestly assured, to be seen in the same court gown twice would earn scorn. The waste of that had at first scandalized Joret and Hadand, until Wisthia explained that all but the most wealthy had their overgowns taken apart and remade with differing trim after each wearing, wasting not fabric but the efforts of teams of seamstresses.

  “Lest you think it frivolous and meaningless,” Wisthia had said on the first day, “look here. These are the fashions of fifteen years ago.” And they stared at the sketches of clothing shaped around bodies of massive size, the lines broad and impressive. It looked very fine, especially if one wished to appear larger than anyone else around one, Hadand thought—but how could one move with any celerity?

  Wisthia had said, “Look at it in pieces. That stiff lace ruff about the neck is to hide extra chins. The huge quilted sleeves increase the proportion of the arms to match that of one’s body, if one has a very large girth. These fashions were preferred by my brother and his wife, so everyone had to wear them.”

  Joret was shocked into speech. “Even in summer? One would die of the heat!”

  “They were uncomfortable, I am told, yes.”

  Hadand said, “Are their bodies in truth so large beneath the clothes? I remember being told that the queen was beautiful; does this mean that for the Adranis beauty is measured by size?”

  “She was a slim beauty when she first came. All the letters I got claimed her to be, even from those who very shortly had little reason to like her. But years of rich food affect even princesses, if they do little else besides eat through the day and night. Anyway, look at the current fashions.”

  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 t
he 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.