Blood in the Water (11 page)

“Just what are you going to report to Evord?” he asked pointedly.

Sorgrad’s smile widened. “Everything the captain-general needs to know.” He walked towards the men gathered around the Soluran.

Tathrin wondered what would happen when Sorgrad’s secret was discovered. He knew that Aremil was not nearly as sanguine as he pretended. If the enchantments let his friend see more deeply into his thoughts than he liked, Tathrin was repaid in kind.

He knew Aremil and Branca, and the scholars Kerith and Jettin, uneasily anticipated the day they would be summoned to defend their use of Artifice in Lescar’s wars. The aetheric adepts doggedly assured themselves that Archmage Planir had no claim on their magic. Besides, they had done no harm, merely passing information more swiftly and more securely than any courier or messenger dove. True enough, but Aremil still feared the Archmage’s wrath.

What could Sorgrad possibly say in his own defence? That he’d harmed no one directly, by using his influence over the air to display Wynald’s captured banner? That he’d merely summoned a little water to aid his countrymen, not attacked the Carluse horsemen himself?

What good would that do, when the Archmage’s ban on wizardry was absolute? And Sorgrad could hardly claim such innocence if it was ever proved that his magic had set Emirle Bridge ablaze, not the arcane alchemy of sticky fire that everyone had blamed.

Tathrin grimaced. Sorgrad might argue he was no true mage. He’d never studied in the island city of Hadrumal or bent his knee to the masters and mistresses of elemental air and earth, fire and water. What of it? The slightest proof that he’d used magic in Lescar would condemn him before Planir the Archmage. Tathrin burned to know if Sorgrad’s reluctant accomplices would be condemned too. There was no one he could ask that.

How many people knew Sorgrad’s secret? To Tathrin’s knowledge, only Gren, himself and Reher in the army marching with Evord. Beyond that, there was Aremil, Reniack and Gruit, Branca and Charoleia. Surely they would all keep their mouths shut for fear of the Archmage’s wrath?

Chapter Eight

Branca

The Toremal Residence of the Princely House of Den Souvrian,

Autumn Equinox Festival, Fifth and Final Day, Evening

“
So that’s another victory to add to our tally!
”

Jettin was exultant, Kerith less so.

“
Duke Garnot lives to fight another day.
”

Branca looked more closely at the tall, stern-faced scholar, leaning against a stone pillar, his arms folded across his chest. He was Carluse born after all, his accent still clear after all the years he’d lived in Vanam. What was troubling him? If it had been Aremil, she’d have known but Kerith was so much more adept. No hint of his innermost thoughts floated through the aether to her.

“Do you have family near to the fighting, or friends?”

“
No.”

Kerith’s brief reply offered no clarification.

Jettin’s eager thoughts still pursued Duke Garnot. He paced back and forth across this echoing hall that existed only in Aremil’s imagination.

“
We could bring him to bay all the sooner if we knew what he was planning—”

“
No!”

Kerith’s adamant refusal echoed around the shadowy aisle.

Branca didn’t need to see into the older man’s mind to know how much he detested what he had done to Failla, when he’d forced her to reveal just what she’d betrayed to Pelletria, the Triolle spy. Failla had told Branca herself, shuddering with tears and halting words. She would suffer any violation of her body rather than endure that again, her every thought laid bare. If that was how she felt, what must Kerith think of himself?

“
We cannot even contemplate doing something like that.”

Seated in his high-backed chair, Aremil’s voice was firm, with none of the hesitation that afflicted him when they spoke face to face.

“
We would never be able to argue that we’re using no magic to materially affect the outcome of this war.”

Branca knew how often he rehearsed his defence against such an accusation.

Not for the first time, Jettin wasn’t ready to yield.

“
Mentor Tonin spoke of enchantments so subtle the victim doesn’t even know their thoughts have been read.”

“Mentor Tonin is in constant correspondence with Planir the Black,” she said tartly. If the Archmage didn’t claim suzerainty over Artifice, he had rapidly forged links with all the most advanced adepts. “The less contact we have with the mentor, the more likely we are to escape censure.”

Branca made sure to hide her own regret. She would dearly have loved to ask their old tutor how Artifice might be used in defence of herself and others. She had already been attacked once since embarking on this conspiracy, escaping crippling injury by the merest chance. She didn’t want to ever be so defenceless again.

A torch in a bracket behind Aremil’s head flared briefly in response to his irritation.

“
We’re straying from the point. What news do you have for me?
”

“We only reached Toremal today,” she said quickly. “I should be able to tell you more tomorrow.”

“
It will be some days before news of this battle reaches Abray. For the moment, the Caladhrians are telling themselves it’s hardly surprising that someone took advantage of Sharlac’s lack of a leader and attacked. They’re waiting to see what happens next.”

No hint of reservation shadowed Kerith’s words. Branca was content to rely on his assessment.

“
Everyone in Ashgil was keeping their head down when we left. As long as the guildmasters are running things, they’re willing to go with the run of the runes. Of course, if Duke Garnot prevails, they’ll swear on all that’s sacred how they were only taking care of his rights and dues.”

For an instant, the clouds around Jettin’s thoughts thinned. Branca caught a glimpse of Dalasorian lancers riding down the Carluse boar’s head, the duke’s standard toppling, every man dying pierced by several lances.

Was she the only one to see that? Kerith seemed to be still wrapped in his own concerns. Aremil was looking towards the far door.

“
Forgive me. I must go.
”

And with that, the stately hall dissolved like mist on a sunny morning. Branca was back in her silk-hung bedchamber. Her body had never left and she’d always been aware of the stool she sat upon, the closed door she faced, even the noises beyond. Adept as she was, she needed only a fraction of her mind to reach through the aether to the others. Though she was still striving to increase her awareness of everything around her while she was working enchantments. She wasn’t ever going to be caught unawares again.

“
Don’t you want to ask Mentor Tonin why Aremil can only meet us in that made-up sanctuary?”

Jettin was increasingly torn between curiosity and irritation at this quirk of Aremil’s Artifice. Branca could see him clear as day in her mind’s eye, ostensibly knelt in prayer by a roadside shrine to Trimon. She blinked and saw the red velvet drapes of her room instead.

“
Does it matter? It’s convenient enough.”

Kerith sat by a writing desk in a library walled with books. Sheets of paper at his elbow were screwed up in exasperation.

Before Branca could sense any reason for that, Kerith abruptly withdrew from this shared enchantment.

“
Good day to you both.”

“
Till next time.”

Jettin was gone as well. She could tell he was simply eager to embark on his next adventure. But something was troubling Kerith. Back in Vanam, he’d have been intrigued by Aremil’s imagined hall, searching the libraries for any reference to something similar amid the most ancient enchantments.

Branca sat for a moment to recover from the light-headedness that lingered after balancing the thoughts of three other adepts with her own. Taking a deep breath, she rose, unlocked the door and went into the adjoining chamber.

The luxuriously appointed dressing room held more gowns than Branca would ever own in a lifetime. It was bigger than her whole lodging back in Vanam, where she struggled to rent a small parlour with a still smaller bedchamber.

“Captain-General Evord has won a significant victory over Duke Garnot but not secured a decisive victory.”

“Good. Tell me the details later.” Charoleia was painting her lips at the dressing table. “You had better get ready.”

“I have a headache.” Branca glanced dubiously at the blue gown hanging on the tall mirror. It looked uncomfortably close-cut for her generous figure and was far too striking a colour.

“Trissa will make you a tisane.”

“My lady.” Her obedient maid headed for the door.

Brush poised, Charoleia turned. “You’ll enjoy yourself once you get there.”

“I very much doubt it,” Branca said with feeling.

“Men and women determined on one last night of fun can be wonderfully indiscreet.” Charoleia set down the brush and opened a pot of rouge. “Some will be brooding over infelicitous encounters with friends and rivals over festival. Some will be regretting unfortunate indiscretions.” She added an infinitesimal blush to her flawless cheekbones. “What’s not to enjoy?”

Branca smiled at her arch tone. “Won’t some just take pleasure in the music and dancing?”

“We’re hardly interested in them.” Charoleia rose and smoothed her gossamer petticoats. “Now, let Trissa see to your face and put on that gown.”

Branca sighed. “I don’t see why you want me to come. These are your friends.”

Charoleia was amused. “The Sieur Den Souvrian and his charming wife are hardly my friends.”

“Is it wise to say so when we’re enjoying their hospitality?” Startled, Branca looked around. Who might have an ear pressed to a keyhole? She disliked being constantly attended. Servants were a luxury for Vanam’s wealthy households on the slopes between the lower town by the lakeshore and the university citadel on the heights.

“Any servants within earshot know my open purse depends on their closed mouths.” Charoleia adjusted her garters. “As to Messire Den Souvrian and his lady, I’m of use to them and they’re of use to me and those are the steps danced at the Tormalin Imperial Court.”

“Who am I of use to?” Branca demanded with some asperity.

Charoleia considered the question judiciously. “Well, you’re so remarkably plain that even the tediously undistinguished Demoiselles Den Souvrian will look charming beside you. Madam their mother will thank me for that.”

Branca laughed. “That’s something, I suppose.”

“Don’t underestimate the value of going unregarded.” Charoleia stepped carefully into her gold silk gown. “You’re of considerable use to Aremil sitting listening to people who don’t notice you.”

When had Charoleia last entered a room without immediately drawing all eyes? Branca had never known anyone with such glorious hair, such perfect features, so shapely a figure and such elegant poise. Fortunately Charoleia was also one of the most intelligent people she’d ever met, who valued Branca’s wit and scholarship just as highly as her own beauty.

Charoleia would never scorn any tool that might help achieve her own ends. She made a handsome living buying and selling information and on occasion concealing it and misdirecting those who sought it, for the proper payment from those with something so crucial to hide.

Branca watched as Trissa put down the tisane she had fetched and went to settle the gown on her mistress’s hips. She laced it mercilessly tight as Charoleia stood, back straight, shoulders back, her eyes distant as she contemplated the evening ahead.

It was a very good thing this formidable woman was supporting their attempts to bring peace to Lescar rather than opposing them. Was it because she was Lescari born? Branca really had no idea. Charoleia could change her accent as easily as she changed her gloves. Trissa, her maid, sounded Relshazri but Branca wasn’t necessarily inclined to believe that either.

She frowned at a new concern. “Won’t people wonder at seeing you here? When you were in Vanam so recently? And then in Draximal?”

Few people knew Charoleia had been in Losand, so there shouldn’t be awkward questions about how she made a three- or four-day journey to Draximal overnight. But taking a boat down the Drax to the River Asilor and then a carriage from Solland to Toremal would ordinarily take eight or nine days. It only needed someone to speculate that some mage had helped them. Then all their secrets could be guessed.

“Lady Alaric has travelled to Selerima for festival.” Charoleia adjusted the swell of her bosom within her bodice. “Mistress Horelle paid that brief visit to Draximal.” She nodded and Trissa began buttoning the gown. “Lady Rochiel has been in Toremal all through festival.”

How did she keep all her various guises straight? She must have a mind like those Aldabreshin cabinets, full of separately locked boxes.

Branca pinched the bridge of her nose. She really did have a headache. “Remind me who Lady Rochiel is?”