The Fox by Sherwood Smith Read Free Book Online

something was suspicious, I can’t stop him from reporting to your father. And what then?”
    “But Unc—” Uncle Sindan the Sieralef almost said, though he hadn’t thought of his father’s lifelong mate as "uncle” for years. "S-Sindan away. At Olara. Made certain. ”
    “How could you possibly forget that he has Runners all over, spying on everyone, reporting to him and not to me? There is nothing whatsoever I can do about what he learns. You know he pretends to defer to me, but he reports straight to your father. Olara,” the Harskialdna finished in disgust. “Aldren, if you haven’t learned it, learn it now. He’s got eyes all over the kingdom, and they are loyal only to him.”
    And to Father, the Sierlaef thought. Not to you.
    The Harskialdna sighed, then rubbed his forehead. “I hope I never have to ride like that again. I did it to save you. As soon as I heard about the bugle call I knew your hand lay behind it. What possessed you to have them use an academy call?”
    Relief and triumph both flooded the Sierlaef. He crossed his arms, grinning. “Planned that. Horn by Tanrid.”
    “Yes, so they assumed. And grief seems, at least so far, to keep them from questioning why Tanrid, whose head was always cool, would be lost enough to blow the academy war game ride-to-shoot call.”
    “None of ’em know it. All dragoons. Riders. Either Sala or Trad Varadhe castles. No academy. Except your Runner.”
    “Your brother knows it.”
    “What?”
    “Your brother,” the Harskialdna’s eyes narrowed in fury, “was there. He was so very much there he arrived at the end of the attack, barely too late to save Tanrid.”
    “What? He-he—”
    “Was supposed to be building harbor walls, yes,” the Harskialdna said with savage sarcasm. “But he tangled with some local hustler, had a tiff, and dusted off to cry on Tanrid’s shoulder. A fellow, by the by. D’you think Tanrid—”
    The royal heir flung up a hand and cut him off. His brother’s and Tanrid’s sex lives were irrelevant; even in the extreme unlikelihood that Evred and Tanrid had discovered a sudden mutual passion, Tanrid was dead, and his passions no longer mattered to anyone. As for the Sierlaef’s brother Evred—not seen in years and whom his servants knew better than to mention—the Sierlaef still envisioned his younger brother as the clumsy, awkward poetry-spouter of six years ago. He knew his uncle’s penchant for worming out secrets, just from curiosity if not to use them to enforce obedience; this secret, if it even was one, was already worthless. “Evred said?”
    “He hasn’t said anything. That I know. He did write off to the Algara-Vayirs as well as your father, but I saw those messages. Evred’s letter was quite correct. The usual wine-sauce about Tanrid’s valor, plus he added some poetry in obsolete language, probably as a sop to the women, very much in your brother’s usual style.” The Harskialdna shifted his attack. “So you intended your ‘brigands’ all to die?”
    The Sierlaef grinned. “Made sure. Expected reward.”
    “And your assassin? What’s to prevent him from talking, since he saw the reward his party got?”
    The Sierlaef laughed, though he endured the familiar twinge of regret at the necessity of killing his Runner Vedrid, who was fast and smart. However, there was a kingdom full of fast, smart fellows who wanted to be Runners to the future king.
    King.
    “Well?” the Harskialdna demanded, his harshness motivated by a wave of fear that he’d lost control, that he would be implicated, and what the king would do.
    The Sierlaef looked up, angry enough to get out what for him was a very long speech with a minimum of stutter. “Thought of that, too. He didn’t know the plan. Different orders. Any ‘brigands’ left alive, kill them. After, sent him to Buck Marlo-Vayir. Said meet me there. Sent message, kill him. Said he’d betrayed me.”
    “What?” His uncle’s voice cracked. “You brought in