Blood in the Water (12 page)

“The younger daughter of a minor Sharlac noble. She mostly lives with exiled cousins in Tormalin’s northern provinces. For reasons no one’s quite sure of, she never made a suitable marriage. Some say she’s an adventuress, given her unexplained absences. Others would certainly hope so.” Charoleia smoothed the saffron lace framing her exquisite cleavage and looked more closely at Branca.

“Drink your tisane, my dear. We’ll see how you feel then. I can always make your excuses.” She shook her head, tumbling chestnut curls shimmering in the candlelight. “Wizards find it impossible to master Artifice. I’m beginning to think aetheric adepts should avoid any dealings with magecraft.”

Branca pressed a hand to her mouth. Even mentioning it brought back nauseating memories of Sorgrad’s magic, the iridescent light and unexpected heat carrying them first from Losand to Draximal and then from Draximal to Toremal.

“Sit down.” Charoleia guided her to the dressing table stool. “You’re a ghastly colour.”

Branca saw her reflection was indeed ashen. Charoleia found her a smelling bottle of vinegar and fragrant herbs amid the clutter of cosmetics.

“Here, try this.”

She looked up to meet Charoleia’s violet eyes in the mirror.

“He’s gone back to Lescar, hasn’t he? We needn’t use his magic again?” She took a deep breath of the spiced vinegar and felt a little better.

“From now on, we travel by boat and carriage,” Charoleia promised.

“Will we be going back to Draximal?”

“Who knows?” Charoleia shrugged.

Aremil knew they’d stayed in an inn beneath the very walls of his father’s castle. While Sorgrad trawled the taprooms to learn what the common folk thought of Sharlac’s fate, Charoleia had waited for her own spy among Duke Secaris’s intelligencers. Branca could only pace the floor of their private parlour.

They’d learned everyone was confident Carluse would soon put these attackers to flight and retake Losand. Then Draximal would claim its share of Sharlac’s heirless domains. There was widespread approval of Lord Cassat’s actions, mustering the dukedom’s militia and sending the castle’s fastest courier after Duke Secaris on his leisurely progress to Triolle.

Tavern sages agreed they must also show Parnilesse that Draximal was not to be trifled with. With Duke Orlin’s sister wife to Duke Garnot, Carluse and Parnilesse would be working hand in glove. Only a cautious few considered the possibility that Carluse wouldn’t prevail, leaving Lord Cassat to lead Draximal’s army against the exiles.

Branca had told Aremil all that. She’d waited for him to ask what Charoleia’s web of suborned servants could tell him about Duke Secaris’s household, about the parents he didn’t remember, the brothers and sisters who believed he’d died as an infant. But he hadn’t asked. Either he’d overcome his curiosity about his unknown family or he’d decided they couldn’t afford such distraction.

Aremil wasn’t stupid. Branca had admired his intellect from their first meeting. She’d seen his courage, as she challenged him to test his afflicted body’s capabilities. He would never have mastered Artifice without coming to a fuller understanding of his infirmities. And now her admiration for him was turning inexorably into affection, no matter how unwise that was.

She’d looked deep into his determination to solve Lescar’s woes. She wasn’t going to help some wealthy invalid indulge fever dreams that would just get better men killed. Hotheads in the lower town’s inns sometimes proposed taking up swords to reclaim what they’d lost. Branca’s father always condemned such folly. He’d abandoned any thought of returning to Triolle along with the arm and the leg he’d lost to a wagon’s crushing wheels and a surgeon’s knife.

Lescar was no place for a cripple, of base or exalted birth. Which was why Duke Secaris had sent Aremil away, first to a remote manor and then to Vanam when he inconveniently failed to succumb to childhood illness.

The sound of Charoleia unlocking her jewel coffer recalled Branca’s wandering thoughts. She watched her don a flamboyant necklace of amethysts and citrines. The amethysts were the same shade as her eyes. The woman Branca saw now looked most unlike the modest Lady Alaric she’d met back in Vanam. Lady Rochiel favoured audacious necklines and clinging skirts that invited any man old enough to shave to admire the line of her thigh. And why was she wearing such frivolous garters if there wasn’t a chance they’d be seen?

Trissa brought the glass of tisane in its silver holder over to the dressing table. “Drink it before it gets cold.”

Branca took up the glass and rolled the pierced silver ball around in the hot water to encourage the steeping herbs. She sipped and found the aromatic warmth soothing. “What do you hope to learn tonight?”

“News of Sharlac’s fall will have been circulating. We want to know what everyone makes of that.” Charoleia considered her reflection in the long mirror. “We want to know what these lesser Tormalin lords think their noble princes should do. Will they advise sending gold to Duke Secaris so Draximal can hire mercenaries to crush this outrage? Or should Tormalin interest back Parnilesse?”

“Do we want to divide opinion?”

Branca knew that would be easy enough. The dukes were bitter rivals for the lucrative trade with Tormalin’s noble princes and their vast estates. It ensured the ducal families’ luxuries, whatever the poverty blighting lesser Lescari lives.

“Insofar as we can without attracting attention.” Charoleia turned with a swish of her skirts. Lady Rochiel even moved differently from Lady Alaric. “The more the great houses debate, the longer they’ll stay out of Lescari affairs. In the meantime, we gather whatever information will bolster our arguments, when the time comes to convince the Emperor to hold himself aloof. Now, my dear, do you feel up to coming out?”

Branca hesitated. “Oh, very well.”

Trissa swiftly found her comb and pins. “If you could lift your chin.”

Branca closed her eyes. She had no desire to see herself being primped and painted.

“I want to know who’s heard rumour of Losand’s fall,” Charoleia continued. “The fastest couriers will only just have brought that news to the Emperor and the foremost princes. Anyone who hints at it is very well informed. I don’t imagine we’ll hear much beyond insincere sympathy,” she added tartly. “Carluse has precious few friends in Tormalin.”

Branca nodded as Trissa wiped something cool and moist across her forehead. “So no one will weep for Duke Garnot’s latest misfortune?”

“If you hear the slightest whisper about the battle in Carluse’s woods, let me know at once.” Charoleia paused, thoughtful. “No one here can possibly know about that unless they have magic to call on, whether it’s elemental or aetheric. That would be a whole new roll of the runes. I’m also interested in any opinions of Triolle,” she continued briskly.

Branca stiffened as Trissa’s brush tickled her cheek. “Duke Iruvain has friends in Tormalin?”

“Master Hamare had spies in Toremal,” Charoleia corrected her. “We need to know if Duke Iruvain has the wit to continue using them. Or if he even knows who they are. I may be able to buy some of his people’s allegiance,” she said thoughtfully. “Duke Iruvain doesn’t command anywhere near the respect his late lamented father did.”

Branca swallowed, grateful she wasn’t looking at Charoleia. “Won’t Triolle’s spies want revenge on whoever had Master Hamare killed?”

Strictly speaking, Sorgrad had wielded the knife. But he’d done so on Charoleia’s instructions. As composed as she was ruthless, the woman had made no secret of that. Wasn’t she in the least apprehensive that suborning Sorgrad’s wizardry to encompass such a murder would attract the Archmage’s wrath?

Charoleia smiled serenely. “Hamare’s accused of forcing his affections on Duchess Litasse. Duke Iruvain would have been entitled to his blood, if Litasse hadn’t been found with it on her hands and her skirts.” She raised a warning finger. “Not that we know any of that.”

“Who do you think will take Master Hamare’s place as Triolle’s chief intelligencer?”

Branca would have bitten her lip but Trissa was painting it.

“If he’s still alive, it’ll be Karn.”

Charoleia’s answer wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Branca shivered at the memory of her encounter with the Triolle spy. “Master Welgren hoped that wound would prove mortal.”

Trissa clicked her tongue. “If you could keep still.”

“Sorry.” Branca tried not to flinch as a brush coloured her eyelids.

Even with that suppurating gash in his side, thanks to an attempt on his life at Charoleia’s instigation, Karn had traced their plot through Sharlac. Had he survived to carry word to Triolle that Lady Derenna was persuading disaffected lords to wait out any forthcoming upheavals, travelling far and wide with Branca meekly playing her maid? Thanks to Derenna, not one vassal had ridden to the imprisoned duchess’s aid or sought revenge for Jackal Moncan’s death. Not yet, anyway.

“I’ll only believe Karn’s dead when I see his body,” Charoleia said tersely.

Branca had never believed she could desire a man’s death. But Karn’s attack on her, Lady Derenna and Welgren the apothecary who’d been serving as their escort, that had truly terrified her. In her few quiet moments, she was doing all she could to recall whatever enchantments might defend her. Her old teacher, Mentor Tonin, would disapprove but he was safe in Vanam. Even in Toremal Branca didn’t feel much safer than she had in Lescar.

“Open your eyes,” Trissa invited.

Branca regarded her reflection with some surprise. No artistry with powder and paint could alter her round face and blunt features. All the same, Trissa had smoothed her clear complexion to porcelain. Sooty lashes and subtle shades enhanced her dark brown eyes while plum-coloured gloss lent her lips unexpected fullness.

She’d already submitted to Trissa’s curling tongs, as her mousy locks grew to her shoulders. Branca normally cut her hair a good deal shorter to fit neatly under a cap but Charoleia had forbidden such dowdiness. Now Trissa had pinned her tresses back, leaving just a few ringlets to frame her face.

“This gown is an excellent colour for you, and you should borrow my garnets.” Charoleia cocked her head, a faint frown marring her brow. “Though you don’t look plain enough to let Den Souvrian’s daughters shine. Perhaps you should stay at home.”

Branca laughed. “No, I’ll risk disappointing our hostess. Thank you, Trissa.”

She studied herself in the mirror. What would Aremil make of her transformation, if she reached through the aether to tell him what they’d discovered before they retired that night? No, that would risk waking him and he needed his sleep. She shouldn’t be so selfish.

Aremil would contact her soon enough, once Tathrin and the captain-general’s army caught up with Duke Garnot.

Chapter Nine

Tathrin

The High Road from Abray to Carluse,

1st of Aft-Autumn

Gren was amused. “Is someone you owe money to following us?”

“I’m wondering how far behind the foot soldiers are.”

All Tathrin could see was the first company of their mounted rearguard, trotting briskly as they left the rutted forest road for the broad gravelled highway.

Sorgrad was looking ahead. “What we need to know is where the Dalasorians are.”

At least Tathrin knew that. “Jettin told Aremil they passed Thymir at first light.”

Rega Taszar’s troops were holding Ashgil while Sia Kersain and Pata Mezian’s regiments rode on towards Carluse Town.

Sorgrad shook his head. “It’s going to be a cursed close-run thing.”

“We should have pressed on through the night,” Gren remarked. “We won’t get a brighter pair of moons this side of Winter Solstice.”

That was true. In their transitory camp, Tathrin had seen the Greater Moon a day closer to its full and the Lesser Moon rising nearly at its half in the clear cold night. But Evord had insisted they halt.

“The captain-general said the risk wasn’t worth the reward.”

Sorgrad agreed. “Duke Garnot can lame his horses and commandeer fresh ones at the next farm. We can’t afford delays and we’d have to pay even if we could find remounts. On the other hand, the duke won’t want to get too far ahead of his foot regiments. We’ll catch him.” He had no doubt about that.

“The sooner the better.” Gren smiled with anticipation.

Tathrin didn’t feel nearly so sanguine. The array of standards looked impressive but their mounted companies totalled maybe seven hundred and fifty men and women, less than a quarter of their full muster of horsemen as long as the Dalasorian lancers were still absent.

After the serious losses he’d suffered in the woods, Duke Garnot had around the same number of mercenary cavalry and around two thousand men on foot.

In his guise as Captain-General Evord’s clerk, Tathrin had been tallying the Carluse figures: the muster rolls of the mercenaries who’d surrendered, those who’d retreated in good order, along with estimates of the militia fled or rallied. Then there was the count of the enemy wounded, roughly bandaged and dismissed to fend for themselves, and the final grim total of corpses. It was probably safe to assume Evord now had a thousand more foot soldiers than Garnot, he had concluded. Until some other duke managed to send reinforcements.