But the alliance refused to accept Delieyeth as commander. “You never won anything,” one of the independents said bluntly. “All you did was hide.”
In the two weeks between the arrival of the Fox Banner Fleet and its five flagships, four meetings were held, each breaking up when no one could agree with anyone else. Angry captains rowed back to complain to subordinates, and as soon as the sun went down, sent unlit rowboats back and forth to confer secretly with allies.
Then the rakish, black-sided trysail Death appeared with four other capital ships sailing on station as exact as any navy could wish for, the fast little scout Vixen just aft of Death.
Deliyeth watched the pirates brail up with a well-trained flash of sail—and hated how rowboats splashed down from every one of the allied flagships. Though they all rowed toward her, as they had been doing, she knew before they converged that leadership of the allied fleet waited somewhere in the air for that hard-faced pirate captain to take.
Cold late-winter light rippled over the plain bulkheads of her cabin as the gathered captains argued, reasoned, pointed, thumped, redrew their favorite battle plans on the slate, and smacked gloved hands on her chart depicting Jaro and the coastal inlets and islands surrounding The Fangs.
Deliyeth glared at the Fox Banner commander, a tall, black-clad, red-haired tough with a bloodred ruby hanging from his ear. A pirate trophy, flaunted before law-abiding people. He had spoken scarcely a dozen words since his arrival on deck, and all those had been greetings or acknowledgment of introductions. But as soon as the meeting started, Deliyeth noticed irritably how all the others turned his way as the Chwahir admiral Halog issued a stately reiteration of her old argument in her slow, difficult Sartoran. At least no one accepted her as commander, either. Everybody hates the Chwahir.
As soon as Halog was done, one of the Khanerenth captains thumped the table. “You can’t fight in line, they got those big three-masters with those prows. They’ll just run you down!” Then he turned his head, and gestured to the pirate. “Tell them, Fox!”
Silence inside the cabin made the outside sounds distinct: the thump of feet on deck, the creak of masts and clack of blocks. Water whoosh-splashed along the hull and in the distance, a first mate bawled orders onboard one of the alliance fleet’s vessels lying a cable’s length away.
Captain Deliyeth watched in disgust as everyone waited for Fox to speak as he gazed at her chart. She said, “I don’t recall ever hearing that you’ve fought Venn on the sea.”
“Haven’t,” Fox retorted. His Sartoran was excellent, though the consonants were clipped in the manner of the Marlovans. “But I’ve seen them drilling. Their Battlegroups are twenty-seven ships. They travel in line when they’re on the sweep, but form up into the arrowhead if they go on the attack.”
He leaned forward, picking up the chalk. When no one objected, he pulled the slate toward him and used the sponge to wipe away Deliyeth’s own carefully drawn plan, which was a last and desperate attempt to please everyone by having them attack in groups. Only who would go first?
Fox sketched three inverted triangles forming a larger inverted triangle, and then those triangles, in triplicate, formed into yet a larger triangle, all sailing in such tight formation they would be as effective as a real arrowhead in cutting enemy battle lines. “This is what we will see. The Venn were so well drilled they stayed on station no matter how bad the weather, so that attempting to cut between them could get you rammed as well as surrounded.”
Deliyeth and Halog both had to concede.
“This is how their Commander Durasnir defeated us in your year 3903,” Halog said. “We had nearly won, but our forces did not hold line.” She indicated Deliyeth and herself. “Chwahir and Everoneth separated, each leaving the other to first strike in combing that formation.”
“You can’t comb an arrowhead like combing a line,” Fox said. “What we call threading a needle. You’ll find yourself surrounded, and while you’re desperately putting out the fires they pinpoint all over your ship, their marines board fore and aft.”
No one argued. While no ships boarded by the Venn had survived, the older Chwahir and Deliyeth herself had witnessed this tactic. They had only survived by outrunning their chasers.
“The one advantage we’ve got is when we have the wind, we are much faster.” Fox swept a hand over the chart. “We have to use that.”
The Chwahir just sat, watchful dark gazes moving between the speakers. The Khanerenth captains cut in with “Hah!” “That’s right!” The Ymarans whispered.
“My suggestion is to adapt their tactics. We send a line to cut across upwind of them, laying down a heavy smoke layer. Then we send our fastest ships in a modified arrowhead to wedge between their first and third groups, using fire heavily so they won’t want to close. We’re adept at using fire, and even Venn can’t see any better than we can in smoke. If they stay too tight, they might ram one another.”
Captain Deliyeth shifted uncomfortably. Pirate tactics. Ship battles, when necessary, were board and carry. Those were the rules of the sea. You didn’t kill unarmed civilians, and if someone surrendered, you either put them overboard in their longboats, or treated them decently until they paid their ransom or the king traded them for something he wanted.
But the Venn killed everyone onboard and took the ships to be remade in their own fashion.
“We want them to break formation,” Fox continued. “If they do that, we can take them piecemeal in squads. They have bigger ships, but we’ve got the numbers. And speed.”
One of the Chwahir said, “They have the raiders.”
“So we set our small craft on the raiders, teams of three to one. For now—and this is why we need to act fast—we have the Venn outnumbered.”
“Though their capital ships are bigger than anything we sail.” Commander Halog spoke, nodding slightly at Fox. “They know we are out here. We Chwahir will attack their guard ships around Jaro. Draw them out.”
That gnarled old woman hadn’t given Captain Deliyeth that much cooperation in weeks of talk.
Deliyeth said, “I concur that the Chwahir can draw them out, as they have the biggest fleet among us. But who is going to lead this wedge aimed between the Venn arrowhead vessels?”
Fox’s eyes widened. “Didn’t I say the fastest ships?” He laid his hands mockingly to his chest and opened them out.
The captains cut glances sideways at each other, making little movements of shoulders, hands, heads; a consensus reached without a word spoken.
Captain Deliyeth forced her voice to neutrality. “Then let us depart at once. I smell spring coming off the land, and that means we won’t be able to trust to the east wind staying steady.”
Chapter Thirty-three
“RISE up, Capn’nan!” Keth Arveas-Andahi whispered, shaking Captain Han. “We’re riding out today!”
Han snorted and sat up in bed. Cold air touched the side of her face, and she wiped her mouth against her shoulder. She’d been awake worrying and hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Somehow it had happened, but the way she felt, she’d slept maybe a glass or two.
The girls’ dormitory was icy cold, most burrowed in their blankets. Han scrambled out of bed, the cold stones jerking her into wakefulness.
“Meet us downstairs soon’s you’re dressed.” Keth ran out, his new boots clacking on the stones.
Han scowled at her new gear bag, packed and ready. She hurried with her travel clothes down to the bath. Afterward she met the rest in the mess hall, where nearly the entire castle was gathered to see them off.
The Harskialdna was everywhere, joking and laughing with men and women, even the children. Ndand-Jarlan surprised him with a fierce hug just before he sat down to the table and whispered something that caused him to laugh.
The men sent up a shout that rang against the stones above, smoke-blackened from the fires of the of summer 3914, or the Fourteen, as the Marlovans had begun to call the Battle of Andahi.
Han scarcely notice
d what she was eating. The time had come, and even more than before she veered between pride and shame, as most of her friends gave her little mementos they’d made, and the adults whispered how proud they were of her. Those whispers made her feel worse, and she was glad when they mounted up and rode out the south gate.
The ride up was slow, mostly accomplished single file, as the sides of the pass were still piled high with snow. Each morning the children stamped the frozen runnels of snowmelt, enjoying the tinkle and crunch. Those first few days Keth and Han stayed together, neither daring to impose their scrubby young selves on the dragoons who had been riding around with the Harskialdna all winter.
But by the end of the first week, Keth had begun daring a question or two, and when he didn’t get swatted down for his temerity, he’d taken to riding with the men.
Han rode behind the King’s Runners, staring at their blue-covered backs and wishing she dared to talk to them.
As Inda rode slowly up the pass, he thought about how good it felt to be going home, leaving behind a job well done. A job that had been fun. He chuckled from time to time, relishing the memory of his and Cama’s strutting ride all over the north. Why couldn’t life always be that fun? They’d never tired of retelling the old jokes from their scrub days, but even more fun was that competition to outdo the other in frost. One day Inda managed to get fourteen weapons distributed about his person before taking horse. Though the prick of knife blades in odd places was annyoing, he’d almost laughed aloud at the faces gathered alongside the road to watch them ride.
That was how he gauged their success, the fact that people would down tools or walk out of the houses and line the road to watch them ride by. That meant word was spreading. So he’d stop the men at a crossroads, and either he or Cama would call out some ridiculous order—“You men! You were talking in column! Time for a thrashing!” and they’d stage a weapons drill, one of the flashier ones. Or they’d make a lot of noise taking sticks to the men’s backs, pretending to use full strength, while the men grimaced and grunted. No one ever laughed in column, but at night, around the campfire, they gloated exactly like academy scrubs after a successful sting.
Inda’s favorite sting, he decided, was the one the day they reached the foothills of Ghael, somewhere near the place he knew his brother had fought his first battle. Next batch of law-breakers you get around here, I want a wall built on that ridge. Hundred paces high! So I can see the ocean from it. Cama didn’t even smile. But what if the ocean isn’t in view? Inda roared, Then they take it all down, go to that mountaintop up there, and rebuild it.
The glum faces were sometimes broken by expressions of disgust, but never disbelief. And it worked. Runners came back with reports that no one lined the road to see the wagon train with the plainly marked second best coffee and wine (the Marlovans keeping the best for their own use, the civ-dressed wagoneers were to let drop at inns) heading toward the two harbors to be sent out for the Marlovans’ new efforts in sea trade.
Word ricocheted back once the supposed wine turned out to be gold. This was the week before Inda decided it was time to ride for the royal city. Cama had said, “You know that’s going to bring out the last of the Resistance, the ones turned brigand. I’m going to send ridings of dragoons as escort for a while. Maybe they can even flush the last of ’em out.”
Yes, it was all good, and Inda looked forward to reaching the royal city in time for the first day of the academy. He looked forward to making Evred and Tdor laugh when he described all the details of that preposterous ride.
The only memory that sobered him was his lack of success when asking here and there if anyone had seen a small, sandy-haired mage. No one had.
His mood stayed good until they reached the top of the pass, where there was no sign of the sea of blood that had soaked the ground that terrible day. No sign of ghosts, of pain and anguish, except in memory. Inda did not have to glance at earlobes for the telltale bloodred glitter to see which of the men had been present that day. They were obvious by the way they looked around, tight-shouldered as if braced for attack. He wouldn’t stop there to camp, even though it meant making their way down around two or three bends in fast-falling dark.
Light snow began to fall when they camped at last. They set up their tents around a massive fire ring made by putting together all their Fire Sticks. It was against tradition, but the dragoons liked the circle. Inda liked being able to talk to people instead of sitting alone in his tent.
Keth’s high voice floated above the lower buzzes of the men. Inda grinned, then checked around for the other child. As usual, she sat a little apart from Keth, a skinny scrap of a girl who never spoke anywhere in Inda’s hearing. When she looked Inda’s way she reminded him just a little of Testhy of the pale brows, one of his early ship mates. One who hadn’t stayed with them. Testhy had had the same shifty manner, as if he had a secret.
“Food’s up.” The welcome shout from the cook tent brought everyone to their feet, the two children first. Inda stayed where he was. One good thing about being a commander, you didn’t have to stand in line. Your Runner did, and he was sure to be served first, so he didn’t stand long. The food got to you hot.
Inda had been very careful in Idayago, but habit is hard to break. Here among his own men, instinct caused him to hunch over his bowl and begin spooning the rice balls into his mouth. Two, three bites—there was that sense of being watched—he remembered his promise to Tdor and jerked upright, his face flooding with heat. Sure enough, there was that girl staring. He gave her a sheepish grin.
Han went cold and hot all at once. The Harskialdna slurping! Then hauling himself upright as if Liet-Jarlan had stepped from beyond death and smacked him across the back of his head for ignoring manners. And then he turning red, like . . . like . . . anyone else.
He was human.
Inda said, “Food too hot?”
Han jumped. Then she looked uncomprehendingly at her untouched bowl, her skinny shoulders hunched up to her ears.
“Are you all right?” Inda asked.
Her face crumpled, and she sucked in her breath, holding hard on the last thin layer of self-control.
“Ho.” Inda set his own food aside, and reached over to ruffle her hair, much as he had comforted the homesick ten-year-old scrubs at the academy.
And that cracked the ice.
“I-I-I . . .”
“Something wrong, cub? Can you tell me?” His voice was kind, which caused the dammed flood to break free at last. She began to sob without sound, deep, wracking sobs that shook her skinny frame. She had just enough willpower to turn her back on the camp, and from that Inda understood that she did not want an audience. Inda set aside their food and guided her out of the light, nearly tripped over a flat rock, turned and sat on it instead, pulling the girl down next to him.
When she could breathe again, it all came out. Everything. Inda had heard the story of the Castle Andahi children from Cama, who had been giving and receiving reports for enough years to remember details. But this time Inda heard about it from the child’s view: the terror of hearing her family killed by the Venn. Not knowing if she and the other children were hunted. Having part of her command run away—straight into death.
And finally, the most severe test of all: a desperately unhappy three-year-old who nearly got herself thrown off a cliff. By the way Captain Han halted and hastily corrected herself, Inda suspected that she was not alone in the impulse, but she forbore mentioning anyone else. She had been in command, it was her burden to bear.
She was exhausted when she finished, her voice so low it was difficult to hear. “And so, I think, if the king finds out, he’ll know I’m not good enough to be a King’s Runner.”
“How did you come to that conclusion?” Inda asked. “The King’s Voice was Vedrid—surely he didn’t say anything of the sort to you.”
“I never told anyone. About almost throwing Rosebud off the bridge. Ndand-Jarlan . . . Cama-Jarl . . . everything was so terrible . . .
” Captain Han gulped, her breath shuddering. She said to her pilled mittens, “I can’t ever be as good as you. When you were twelve. Eleven! You commanded pirates.”
“What?”
Heads in the camp turned. Inda waved, and they turned away again. Inda said, “When I turned twelve, I was crying in my hammock missing my home and trying to remember the difference between a jib and a gaff.”
“But . . . all those s-stories. I remember. What they said. R-right in front of you. At the dinner, New Year’s.”
“I don’t remember.”
“With the Idayagan merchants and mayors. The big dinner. When that fat man talked about you commanding ships when you were no older than Keth, and he pointed right at Keth, and you and Cama were smiling.”
Inda snorted. “If any of us Marlovans ask me about what happened to me, I answer with the truth.”
She shivered at the sound of that “us Marlovans.”
“But the Idayagans, well, here’s why I didn’t. The king ordered me to ride up here and act tough. He and Cama thought that if I didn’t deny those wild stories, then people would settle down, they’d think we’re too tough to fight against anymore. We want them to settle down. No more fighting, people getting killed.”
“Oh.”
“So I was riding around on the strut, see. So if those Olarans or Idayagans say I commanded the Brotherhood of Blood when I was six years old, well, I’m not going to say no. But when I was twelve, I was just like you, sent to a new life. Learning. Only you got picked for this new life in the royal city because you followed orders the best you knew how. Right?”
“Right.” Captain Han gave another sigh, but this time of immeasurable relief.
Inda had been ignoring the earrings until then, and he certainly hadn’t meant to do any such thing until the words came out. “When we get light, I want you to get one of the Runners to poke a hole in your ear. You wear a ruby there—I have a couple extras in my gear, left to me by Barend. When people see your earring, they’ll know you survived that pass. You followed orders. That’s the Marlovan way.”
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