Blood in the Water (8 page)

Duke Orlin smiled. “You have entertained us so lavishly; it will be hard to tear ourselves away.”

“So courageous.” Duchess Sherista leaned forward to lay her hand on Litasse’s. “Is there still no word of your lady mother and your sisters?”

She must have found twenty occasions to make that solicitous enquiry these past two days. Litasse knew Parnilesse’s servants were asking her attendants the selfsame thing.

“Sadly not.” Litasse’s pleasure at denying the answer Sherista craved was only spoiled by the anguish the truth brought her.

“We are most anxious to know how Duchess Aphanie fares.” Duke Orlin was all sympathy. “Even if our ties to Triolle are merely those of affection rather than blood.”

“I will be sending Lord Roreth north to make enquiries now the festival’s done.” Iruvain nodded towards his brother, deep in conversation with some simpering maiden.

Litasse had heard of no such plan. She couldn’t help her start of surprise, her fingers jerking beneath Sherista’s. “Forgive me.” She covered her eyes with her hand, feigning distress. It only took a moment and genuine tears glistened on her lashes.

“Perhaps Duke Secaris will discover some news for you on his return to Draximal.” Duchess Sherista reached for her wine. “That would be some consolation for ending his visit so abruptly.”

That was another lure she kept throwing out, fishing for any dissent between Draximal and Triolle.

“He could hardly leave Lord Cassat to face this crisis alone.” Litasse dried her eyes with a napkin, careful not to smudge her rouge.

Iruvain nodded. “We’re honoured that he delayed his departure even a day.”

Did he think he was fooling Duke Orlin or was he merely fooling himself? Duke Secaris had needed to rest his horses before heading northwards again, otherwise Litasse was convinced he would have turned for home as soon as the Draximal courier had reached him with news of Sharlac’s fall. While his heir was widely admired, Lord Cassat was barely nineteen.

Duke Orlin stroked his silver beard. “Do you think these villains will head eastwards to threaten Draximal?”

Litasse gave him his due. Duke Orlin had learned of Sharlac’s fate and then Losand’s fall sooner than he would have if he’d been celebrating the festival in Parnilesse. On the other side of the scales, he was cut off from all his own sources of intelligence. He betrayed no hint of frustration.

Iruvain brushed that aside. “Duke Garnot won’t leave one in a hundred alive to plague anyone.”

Duke Orlin raised his wine glass. “Talagrin send him swift victory over these blackguards.”

As Iruvain and Sherista echoed his invocation to the god of the hunt, Litasse barely let the wine touch her lips.

Carluse’s duke was as much to blame for Sharlac’s fall as these curs of mercenaries. Garnot had waged war on Sharlac only a few years since. His own bastard son had killed her beloved brother Jaras. If her father hadn’t been so unmanned by that crippling grief, this cowardly attack would never have taken him so unawares.

“We must see where these dogs run, once Garnot has whipped them,” Duke Orlin mused. “They’re mercenaries, so someone must pay them. If they hide behind Duke Secaris’s midden, much becomes clear.”

Iruvain was genuinely perplexed. “Draximal and Sharlac have long been allies.”

Duke Orlin’s lip curled. “Duke Secaris covets any land that adjoins his own.”

“Your Grace, you know the attacks that you suffered this summer were deceits.” Iruvain looked troubled. “Intent on setting you and Duke Secaris at odds, to distract us from this army gathering above Sharlac.”

Litasse drank her wine. Now Iruvain was taking credit for all that Hamare had discovered. After he had mocked the spymaster, when he’d first warned of intrigue among Lescar’s exiles in Vanam. If only Iruvain had let Hamare pursue his suspicions, this vile plot could have been unmasked and forestalled.

She took a second mouthful, to stop herself telling Duke Orlin that the foul mercenaries who’d attacked Parnilesse’s militia and burned that bridge crossing his border to Draximal had been using magefire. The wizard who’d murdered Hamare had admitted it to her. But no one would believe it if she said so. She set down her glass and the lackey quickly refilled it.

“We shall stay watchful till Draximal’s good faith is proven.” Duke Orlin shrugged. “What do you know of Duke Ferdain’s response to this upset?”

Did he want to know what Ferdain of Marlier was doing, or did he want to know how swiftly and accurately Triolle got news from the west? Probably both, Litasse decided.

Iruvain scowled. “I watch Marlier as closely as you watch Draximal. We’re raising militia to guard our borders to north and west alike.”

“That’s wise.” Orlin nodded. “Duke Ferdain allows these curs of mercenaries far too long a leash in his lands.”

Whereas Master Hamare had been adamant that Triolle had no reason to suspect Marlier. All Duke Ferdain wanted from the mercenary camps was his share of their gold. So what advantage did Orlin seek by ensuring Iruvain was looking west to Marlier instead of east to Parnilesse?

Litasse folded her hands in her lap so no one could see her knuckles whiten. Hamare would have seen what lay behind all this so clearly. Anguish twisted her heart.

The musicians struck up a new dance and Duke Orlin rose to his feet.

“Your Grace, please honour me as my partner.”

“The honour is mine.” Litasse flattered him with a dazzling smile.

Iruvain promptly offered his hand to Sherista. “Then I have the good fortune to escort Your Grace.”

“Let’s look forward to dancing at Solstice,” she said pertly, “with all this unpleasantness far behind us.”

Her hand on Duke Orlin’s arm, Litasse walked down from the dais to join the sets forming for the dance.

What might Hamare suspect? First he’d want to be certain Parnilesse wasn’t allied with this mercenary commander who had slaughtered her family. Parnilesse had its own enclave where these ragged dogs were for hire, in the port of Carif. Parnilesse and Carluse were allies thanks to Tadira, Parnilesse born, Orlin’s sister and Duchess of Carluse these twenty years past. Duke Garnot had found a true love there and Carluse had been Sharlac’s foe for time out of mind. Litasse had learned that much at her dead father’s knee.

Things should become clearer once Duke Garnot won his battle. If Pelletria’s courier birds flew straight and true, Litasse should know how he’d fared within a few days. She would know before Iruvain did.

Chapter Six

Tathrin

The Forest Road to Carluse,

Autumn Equinox Festival, Fifth and Final Day, Afternoon

They’d left the dense timber behind. Ahead, bright tangles of gorse dotted heath brown with bracken. Less danger of attacks by lurking assailants. More chance of arrows harrying them from a distance. One way or another, blood would soon be shed. At the retinue’s dawn meeting, Evord had announced they’d bring Duke Garnot to battle today.

But now the day was fading fast and evening drew on. Surely Evord wasn’t planning a night attack? Tathrin looked up anxiously. The Lesser Moon was still short of its half circle and though the Greater Moon was only a few days from full, these unbroken high clouds would shroud its light.

His dun horse whickered and shook its head irritably. Tathrin smoothed a hand down its neck. He knew how the beast felt. The day had seen an exhausting series of alarms that came to nothing.

Several times a galloper brought news that Duke Garnot was drawing up his forces to fight. Word spread through the army, making ready to advance. Then another rider arrived on a lathered horse saying the Carlusians were in retreat. The mercenary army had pushed on more quickly, until a frantic horn signalled imminent attack. Evord’s regiments assembled in a flurry of standards, amid a commotion of weapons and shouts. But no Carluse assault ever came.

Tathrin licked dry lips and his hand strayed towards the water bottle slung on his saddle.

“I shouldn’t,” the man riding beside him advised. “Not till you’re drier than a widow’s tuft. Who knows when you’ll get a chance of a refill?”

“Of course.” Tathrin had learned that lesson the hard way when Evord was still mustering his army far away in the high wolds above Sharlac. The long, hot summer had dried up so many of the springs.

That felt like half a lifetime ago. Now the nights grew steadily colder. Sleeping in the open as they advanced through the forest, the men huddled together wrapped in their cloaks, still booted, their weapons to hand. At least it hadn’t rained. Not so far, anyway. Tathrin wondered if they could possibly take Carluse Town before the first serious storm of autumn.

Could he sleep in a real bed there? A yawn seized him, so fierce he felt a twinge in the angle of his jaw. These past few nights, every time he was dozing off, the sentries changed or a mercenary captain arrived to confer with the captain-general. It was hard to believe the Soluran had had any rest. But Evord’s face showed no sign of weariness, the visor of his plain helm raised as he talked quietly with the mercenary captain in overall command of their foot forces.

He was a tall man, shaven-headed with unblinking eyes as black as pitch. Tathrin only ever heard him called the Hanged Man. His company marched under a black banner, a corpse swinging from a gibbet for their blazon. The Gallowsfruit, they called themselves, or so Gren said. The Mountain Man always knew what was going on, even if he wasn’t officially included in the captain-general’s counsels.

Tathrin frowned and looked around. He hadn’t seen Gren since shortly after noon. No, there was still no sign of him.

Emerging from the forest, the army spread out across the heath, hundreds upon hundreds of foot soldiers, sober in their leather and chain mail. Here and there companies who favoured surcoats broke the monotony in colourful lines. Standard-bearers brandished each banner, bright despite the dull day.

Tathrin turned in his saddle. While almost all the Dalasorians had been sent to attack Ashgil, the rebellion’s army still boasted a double handful of mounted mercenary companies, currently riding as the rearguard. More heavily armoured than the lancers, they were used to fighting in Lescar’s varied terrain, readily accustomed to dismounting once the first force of their charge was spent.

Where were the Mountain Men? As the last riders emerged from the shadow of the trees, Tathrin realised he couldn’t see any of the yellow-headed warriors. Gren had told him they were keen to fight.

Though these uplanders didn’t share the uncomplicated relish for carnage that Gren never bothered to hide. In their smaller companies of fifty or sixty men all linked by blood, they were fighting for gold, pure and simple. Gren had explained how their women were the Mountains’ custodians, living out their days in the valleys where they were born. Like their mothers before them, their word granted access to the mines and forests to their husbands, sons and brothers. Those Mountain laws and customs were enforced by their priests and priestesses, the
sheltya
, who had some shadowy Artifice all their own, from what Aremil had told Tathrin.

The measure of a Mountain Man was the wealth he amassed digging ores, trapping furs and trading. In recent years, fighting for lowlander coin had become an accepted means of filling their purses. Out to raise an army with no interest in claiming Lescar itself, Evord had recruited nearly a thousand uplanders eager to prove their worth.

Tathrin wondered how many would change their minds and take to the mercenary life like Sorgrad and Gren. Some, doubtless, but most seemed intent on going home to win a willing bride. The more he saw of the uplanders, the more Tathrin realised how unusual Sorgrad and Gren were. Whatever remote valley had reared such changelings must have echoed with sighs of relief once they’d departed.

Seeing the Hanged Man ride away, Tathrin kicked his horse into a trot. “Captain-General, if you please!”

“Tathrin.” Evord acknowledged him with a nod.

Horsemen, ready to gallop wherever Evord sent his orders, eased aside to allow Tathrin in close.

“My lord,” he asked in low tones, “what should I tell Aremil when we next speak?”

Evord smiled briefly. “Tell him we’ll be bringing Duke Garnot to battle before Losand’s next chimes.”

“We will?” Tathrin couldn’t help his surprise.

“I think we’ve had enough of this inconsequential skirmishing,” Evord said drily. “Duke Garnot’s spies will have told him that our Dalasorians rode down the Vale of Ashgil rather than risk the woods where they cannot use their speed and lances to any great effect. He won’t have heard they’ve taken the town, not yet, so he’ll expect them to be riding right around the forest hoping to catch his troops exposed on open ground as he retreats to Carluse Town. He knows he can’t risk that. So he’s looking for the best possible ground to bring us to battle in these southern fringes of the woods, where he thinks he can secure the advantage.”

“Why did he venture out of Carluse Town in the first place?” Tathrin wondered.

Evord smiled more widely. “He’s the duke. He must be seen defending his right to rule. Moreover, if he sits tight in Carluse Castle, that begs us to besiege him and he won’t have prepared for that. It’s only twelve days since Sharlac fell, after all. He’d soon be starved out.”