Even better, they rated not just anchorage out in the roads, but a dockside berth. And that, Jeje knew, was in part her doing as she had alerted Commander Dhalshev to the weakness of the island. Inda had then given the former admiral advice on its defense.
Inda had said over New Year’s Firstday mulled wine that they didn’t just have a good place now, they had the inside line of communication. Dhalshev was in contact with nearly every harbormaster in the east, excepting only Khanerenth, where he’d once been fleet commander.
Dhalshev had also indicated his approval in material ways, agreeing to Inda’s proposal that Inda’s people practice with his patrol ships—once they’d been drilled to Fox’s satisfaction. Inda had said, “We get practice in boarding and taking ships, they get practice in defense.”
Meanwhile, Barend had been forcing them outside the bay on Cocodu and Vixen to practice fast maneuvering and sending and reading arrow and flag signals.
Jeje and Thog had reorganized the bow teams. On two quick signals they either shot together in deadly sheets of arrows, or in pairs, one pulling and aiming as the other loosed, so there would be a lethal continuous release.
All the long, bitter winter.
Jeje let out a sigh of satisfaction.
Spring! Every captain who had been longing for spring would be tramping his or her deck, getting ready to sail on the tide in search of trade—or perhaps in search of traders whose flag indicated the wrong government.
Inda, Fox, and Barend had declared the practice drills over. It was time to launch in search of pirates.
Jeje saw Thog’s eyes open. “Wager we’ll leave soon?”
“I would not take that wager,” Thog said, unsmiling. She rarely smiled and never laughed. She looked out at the world through wide-set eyes, her small mouth pressed even smaller, her shoulders squared, as if every day presented some kind of unseen battle.
But now she looked . . . rested. “What are you thinking?”
Reflected sunlight gleamed in Thog’s black eyes. “The wind changed during the night. Did you feel it too?”
“I smell it. Light’s changed, too.” Winter was over, though these treacherous eastern waters might yet fling a blast or two at them.
“It is the first time,” Thog said in a low, fervent tone, “that I have not seen Wumma and Rig and Yan walk through this window with the rise of the sun, and go that way.” She pointed to the northeast.
Jeje’s neck prickled. Northeast. The Ghost Isles lay that way, though far on the other side of the Toaran continent.
Jeje sighed. It was hard to believe that people really saw ghosts. She couldn’t ask Thog, who might bristle. Not that she snapped or snarled. She was an odd, prickly hedgehog sort of creature; when she was angry or upset she’d go silent for a week, shoulders hunched as she worked steadily.
Jeje couldn’t believe in ghosts as anything but the fanciful things you met in old ballads. Either a living creature had a body, which you could see, or it didn’t. Nevertheless people claimed to see them.
This was the first time that it wasn’t “people” seeing them, but someone she knew.
She said, “I miss Wumma and the others. I always think of Rig when Uslar makes those delicious cinnamon buns. I wonder if he and Hav would have stayed in Sartor to be bakers if they’d known?”
Thog jerked her head, a gesture like tossing something away. “Spending their lives as bakers was prison to them. They knew the risks. Took them anyway.”
She spoke with conviction. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn’t, but Jeje missed them all, even that nasty old Scalis. Most of all she missed Yan.
“I know what to do,” she said. “Help Inda shift the last of the gear down. Get it stowed. Look over the Vixen one last time. Then tonight we’ll go upstairs and get laid. Who knows how long it will be before the next chance?”
Thog’s little mouth compressed. “You go upstairs. Not me.”
Jeje turned on her elbow. “Are you getting sick?”
Thog blushed, then sat up. “I don’t want sex. There is no feeling there.” She pressed her hands to her childish chest. No feeling except hate.
Jeje frowned. It was hard to believe Thog had at least three years on her. She looked like she was fourteen.
And how old am I now, anyway? Eighteen? Nineteen? I don’t think I’m yet twenty. Jeje gave up counting. She grimaced instead. “For me, it’s the opposite. I don’t want it with anyone but strangers. Then you go your way and he goes his, no trouble following.” No risk. It hurt still to remember Yan’s trembling, the fumbling explorations, the shared snuffles of laughter, and then the joy. Next day he was dead, cheated out of a good life by an indifferent pirate hand.
“You think I am wrong?” Thog asked softly.
“Naw. I’m just remembering,” Jeje admitted. The memory of Yan, and the year before, all those nights and nights of empty yearning after Tau, of spying to see where he was, of sniffing for his scent when she entered a room. Of silent anguish when she knew he’d been with someone else. No, strangers were best. No wager on that! She said with an attempt at cheer, “Well, as Grandma said when Aunt Bibi set up house with the bricklayer’s sister after twenty years with my uncle, we’re all made different, and that’s a fact.”
Thog got up and reached for her clothes. “I’m off to the baths. I’ll meet you down at the ship. I have a task there.”
“But we’re done at the ship!”
“I’m going to work on the banner sail.” Thog’s eyes crinkled in her version of a smile. “Inda has not asked, but I want it finished before we reach cruising waters.”
Jeje wondered what extra meaning there was in a golden fox face on a black background. Inda had been very specific about the way it was to be made, with details added by Barend, and that strange, sarcastic red-haired Fox standing by, arms crossed, jabbering in that Marlovan language that they no longer tried to hide.
Fox had taken over as first mate and Barend as sailing master, superseding everyone Inda knew, but they were experienced sailors. Everyone agreed that Barend was the best sailing master for the pirate maneuvering, and Dasta was going to serve as his mate. Barend had the same exacting eye as Kodl—that being the standard for what remained of the old marines. Fox, as the best fighter, had been put in charge of the hand-to-hand fighting drills as well as the boarding practice.
Tau had the bruises to show it.
As she trod down to the dock, Jeje thought over the winter drills and how Fox always singled Tau out and how their matches seemed more like fights. Jeje didn’t understand why those two seemed on the verge of killing one another at times, though they never went off and fought a duel. They didn’t even complain about the other behind his back. Fox reserved his invective for Tau’s presence, and Tau never said anything at all about Fox. But if his name was mentioned, Tau’s mild expression turned sardonic— unsettlingly mirroring Fox’s own expression.
Inda behaved differently around the Marlovans. His manner changed subtly. This change had been particularly noticeable when he first suggested the fox banner-sail. Barend had laughed and laughed, and Fox had crossed his arms, his smile mordant—similar to their reactions upon hearing the scout craft’s name of Vixen—but Jeje found nothing funny in the sight of a fox face.
When Dasta entered the supply room that Mistress Lind had given Inda as his office, he found Inda leaning against the table as he named the ships in the harbor to Tau.
Winter was definitely over. Dasta shut out the long litany whose purpose escaped him—he knew who was in harbor, from where, and who had left. Instead, he contemplated his fellow ex-marines, who were all together for the first time since early winter. Between then and now life had been a long succession of hard labors in brutal weather.
His first sign of the differences had been when he reached into his gear bag that morning for his summer vest—regretfully put away months ago (he never wore a shirt)—just to discover it was far too tight across the back, as well as too short.
S
o he put the vest in the poor box, and, though the weather was still brisk in the shadows, he was wearing his new vest and new drawstring trousers, his favorite summer gear. Best for action.
Inda actually had on a new shirt—one he hadn’t made himself. It was not only unstained, it had laces, and they were neatly done up. Inda had never shown any interest in his appearance. The shirt had to be Tau’s influence. Either that or Inda, who had last year discovered sex, finally figured out that looking like a scruffy dock rat was not going to attract anyone’s eye.
“Then he has enough for defense if he needs to call on them,” Tau said. “What surprises me is how he manages to hide his actual numbers.”
Tau was the opposite. Dasta wondered as Tau brushed his fingers over the harbor map how Tau always managed to find clothes that looked toff, though they weren’t. That is, no lace, silk, or velvet, like Gaffer Walic.
“Especially on an island,” Tau said, straightening up, his linen shirt a smooth line from shoulder to thigh instead of sagging or bunched at the sash, like it would be on most people.
“Woof says they are deliberate about it,” Inda replied. “You always refer to a force being somewhere other than where you are. And note who goes looking for it.”
Dasta was taken aback. He was now as tall as Tau, the oldest of them. When had that happened? And over the past year Inda had stopped looking like a boy. He was only marginally taller, but he’d grown very broad through the chest. Compact and powerful—the awkward boy was gone.
Inda and Tau seemed to become aware of him at the same time and turned his way.
Dasta said, jerking his thumb harborward, “Got it—”
Footsteps behind.
It was only Fox and Barend, the former in black, as always. Barend, like Inda, wore a new cotton-linen shirt tied with a crimson sash and brown deck trousers.
As Dasta resumed his supply report, Tau retreated to the window, where he could watch everyone with no one behind him. Fox took his place as if Tau didn’t exist, Barend leaning next to him, running a finger above Inda’s chalk marks.
“. . . I got the last of the flour paid for, after Lorm inspected it. They’ll put it aboard by noon. Promise, with all sorts of wishes for success, every one of them private.” Dasta shook his head.
Inda listened as he studied his chart. “What did you tell them?”
Dasta opened his hands. “I told them what we’ve all been saying. We’re setting out to smash those Fire Island rats for last year’s trouble. But they all nod and smile. Like this.” He nodded slowly, mimicking the exaggerated nod of one who is in on a secret. “Five people this morning up and said, ‘Strike a blow against the Brotherhood for me. I lost a cousin when Boruin fired their trader . . . ’ or an aunt, or a brother, or a whole village. All Boruin’s kills.”
Inda frowned. “If I find out who has the big yap—”
Tau laughed. “Inda. This is a harbor. Everyone knows everyone’s business. You listen to rumors yourself.”
“I don’t talk.”
“No, but people notice what you listen to. And they’ve seen you up at the octagon, which few are allowed in. Even if they know nothing about the defense of the island, they do know Dhalshev has the master charts up there.”
“But we never talked about my plans. Just the defense drills.” Inda absently wiped his chalky fingers on his fine new shirt, then sat back. “Anyway, no one along the Saunter has said a word to me about where we’re going or what we’re going to do when we get there.”
“Don’t have to.” Tau laughed from his window vantage, the spring light gleaming in the short hair that waved back from his brow. “Whatever you do has become interesting.”
Fox felt a spurt of resentment as he always did when Inda listened to Tau.
“I don’t see why I’m interesting. Dhalshev talks to a lot of people, and no one knows what’s said up in the octagon. ” Inda rubbed the side of his face. A healing salve had faded the purple scar running from his cheekbone to his jawline to white, but rubbing the scar had become a habit.
“They ask us.” Barend grinned. “We all say we’re going after the Fire Island pirates. And meanwhile Mutt is at the charthouse buying this chart here, with the latest details of The Fangs at the mouth of the strait, which everyone knows is Boruin of the Brotherhood’s cruising station. And we’re all either out in the water or else up on the hill behind the Lark’s hothouse in the worst weather, drilling until we drop, in order to go up against someone you turfed once already.”
“And everyone knows every detail of Boruin Death-Hand’s wretched career and that her flagship is a pirate trysail and faster than damnation,” Fox drawled. “You don’t seem to understand that nothing is more interesting than notoriety.”
Inda tossed the chalk on his palm. “Are we notorious? The harbor is full of suspicious ‘independents’ and privateers whose letters of marque are mostly excuses for reprisals.”
Tau opened his hands. “We’re more interesting.”
“Because of our drills?”
“That,” Dasta spoke up. “And because not a one of them thrashed the likes of Gaffer Walic. That’s why half the brats on the island spent the autumn gathering feathers for us, against our return.”
Barend added, “And everywhere people want to sign on.”
“I thought the feathers was Nugget rousting her friends to work for us,” Inda said, grinning. “I’ve certainly had most of ’em wanting to join us. Eh, doesn’t matter.” He sat back. “Here’s what does. If everyone is blabbing about us, then what we know, the Brotherhood knows.”
Dasta pointed at the map. “If you mean Boruin knows you’re comin’ for her, yeah. If anyone will talk to her.”
“Brotherhood spies’re everywhere. Even here,” Tau said.
“Anything for a price?” Fox asked, sending a derisive glance toward Tau.
Tau gestured, a mocking flourish in semi-salute. “You tell me,” he invited.
Fox flicked up the back of his hand.
Tau smiled as he got to his feet. “If we’re departing, I want a last meal on dishes that stay put in front of me.”
That signaled a general exodus. Tau found Inda next to him, eyes serious. “Is there trouble between you and Fox?”
“Ask him.”
“Did,” Inda said grimly. “He said to ask you.”
Tau laughed.
“Is it a sex thing? Are you rivals? Or is it each other?”
Tau contemplated Inda’s earnest face. What to say? If only it was that simple! He wants you, Inda. But not your prick; he wants your mind, your soul, he wants to be you. And so he resents anyone you listen to except for him. In some inexplicable way Inda was still twelve years old. It was that boundary he’d built between him and his childhood Tau suspected, simply from what Inda had steadfastly refused to talk about these past five years. Yet it was still with him, as evidenced in his new banner, in the speed with which he’d adopted these two newcomers from his homeland.
In matters of war Inda was the smartest of them all but in matters of the heart, he was still twelve. If Tau spoke those words, Inda would not understand, would become self-conscious in that way peculiar only to Inda. “Just friendly competition,” he said, when he saw Inda still waiting for an answer.
“Keep it friendly,” Inda retorted, looking at him askance. “We’re sailing toward enough trouble without having it on deck.”
Chapter Fourteen
"I THINK I see smoke,” the lookout shouted from the masthead of the Sarendan warship Nofa.
Captain Taz-Enja squinted at the eastern horizon behind the dawn haze. Sea and sky blended into an infinitude of gray shades.
“Sail hai!” the lookout shouted, and the captain reached for his glass in the binnacle. The horizon leaped forward and flattened, but he could make out a tall triangular shape inside the slow whirls of smoky fog.
“. . . ship on fire?” someone muttered in the tops and was hushed with a hoarsely whispered reminder they were at battle s
tations.
A sliver of sun imbued the scene with color. Yes. There. The captain made out the faintest smudge of whitish brown as it swirled up into the breeze ruffling the rippling water.
“Raffee!” the lookout yelled next, his voice cracking. “No kingdom banner—a pirate!”
They’ve got the wind—what wind there is, the captain thought bleakly, but he said only, “Fighting sail.”
His lieutenant, who had pounded up to the captain’s deck after the lookout’s first yell, started issuing a stream of orders to the crew who’d already begun scrambling into place.
As running feet thudded on the deck the captain kept his glass trained on the shadowy shape that glided slowly closer. Tall masts. On the foremast, a sharp-cut triangular mainsail. Square fore-mainsail—definitely a raffee.
And on that topsail . . . something black, with some sort of face. He rubbed the eyeglass on his trouser leg, though the blur was fog, not smeared glass. What was that, a hawk? Eagle? No. Ears—muzzle—ruff—a fox with raptor eyes.
“Isn’t that Gaffer Walic’s raffee?” the lieutenant murmured at his shoulder, just audible above the clatter and thock of blocks, the whuffle of sails being readied and bow teams ascending to the mastheads.
“Never seen it,” the captain answered, not taking his eye from his glass.
“I saw it once. When I was a mid,” the lieutenant replied. He, too, had not taken his eye from his own glass. “They outran us. Never forget the cut of that raffee sail. Sharp. Like a royal yacht. Tight rigged, raked masts, like this one.” He lowered his glass, his expression bemused. “But they said he always sailed blank. Swore he would until he could join the red sails.”
“Admiralty posted notice that he lost it. Last summer,” the captain said. “You were on leave. Some other pirate. Get the list, please.”
The lieutenant smacked his glass shut and gestured to a waiting boy, who returned with the most recent list issued to all harbormasters.
The captain lowered his glass and took the paper. The light was now strong enough to read the close-written sheet.