Harry Turtledove - Tale of the Fox

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Tale of the Fox
Table of Contents
King of the North
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
Fox & Empire
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
TALE OF THE FOX
HARRY TURTLEDOVE
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any
resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright (c) 2000 by Harry Turtledove
King of the North(c) 1996 by Harry Turtledove
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Fox & Empire(c) 1998 by Harry Turtledove
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original Omnibus
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN: 0-671-57874-X
Cover art by Bob Eggleton
First printing, June 2000
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Typeset by Brilliant Press
Printed in the United States of America
She was beautiful. But he was the Fox.
In the middle of the clearing stood a comely naked woman with long dark hair, twice as tall as the Fox,
who held in her right hand an axe of Gradi style.
"Voldar," Gerin whispered. In the silence of his mind, he thanked his own gods that the Gradi goddess
had chosen to meet him in a dream rather than manifesting herself in the material world.
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She looked at him—through him—with eyes pale as ice, eyes in which cold fire flickered. And he,
abruptly, was cold, chilled in the heart, chilled from the inside out. Her lips moved. "You meddle in what
does not concern you," she said. He did not think the words were Elabonian, but he understood them
anyhow. That left him awed but unsurprised. Gods—and, he supposed, goddesses—had their own ways
in such matters.
"The northlands are my land, the land of my people, the land of my gods," he answered, bold as he
dared. "Of course what happens here concerns me."
That divinely chilling gaze pierced him again. Voldar tossed her head in fine contempt. Her hair whipped
out behind her, flying back as if in a breeze—but there was no breeze. In face and form, the Gradi
goddess was stunningly beautiful, more perfect than any being the Fox had imagined, but even had she
been his size, he would have known no stir of desire for her. Whatever her purpose, love had nothing to
do with it.
She said, "Obey me now and you may yet survive. Give over your vain resistance and you will be able
to live out your full span most honored among all those not lucky enough to be born of the blood of my
folk."
He said, "I'll take my chances. I may end up dead, but that strikes me as better than living under your
people—and under you. Or I may end up alive and free. Till the time comes, you never know—and we
Elabonians have gods, too."
Baen Books by Harry Turtledove
The Fox novels:
Wisdom of the Fox
Tale of the Fox
Sentry Peak(forthcoming)
The Case of the Toxic Spell Dump
Thessalonica
Alternate Generals, editor
Down in the Bottomlands
(with L. Sprague de Camp)
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King of the North
I
Gerin the Fox looked down his long nose at the two peasants who'd brought their dispute before him.
"Now, Trasamir, you say this hound is yours, am I right?"
"Aye, that's right, lord prince." Trasamir Longshanks' shaggy head bobbed up and down. He pointed to
several of the people who helped crowd the great hall of Fox Keep. "All these folks from my village,
they'll say it's so."
"Of course they will," Gerin said. One corner of his mouth curled up in a sardonic smile. "They'd better,
hadn't they? As best I can tell, you've got two uncles, a cousin, a nephew, and a couple of nieces there,
haven't you?" He turned to the other peasant. "And you, Walamund, you claim the hound belongs to
you?"
"That I do, lord prince, on account of it's so." Walamund Astulf's son had a typical Elabonian name, but
dirty blond hair and light eyes said there were a couple of Trokmoi in the family woodpile. Like Gerin,
Trasamir was swarthy, with brown eyes and black hair and beard—though the Fox's beard had gone
quite gray the past few years. Walamund went on, "These here people will tell you that there dog is
mine."
Gerin gave them the same dubious look with which he'd favored Trasamir's supporters. "That's your
father and your brother and two of your brothers-in-law I see, one of them with your sister
alongside—for luck, maybe."
Walamund looked as unhappy as Trasamir Longshanks had a moment before. Neither man seemed to
have expected their overlord to be so well versed about who was who in their village. That marked them
both for fools: any man who did not know Gerin kept close track of as many tiny details as he could
wasn't keeping track of details himself.
Hesitantly, Trasamir pointed to the hound in question—a rough-coated, reddish brown beast with
impressive fangs, now tied to a table leg and given a wide berth by everybody in the hall. "Uh, lord
prince, you're a wizard, too, they say. Couldn't you use your magic to show whose dog Swifty there
really is?"
"I could," Gerin said. "I won't. More trouble than it's worth." As far as he was concerned, most magic
was more trouble than it was worth. His sorcerous training was more than half a lifetime old now, and
had always been incomplete. A partially trained mage risked his own skin every time he tried a
conjuration. The Fox had got away with it a few times over the years, but picked with great care the
spots where he'd take the chance.
He turned to his eldest son, who stood beside him listening to the two peasants' arguments. "How would
you decide this one, Duren?"
"Me?" Duren's voice broke on the word. He scowled in embarrassment. When you had fourteen
summers, the world could be a mortifying place. But Gerin had put questions like that to him before: the
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Fox was all too aware he wouldn't last forever, and wanted to leave behind a well-trained successor. As
Trasamir had, Duren pointed to the hound. "There's the animal. Here are the two men who say it's theirs.
Why not let them both call it and see which one it goes to?"
Gerin plucked at his beard. "Mm, I like that well enough. Better than well enough, in fact—they should
have thought of it for themselves back at their village instead of coming here and wasting my time with it."
He looked to Trasamir and Walamund. "Whichever one of you can call the dog will keep it. Do you
agree?"
Both peasants nodded. Walamund asked, "Uh, lord prince, what about the one the dog doesn't go to?"
The Fox's smile grew wider, but less pleasant. "He'll have to yield up a forfeit, to make sure I'm not
swamped with this sort of foolishness. Do you still agree?"
Walamund and Trasamir nodded again, this time perhaps less enthusiastically. Gerin waved them out to
the courtyard. Out they went, along with their supporters, his son, a couple of his vassals, and all the
cooks and serving girls. He started out himself, then realized the bone of contention—or rather, the
bone-gnawer of contention—was still tied to the table.
The hound growled and bared its teeth as he undid the rope holding it. Had it attacked him, he would
have drawn his sword and solved the problem by ensuring that neither peasant took possession of it
thereafter. But it let him lead it out into the afternoon sunlight.
"Get back, there!" he said, and the backers of Trasamir and Walamund retreated from their principals.
He glared at them. "Any of you who speaks or moves during the contest will be sorry for it, I promise."
The peasants might suddenly have turned to stone. Gerin nodded to the two men who claimed the hound.
"All right—go ahead."
"Here, Swifty!" "Come, boy!" "Come on—good dog!" "That's my Swifty!" Walamund and Trasamir
both called and chirped and whistled and slapped the callused palms of their hands against their woolen
trousers.
At first, Gerin thought the dog would ignore both of them. It sat on its haunches and yawned, displaying
canines that might almost have done credit to a longtooth. The Fox hadn't figured out what he'd do if
Swifty wanted no part of either peasant.
But then the hound got up and began to strain against the rope. Gerin let go, hoping the beast wouldn't
savage one of the men calling it. It ran straight to Trasamir Longshanks and let him pat and hug it. Its
fluffy tail wagged back and forth. Trasamir's relatives clapped their hands and shouted in delight.
Walamund's stood dejected.
So did Walamund himself. "Uh—what are you going to do to me, lord prince?" he asked, eyeing Gerin
with apprehension.
"Do you admit to trying to take the hound when it was not yours?" the Fox asked, and Walamund
reluctantly nodded. "You knew your claim wasn't good, but you made it anyhow?" Gerin persisted.
Walamund nodded again, even more reluctantly. Gerin passed sentence: "Then you can kiss the dog's
backside, to remind you to keep your hands off what belongs to your neighbors."
"Grab Swifty's tail, somebody!" Trasamir shouted with a whoop of glee. Walamund Astulf's son stared
from Gerin to the dog and back again. He looked as if somebody had hit him in the side of the head with
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a board. But almost everyone around him—including some of his own kinsfolk—nodded approval at the
Fox's rough justice. Walamund started to stoop, then stopped and sent a last glance of appeal toward his
overlord.
Gerin folded his arms across his chest. "You'd better do it," he said implacably. "If I come up with
something else, you'll like that even less, I promise you."
His own gaze went to the narrow window that gave light to his bedchamber. As he'd hoped, Selatre
stood there, watching what was going on in the courtyard below. When he caught his wife's eye, she
nodded vigorously. That made him confident he was on the right course. He sometimes doubted his own
good sense, but hardly ever hers.
One of Trasamir's relatives lifted the hound's tail. Walamir got down on all fours, did as the Fox had
required of him, and then spat in the dirt and grass again and again, wiping his lips on his sleeve all the
while.
"Fetch him a jack of ale, to wash his mouth," Gerin told one of the serving girls. She hurried away. The
Fox looked a warning to Trasamir and his relatives. "Don't hang an ekename on him on account of this,"
he told them. "It's over and done with. If he comes back here and tells me you're all calling him
Walamund Hound-Kisser or anything like that, you'll wish you'd never done it. Do you understand me?"
"Aye, lord prince," Trasamir said, and his kinsfolk nodded solemnly. He didn't know whether they meant
it. He knew he did, though, so if they didn't they'd be sorry.
The girl brought out two tarred-leather jacks of ale. She gave one to Walamund and handed the Fox the
other. "Here, lord prince," she said with a smile.
"Thank you, Nania," he answered. "That was kindly done." Her smile got wider and more inviting. She
was new to Fox Keep; maybe she had in mind slipping into Gerin's bed, or at least a quick tumble in a
storeroom or some such. In a lot of castles, that would have been the quickest way to an easy job. Gerin
chuckled to himself as he poured out a small libation to Baivers, the god of barley and brewing. No
reason for Nania to know yet that she'd found herself an uxorious overlord, but she had. He hadn't done
any casual wenching since he'd met Selatre.Eleven years, more or less , he thought in some surprise. It
didn't feel that long.
Walamund had also let a little ale slop over the rim of his drinking jack and drip onto the ground: only a
fool slighted the gods. Then he raised the jack to his mouth. He spat out the first mouthful, then gulped
down the rest in one long draught.
"Fill him up again," Gerin told Nania. He turned back to Walamund and Trasamir and their companions.
"You can sup here tonight, and sleep in the great hall. The morning is time enough to get back to your
village." The peasants bowed and thanked him, even Walamund.
By the time the man who'd wrongly claimed the hound had got outside of his second jack of ale, his view
of the world seemed much improved. Duren stepped aside with Gerin and said, "I thought he'd hate you
forever after that, but he doesn't seem to."
"That's because I let him down easy once the punishment was done," the Fox said. "I made sure he
wouldn't be mocked, I gave him ale to wash his mouth, and I'll feed him supper same as I will Trasamir.
Once you've done what you need to do, step back and get on with things. If you stand over him gloating,
he's liable to up and kick you in the bollocks."
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Duren thought about it. "That's not what Lekapenos' epic tells a man to do," he said. " `Be the best
friend your friends have, and the worst foe to your foes,' or so the poet says."
Gerin frowned. Whenever he thought of Lekapenos, he thought of Duren's mother; Elise had been fond
of quoting the Sithonian poet. Elise had also run off with a traveling horse doctor, about the time Duren
was learning to stand on his feet. Even with so many years gone by, remembering hurt.
The Fox stuck close to the point his son had raised: "Walamund's not a foe. He's just a serf who did
something wrong. Father Dyaus willing, he won't take the chance of falling foul of me again, and that's
what I was aiming at. There's more gray in life, son, than you'll find in an epic."
"But the epic is grander," Duren said with a grin, and burst into Sithonian hexameters. Gerin grinned, too.
He was glad to see knowledge of Sithonian preserved here in the northlands, cut off these past fifteen
years and more from the Empire of Elabon. Few hereabouts could read even Elabonian, the tongue in
their mouths every day.
Gerin also smiled because Selatre, having first learned Sithonian herself, was the one who'd taught Duren
the language. The boy—no, not a boy any more: the youth—didn't remember his birth mother. Selatre
was the one who'd raised him, and he got on so well with her and with his younger half brothers and half
sister that they might have been full-blooded kin.
Duren pointed eastward. "There's Elleb, coming up over the stockade," he said. "Won't be too long till
sunset." Gerin nodded. Ruddy Elleb—actually, a washed-out pink with the sun still in the sky—was a
couple of days before full. Pale Nothos floated high in the southeast, looking like half a coin at first
quarter. Golden Math wasn't up yet: she'd be full tonight, Gerin thought. And swift-moving Tiwaz was
lost in the skirts of the sun.
Walamund had his drinking jack filled yet again. The Fox brewed strong ale; he wondered if the peasant
would fall asleep before supper. Well, if Walamund did, it was his business, no one else's. He'd hike
back to his village in the morning with a thick head, nothing worse.
From the watchtower atop the keep, a sentry shouted, "A chariot approaches, lord prince." On the
palisade surrounding Castle Fox, soldiers looked to their bows and bronze-headed spears. In these
troubled times, you never could tell who might be coming. After a short pause, the sentry said, "It's Van
of the Strong Arm, with Geroge and Tharma."
The soldiers relaxed. Van had been Gerin's closest friend since before the great werenight, and that had
been . . . Gerin glanced up toward Elleb and Nothos once more. Those two moons, and Tiwaz and
Math, had all been full together nearly sixteen years before. Sometimes, that night of terror seemed
impossibly distant. Sometimes, as now, it might have been day before yesterday.
Chains creaked as the gate crew lowered the drawbridge to let Van and his companions into Fox Keep.
The bridge thumped down onto the dirt on the far side of the ditch surrounding the palisade. Not for the
first time, Gerin told himself he ought to dig a trench from the River Niffet and turn that ditch to a moat.
When I have time , he thought, knowing that likely meantnever .
Horses' hooves drummed on the oak planks as the chariot rattled over the drawbridge and into the
courtyard. "Ho, Fox!" Van boomed. The outlander was driving the two-horse team, and in his fine
bronze corselet and helm with tall crest could easily have been mistaken for a god visiting the world of
men. He was half a foot taller than Gerin—who was not short himself—and broad through the shoulders
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in proportion. His hair and beard were still almost all gold, not silver, though he was within a couple of
years of the Fox's age, one way or the other. But the scars seaming his face and arms and hands gave
proof he was human, not divine.
Yet however impressive the figure he cut, Walamund and Trasamir and all the peasants who'd
accompanied them to Castle Fox stared not at him but at Geroge and Tharma, who rose behind him in
the car. Trasamir's eyes got very big. "Father Dyaus," he muttered, and made an apotropaic sign with his
right hand. "I thought we were rid of those horrible things for good."
Van glared at him. "You watch your mouth," he said, a warning not to be taken lightly. He turned back
to Geroge and Tharma and spoke soothingly: "Don't get angry. He doesn't mean anything by it. He just
hasn't seen any like you for a long time."
"It's all right," Geroge said, and Tharma nodded to show she agreed. He went on, "We know we
surprise people. It's just the way things are."
"How'd the hunting go?" Gerin asked, hoping to distract Geroge and Tharma from the wide eyes of the
serfs. They couldn't help their looks. As far as monsters went, in fact, they were very good people.
Tharma bent down and slung the gutted carcass of a stag out of the chariot. Geroge grinned proudly. "I
caught it," he said. His grin made the peasants draw back in fresh alarm, for his fangs were at least as
impressive as those of Swifty the hound. His face and Tharma's sloped forward, down to the massive
jaws needed to contain such an imposing collection of ivory.
Neither monster was excessively burdened with forehead, but both, under their hairy hides, had thews as
large and strong as Van's, which was saying a great deal. They wore baggy woolen trousers in a checked
pattern of ocher and woad blue: a Trokmê style.
Pretty soon, Gerin realized, he was going to have to put them in tunics, too, for Tharma would start
growing breasts before too much time went by. The Fox didn't know how long monsters took to reach
puberty. He did know Geroge and Tharma were about eleven years old.
Monsters like them had overrun the northlands then, after a fearsome earthquake released them from the
caverns under the temple of the god Biton, where they'd been confined for hundreds, maybe thousands,
of years. The efforts of mere mortals hadn't sufficed to drive the monsters back, either; Gerin had had to
evoke both Biton, who saw past and future, and Mavrix, the Sithonian god of wine, fertility, and beauty,
to rout them from the land.
Before he'd done that, he'd found a pair of monster cubs and had not killed them, though he and his
comrades had slain their mother. When Mavrix banished the monsters from the surface of the world,
Biton had mocked his sloppy work, implying some of the creatures still remained in the northlands. Gerin
had wondered then if they were the pair he'd spared, and wondered again a year later when a shepherd
who'd apparently raised Geroge and Tharma as pets till then brought them to him. He thought it likely,
but had no way to prove it. The shepherd had been maddeningly vague. He did know no other monsters
had ever turned up, not in all these years.
Having two monsters around was interesting, especially since they seemed bright for their kind, which
made them about as smart as stupid people. They'd grown up side by side with his own children, younger
than Duren but older than Dagref, the Fox's older son by Selatre. They were careful with their formidable
strength, and never used their fearsome teeth for anything but eating.
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But soon Tharma would be a woman—well, an adult female monster—and Geroge mature as well. The
Fox was anything but certain he wanted more than two monsters in the northlands, and just as uncertain
what, if anything, to do about it. He'd kept putting off a decision by telling himself he didn't yet need to
worry. That was still true, but wouldn't be much longer.
"Take that in to the cooks," he told Geroge. "Venison steaks tonight, roast venison, venison ribs—"
Geroge slung the gutted deer over his shoulder and carried it into the castle. Tharma followed him, as she
usually did, although sometimes he followed her. She ran her tongue across her wide, thin lips at the
prospect of plenty of meat.
"I need more ale," Walamund muttered. "We're supposed to eat alongside those horrible things?"
"They don't mind," Gerin said. "You shouldn't, either."
Walamund sent him a resentful glare, but the memory of recent punishment remained fresh enough to
keep the serf from saying anything. Geroge and Tharma came out into the courtyard again, this time
accompanied by Dagref and his younger sister Clotild, and by Van's daughter Maeva and his son Kor.
Behind the children strode Fand. "You might have told me you were back," she said to Van, a Trokmê
lilt to her Elabonian though she'd lived south of the Niffet since shortly after the werenight. A breeze blew
a couple of strands of coppery hair in front of her face. She brushed them aside with her hand. She was
perhaps five years younger than Van, but beginning to go gray.
He stared over toward her. "I might have done lots of things," he rumbled.
Fand set hands on hips. "Aye, you might have. But did you, now? No, not a bit of a bit. Hopped in the
car you did instead, and went off a-hunting with not a thought in your head for aught else."
"Who would have room for thoughts, with your eternal din echoing round in his head?" Van retorted.
They shouted at each other.
Gerin turned to Nania. "Fetch them each the biggest jack of ale we have," he said quietly. The serving
girl hurried away and returned with two jacks, each filled so full ale slopped over the side to make its
own libation. Gerin knew he was gambling. If Van and Fand were still angry at each other by the time
they got to the bottom of the jacks, they'd quarrel harder than ever because of the ale they'd drunk. A lot
of the time, though, their fights were like rain squalls: blowing up suddenly, fierce while they lasted, and
soon gone.
Maeva gave Dagref a shove. He staggered, but stayed on his feet. The two of them were very much of a
size, though he had a year on her. Maeva showed every promise of having much of her father's enormous
physical prowess. Gerin wondered if the world was ready for a woman warrior able to best almost any
man. Ready or not, the world was liable to face the prospect in a few years.
Clotild said, "No, Kor, don't put that rock in your mouth."
Instead of putting it in his mouth, he threw it at her. Fortunately, he missed. He had a temper he'd surely
acquired from Fand. Four-year-olds were not the most self-controlled people under any circumstances.
A four-year-old whose mother was Fand was a conflagration waiting to happen.
Van and Fand upended their drinking jacks at about the same time. Gerin waited to see what would
happen next. When what happened next was nothing, he allowed himself a tiny pat on the back. He
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glanced over at Fand. Hard to imagine these days that he and Van had once shared her favors. Getting to
know Selatre afterwards was like coming into a calm harbor after a storm at sea.
The Fox shook his head. That that image occurred to him proved only that he'd done more reading than
just about anyone else in the northlands (which, though undoubtedly true, wasn't saying much). He'd
never been on the Orynian Ocean—which lapped against the shore of the northlands far to the west—or
any other sea.
Shadows lengthened and began to gray toward twilight. A bronze horn sounded a long, hoarse, sour
note in the peasant village a few hundred yards from Fox Keep: a signal for the serfs to come to their huts
from out of the fields, both for supper and to keep themselves safe from the ghosts that roamed and
ravened through the night.
Van looked around to gauge the hour. He nodded approval. "The new headman keeps 'em at it longer
than Besant Big-Belly did," he said. "There were times when he'd blow the horn halfway through the
afternoon, seemed like."
"That's so," Gerin agreed. "The peasants mourned for days after that tree fell on him last winter. Not
surprising, is it? They knew they'd have to work harder with anybody else over them."
"Lazy buggers," Van said.
The Fox shrugged. "Nobody much likes to work. Sometimes you have to, though, or you pay for it later.
Some people never do figure that out, so they need a headman who can get the most from 'em without
making 'em hate him." He was happy to talk about work with his friend: anything to distract Van from yet
another squabble with Fand.
Fand, however, didn't feel like being distracted. "And some people, now," she said, "are after calling
others lazy while they their ownselves do whatever it is pleases them and not a lick of aught else."
"I'll give you a lick across the side of your head," Van said, and took a step toward her.
"Aye, belike you will, and one fine day you'll wake up beside me all nice and dead, with a fine slim
dagger slid between your ribs," Fand said, now in grim earnest. Van did hit her every once in a while;
brawling, for him, was a sport. She hit him, too, and clawed, and bit. The outlander was generally mindful
of his great strength, and did not use all of it save in war and hunting. When Fand was in a temper, she
was mindful of nothing and no one save her own fury.
Van said, "By all the gods in all the lands I've ever seen, I'll wake up beside somebody else, then."
"And I pity the poor dear, whoever she is," Fand shot back. "Sure and it's nobbut fool's luck—the only
kind a fool like you's after having—you've not brought me back a sickness, what with your rutting like a
stoat."
"As if I'm the only one, you faithless—!" Van clapped a hand to his forehead, speechless despite the
many languages he knew.
Gerin turned to Trasamir, who happened to be standing closest to him. "Isn't love a wonderful thing?" he
murmured.
"What?" Trasamir scratched his head.
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摘要：

TaleoftheFoxTableofContentsKingoftheNorthIIIIIIIVVVIVIIVIIIIXXXIXIIFox&EmpireIIIIIIIVVVIVIIVIIIIXXXIXIITALEOFTHEFOXHARRYTURTLEDOVEThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright(c)2000byHarryTurtledo...

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