Treason's Shore

by Sherwood Smith

  Everon’s and Ymar’s captains were forbidden to mix with raffish privateers (may as well call them pirates given leave by rapacious kings, Deliyeth insisted) and the Chwahir were forbidden to mix with anyone at all. The older captains, especially those sticklers for the strict decorum of rank, clumped together aboard Admiral Mehayan’s brigantine.

  Tau had wholly failed at the task Inda had asked of him: to try to win over Deliyeth. On their first meeting, he’d seen in her dismissive head-to-toe scan and stiffened posture, the way her chin twitched back in mute affront, that his looks, clothing, even his smile marked him as untrustworthy. And the struggling conversation afterward, during which she became steadily more truculent, affirmed it.

  So he’d made himself useful in other ways, one of which was volunteering to help Dasta’s cook when all these gigs began rowing or sailing over to Cocodu. This gathering soon became a regular occurrence in the evenings after maneuvers, as the alliance stood off and on just east of the Fangs in what soon became known as “polishing the teeth.” (The boring sameness of tack and tack again was deemed excellent practice for the younger members of the various crews, who came to thoroughly loathe the night watches.)

  Cocodu’s new cook, Nilat, had been trained by Lorm, which was another draw. The Khanerenth and Sarendan captains, well stocked by regular provision ships sailing up and down the coast to and from home, often brought food and drink as donations. Nilat turned them into delicacies.

  As Tau helped, he listened. People talked about the alliance and how they perceived its divisions. No one questioned the leadership of Fox and Inda, not even Deliyeth. The two commanders were like sun and moon, as one stayed on Death’s deck, spyglass to hand, rotations of signal flag youths on duty as he directed ship maneuvers. Fox sailed around overseeing repel-boarder defenses and tactical ploys. The big Khanerenth brigantines served as the enemy, as everyone agreed they were most like the Venn in size. They thoroughly enjoyed attacking other ships; the allies liked repelling them as much as they hated trying to repel Fox’s own crews, who were far tougher.

  Fox also conducted the hand-to-hand training. He was not anymore popular than his hand-picked boarder crews, but after several not-quite-friendly challenges the word spread faster than fire that he was the best fighter on any ship, and so the smartest shut up, listened, learned. The rest complained but did what they were told. When the gossip touched on Fox, Tau was amused by the drop in tone, the attitude reserved for the ally who could thrash you without effort. You only scorned the ally you considered under your protection.

  As the days slipped past, Tau gauged the spread of the lies that Inda had told Tau in private to expect, meant to be passed to the Venn via the unidentified spies. The Chwahir were leaving; Elgar the Fox was now a prince of Khanerenth; the Chwahir were staying, first line in the defense; Finna of Fire Island, the renegade Venn pirate, was alive and allying with the Fox Banner Fleet; the Chwahir army was secretly on the march across Drael to attack the Venn homeland while its entire navy was busy at The Fangs.

  Then came the breezy afternoon several fishers were spotted by the alliance patrols at the western perimeter. They were stopped, questioned, escorted along the coast of Chwahirsland to the easternmost point, and told to keep going south. They insisted that the Venn were out in a massive line stretching from the north coast of the Sartoran continent to the south coast of Drael. They were sweeping everything before them, taking any ship they caught.

  Fox and Inda already knew from Signi’s chart that the massive line was fact. Now they could release the news and attribute it to the fishers.

  Tau watched the effect ripple through the alliance over the next few days. The Venn are a month away. Drills tightened, ships no longer peeled off if they thought the weather hid them or it was past dark. The determination that Inda had met on his arrival was back.

  Late one afternoon, Inda called off general maneuvers due to a series of lightning-punctuated black squalls.

  Jeje signaled to the smaller vessels. They would carry right on with their own drills. Their tactics required line of sight, so the bad weather was a perfect test.

  Since Tau’s station would not be on Vixen in the final battle (Inda wanted Tau on one of the capital ships, in case there was negotiation to be handled), she dropped Tau at Cocodu. From the number of gigs bumping in its wake, it was clear that the storms were an excuse for merrymaking.

  Tau climbed up behind a work party of mids busy taking laundry down. “Oh won’t they nag if it’s damp or stiff,” one boy groused, so indignant his honking teen voice cracked. “Tougher they are, the more finicky. You think Angel Face is bad, you haven’t heard Fox!”

  The complainer couldn’t see the violent gestures his wide-eyed mates made to hush him up, as his load was piled to his tipped-back chin. “You’d think a black shirt, you just throw it anywhere, dries in the sun, put it on, but ohhhhh no! Got to be just so, he’s worse than a guild-master. Worse than a baron—”

  Vividly remembering his own mid days, and Norsh’s heavy hand with a rope’s end, Tau said kindly, “Here, let me show you some tricks I learned back in my laundry duty days. Makes it so much easier . . .”

  Caught flat, the boy was morally obliged to listen, so for the third time, Tau explained snapping, airing, and shaping clothes before they were quite dry, and the best way to hot-press, ending with a hint about fresh herbs in the trunk. Then he took mercy on the mids, left them to their press below, and climbed up to the galley.

  The harassed cook welcomed him with relief. “Take these in?” Nilat wiped her brow. “They’re eating like a pack of wolves in the wardroom.”

  Holding the tray of freshly-baked shrimp biscuits, Tau eased past the lashed-down barrels in the companionway, and paused when he heard Fox’s drawl.

  “. . . when I was on board with Thog daughter of Pirog. Discipline is tight. She gives a command—no more than a few words—and everything’s carried out without talk. No yelling. Threats. No negotiation and backchat, like our indies and you Khanerenth bravos.”

  Laughter and jibes followed, the sharp, hard, too-loud laughter that had little to do with hilarity, and everything to do with tension.

  “Captain through fear! That’s the way,” an independent roared.

  Then Mutt said, “Oh, Thog isn’t so bad. Just a little strange.”

  “Not so bad!” the independent shouted, with an eye to his audience. “Not so bad! Why, she only awards fifty lashes instead of five hundred if you forget to salute!”

  “I’ve heard that about those Chwahir,” declared a young Sarendan captain dressed in purple with antique lace. She rolled her eyes. “Flogging’s their idea of deck-rec.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Gillor said. “Not about Thog. I shared a cabin with her for a year. She never once talked about floggings.”

  Tau carried the food into the crowded wardroom, its heavy, humid air thick with the scents of ale, wine, food, and too many people.

  “Believe it.” Taz-Enja was older, but he enjoyed the younger set. Now, however, his tone was sober. “Every village in Chwahirsland has a whipping post. Floggings seem to be the main entertainment. Either that or flayings.”

  “That’s what they do to pirates.”

  “And it’s the sentence for treason.” Taz-Enja raised his glass, drank off the last of the cold spice punch, and plunked the glass onto the tray that Tau carried around to collect the dirty dishes. “They’ve got books full of laws under the heading of ‘treason.’ I can’t tell you how many runaways from Chwahirsland end up on our shores. Better a life as a beggar or work slub, no family or connections, then flayed at the post.”

  When the expressions of disgust died down, peg-legged Swift protested, “They say that about the Marlovans, too. But I’ve met a few of ’em since The Narrows opened up. Told me it’s all exaggeration. Only floggings you get are in the army, and that’s just a touch-up, what we in Toar call My Lord’s Decorum, to remind you of duty. That was our way in the old days, be
fore the takeover at home.”

  Fox drawled, “For Iasca Leror, the truly entertaining floggings are mostly confined to the upper ranks.”

  “Upper ranks?” Gillor asked, then turned her head and smiled. “Oh, thanks, Tau. Here’s my cup. I’m done.”

  Fox lifted a shoulder. “Bigger responsibility, bigger sticks. Er, stakes.” He mimed snapping a stick over someone’s back.

  Amid the guffaws Gillor yelped, “Why, if I lived there and they tried to promote me, I’d skip to the hills!”

  After the laughter, Fox said, “They only do it for cowardice, treason, or not obeying orders. Do not imagine I approve of their government. Far from it. But if you make yourself familiar with our history, you’ll find that flogging to death the commander who does not obey orders is how the recent kings forced hierarchy and a semblance of order onto notoriously independent clans.”

  Fox drawled when he was angry, or with intent. Tau lifted his tray. Their gazes met over the beaten silver.

  Tau kept turning, and walked out to dunk the dirty dishes in the magic bucket and hang the cups on the hooks to dry. The plates got stacked on the rack. He performed these tasks mechanically; when he left again, he was not surprised to find Fox waiting in the lee with the Death’s gig.

  Tau sighed as he leaped over the rail and dropped into the gig. He settled to the tiller as Fox stepped the mast and raised the sail.

  The breeze was hot and fitful, the low, uniform ceiling of cotton-puff clouds like a lid on the humid heat. Thunder was on the way again.

  Tau’s head ached a little; he’d been avoiding Fox’s hints, but he could not deny the persistent sense of dread. So it was time to address the matter. “And then what?”

  Fox did not ask what Tau was talking about, which was in itself an answer. He sat against the high rail, rope in hand, as the gig heeled hard. His profile was grim. “You really think Inda is going to win?” he asked at last.

  Tau braced, the tiller shuddering faintly. The wind had risen to wet gusts, churning up the water. Clouds fast obscured the emerging stars. “I think people so desperately want to believe Inda will lead us to success that they’ll strive to make it happen. I’ve gone from ship to ship, I’ve watched him with them. I think his secret plan—which is madness— makes him feel he has an edge. He sounds convinced, and if he’s convinced, they’re convinced. He’s never lost a battle. That’s what they say to one another. I’ve tried to count up how many versions I’ve heard. Had to stop because of how word order works in different tongues.” Tau lifted his hand in the Marlovan manner, signifying, it could be. Then dropped it. “Say he wins. And then what?”

  Fox hauled the sail taut, sending them bumping over the cresting waves. “You tell me.”

  “If he carries out Evred’s orders to take the strait and enforce peace and order, will your fleet follow him? They like their independence, it seems to me.”

  Fox snorted. “If Inda wins, they’ll do anything for him. Even the new ones.”

  Tau regripped the vibrating tiller as the surging sea sucked at it, and raised his voice. “What about you? Going to follow Inda to carry forth Marlovan glory?”

  Fox spat over the side.

  Tau waited. He’d guessed about his connection to the Deis when in Bren, after hearing gossip about the Sartoran branch of the family. But the connection to the Montredavan-Ans had taken him by surprise.

  He’d sensed Fox had figured pretty much from the beginning who Tau was, having known more of the old story. That would explain a good deal of his instant antipathy, besides his teenage jealousy of Tau’s influence with Inda: he and Fox were both in some wise outcasts, but Tau’s was of a sort easier to bear than the deliberate cruelty of the treaty forced on Fox’s family. Nobody had exiled the Deis—far from it. Fox surely had to be hearing the “Lord Taumad Dei” foolery that the diplomats were slinging around in order to bolster their own prestige, as it established his. Tau had not expected the slightest change in Fox’s attitude when they met again, but in subtle ways something fundamental had changed with Fox. Tau knew better than to assume it had anything whatsoever to do with him. But it was there, or they never would have been actually conversing for the first time.

  So he waited.

  They neared the Death, which was surging on the rolling sea, curses rising from the painting party suspended over the side. They’d been in the process of repainting the weather-worn black halfway down the larboard side, working fast as the weather began to change. But not fast enough. As rain splotched the wet paint, they hoisted themselves to the deck and helped the sail crew double-reef the topsail.

  Fox peered at the swinging lanterns, the sails, and then turned back to Tau, who was barely visible in the rapidly closing dark. Fox loosened the sail, so the way came instantly off the boat, and they sat there on the rising sea, plunging and tossing.

  Fox stepped aft and crouched down within an arm’s length of Tau, ignoring the packets of spray washing over the rail. “If he loses, then we’re done with the question. But if he wins . . . he’s still under orders. If Inda doesn’t carry out those orders, do you think he’ll do the smart thing, like Dhalshev did, and avoid the legal grief?”

  “Legal grief”—a horrific understatement, if Fox had told the truth to the merrymakers on Cocodu. Tau knew it was true: it took no more than a dozen heartbeats to look back over his memories of his time as a personal Runner and all the wry references to what happened if a Marlovan did not obey orders.

  Fox moved away to tighten the sail; the conversation was over.

  A huge wave crashed over the gunwale as Tau steered them under the Death’s lee. The boom crew was at hand, ready to pull up the gig.

  Fox went to the cabin to change, and Tau, soaked to the skin, climbed to the masthead to watch the storm and think. The air was warm, and he did not mind the wind and water; in a sense they kept him anchored to reality as he considered Fox’s words, which he knew were not a gift. Or a confidence. They were a responsibility—more like a burden. Fox had figured out Inda’s orders, but for whatever reason had decided he could do nothing about them.

  Tau was still at the masthead when the storm blew past, leaving the rigging to drip unmusically as stars glittered overhead. He was still there at the midnight watch change, as a new young mate tramped assiduously around the deck, clapping his arms to his sides and singing tunelessly.

  He was still there when the sun rose and the new watch emerged from below, relaxed and sleep-heavy as they began, one by one, dousing the deck lanterns.

  He went below to find an unused hammock, and get some sleep. He had a plan. If “Lord Taumad Dei” actually had any prestige, it was time to use that, and his skills, to fashion a peace treaty. If he got all the coastal governments to agree, that would remove the necessity for Evred’s orders. Inda is released, Evred gets his order and trade—everybody wins.

  Right?

  Chapter Twenty-two

  WHILE Fox and Tau took the boat from Cocodu to Death, Inda stood in Thog’s austere cabin. Inda had just called off the drill, but not because of the coming storm in spite of what everyone thought.

  For a moment they faced one another, Thog braced, and Inda regarded her stiff, slight figure, her intense black gaze. Just so had she regarded him the last time they had faced each other alone, after she had set fire to a ship full of pirates in order to burn them alive.

  All right, easy things first, Inda thought. “Thog, you’re not going to be grabbing any of our crew, are you? Pilvig—usually so steady—won’t take a day watch, and we’ve got others who are afraid you’ll send a party over at night to snatch ’em off the decks and drag ’em back to Chwahirsland to be put to death for running.”

  He hadn’t expected a smile. Thog never smiled. But he had expected reasonable assurance.

  He did not get it. “Actually, I am under orders to retrieve our people.”

  “And beat them to death? What use is that?”

  “Warning to our own, mostly, but as it happens,
we would not have to do that. A flogging, certainly. Laws must be seen to be obeyed and consequences dealt out impartially. But nothing more than a week’s stiff back and then they have a place. We need trained people, in truth.”

  “How do I protect my crew from being taken against their will?”

  Thog studied Inda from her dense black eyes, then said slowly, “If we do not see a Chwahir we have no reason to act.”

  Pilvig and the others will have to wear kerchiefs, Inda thought. Dress like Brens or Ymarans. Don’t let Thog see Chwahir. He could see the effort Thog made, and he knew he would not get that much from her peers. “Thog, I don’t understand your customs, and I need to. Or it’s no use. This alliance isn’t going to work unless you can be straight with me.”

  He’d thought her pale and tense, but her face blanched to the color of paper. “I just conceded. Though we need the people back. And I obey your orders,” she said.

  “Sure.” Inda kicked his bare toes against the back of a bench bolted to the deck. “You do. I know that. And I know you can’t tell me where the rest of your navy is. I’m glad to have you and the ships you did bring. But you aren’t telling me why your ships are slow. Riding low. Why you have to hide the fact that you have the equivalent of three or four crews stuffed down there. Everyone’s speculating—they’re too experienced not to notice—and they assume bad faith, that you aren’t hiding fighting crew from the Venn, but from us. Like you mean to take some ally ships. How can I counter that when I don’t know your reasons?”

  “I’m under orders—” Thog began.

  “We’re all under orders. And some of the rulers are so worried about their people obeying orders that they’re here in various guises.” A tangential thought flickered—Evred’s orders—and Inda’s chin came up. But he remembered that Evred had no stake whatever except peaceful trade. He certainly did not want more land.

  So Inda shook his head impatiently, ignoring the pang, and when a stuttering crash of thunder had rumbled away, he said, “I can’t figure out where to put you. Deliyeth hates my guts, and she only came aboard me once, but when I toured her ships she showed me everything from keelson to topmasts herself, in hopes of wringing extra speed and versatility out of ’em. So nobody thinks she’s gonna swarm us from the hidden coast here with a new flotilla and send a hold full of fighters over the rails to attack us in the night. Nobody wants to sail near you, because they think you’re going to attack ’em instead of the Venn.”