Blood in the Water (15 page)

“Where’s the Locksmiths?” yelled Gren.

A sudden wave of Dalasorians swept Tathrin towards the river. He saw the village, the hump of the bridge ahead. Men in Carluse livery dashed between the houses, amid mercenaries in leather and chain mail. Were they Duke Garnot’s hirelings or had Evord’s men already made their way across?

He could feel the weight of his sword on his hip but he made no effort to draw it. Sorgrad’s lessons hadn’t included fighting from horseback. The best he could hope for was not getting killed till he could push clear of the slaughter and find his way back to Evord’s retinue.

Limp bodies lay ungainly in the gutters, just as they had in Emirle Bridge. Innocent men and women, like the dead of Sharlac and Losand and Ashgil. All for the sake of freeing Lescar from warfare. The bitter irony threatened to choke him.

Then Tathrin saw mercenaries throwing down their weapons. Banners dropped too fast for him to see their blazons. Who was surrendering? Had Evord’s men won the day? Or Duke Garnot? All around Dalasorian lancers slowed, equally uncertain.

An instant later Tathrin wrenched out his sword. Carluse militia were charging across the bridge towards them. Those Dalasorians still carrying lances levelled them and Gren whooped with delight, crouching low on his horse’s neck. Sorgrad spurred his mount towards the oncoming foe and Tathrin’s horse galloped with them.

But Tathrin saw the liveried men were tossing their halberds aside. They fled in all directions, faces twisted with terror. Blood and muck already stained the white quartering of their tunics. Those too injured to run any further collapsed in the futile shelter of doorways, their faces blank and hopeless.

Tathrin sheathed his sword as his horse slowed, its head drooping, finally exhausted.

“Where’s the captain-general?” Gren shouted out to someone.

Tathrin didn’t catch the reply. Where was Duke Garnot? That was more to the point.

They turned a corner and he saw the white roof of Trimon’s shrine, the village’s marketplace overlooked by the travelling god’s statue.

Evord sat on his horse, nodding as a burly mercenary captain wound his green banner around its staff and laid it down in surrender.

“That’s the Slippery Eels,” Gren said, irritated. “Where’s the bastard Locksmiths?”

More mercenaries marched into the square. Men wearing yellow and cream kerchiefs guarded men with their hands on their heads. Duke Garnot’s black and white tokens were trodden underfoot.

“Tathrin!” The Tallyman riding with Evord’s retinue came running over, grinning. “The captain-general wants you.”

“Go on, lad.” Sorgrad reached for his reins.

“Have we won?” Tathrin slid from his saddle. He could hardly believe it.

“For today.” The Tallyman nodded. “They made a better fist of holding off our foot regiments than I would have expected. More of their column got across the bridge than we hoped. But when they saw your Dalasorians coming, the mercenaries had to split to cover that flank. The militia lost their nerve and began running. The duke said he was going to get help from Tyrle but only a fool would believe that.” He gestured towards the surrendering captain. “Dorish knows his men won’t see a payday as long as Garnot’s locked out of his castle so he decided to cut their losses.”

“I wonder who’s read the same as him in the runes.” Sorgrad surveyed the captured men sitting down on the dusty cobbles.

Tathrin was astonished to realise some of them were already casting handfuls of the three-sided runes. Did every mercenary carry a set of the nine triangular bones? Could any of them truly believe the future was predicted in the fall of the angular symbols, one face down, the other two upright or reversed on each game piece? Back in Vanam, Tathrin had heard that these primitive customs persisted in the distant forests beyond Ensaimin. He hadn’t expected mercenaries to trust such superstitions.

No, they must just be gambling, an inveterate habit among companies of men who hazarded their own lives so readily.

It wasn’t as if any consistent logic underpinned the runes. True, the Sun, the Greater Moon and the Lesser made an obvious trio. One could see a certain sense in the Deer, the Oak and the Forest sharing a bone, like the Salmon, the Reed and the Sea; the Wolf, the Pine and the Mountain, and the Eagle, the Broom and the Plains. Who could argue the Wolf was stronger than the Deer, the Eagle stronger than the Salmon?

But Air, the Storm and the Chime? Calm, the Earth and the Drum? Why should the Mountain Wind be linked with Fire and the Horn? The Sea Breeze with Water and the Harp. Why was the Harp stronger than the Horn? The Reed stronger than the Broom plant? It irritated Tathrin nearly as much as the irregular divisions of the seasons. No one could argue over either Solstice and Equinox but the turns from each aft-season to the next for-season were arbitrarily determined by priests in Saedrin’s biggest temples. Did they roll a rune to decide?

“Hey, did you take a clout to the head or something?”

Tathrin blinked as Gren snapped his fingers right under his nose. He hastily gathered his wandering thoughts. This was no time to take refuge in the academic debates he’d enjoyed in Vanam, however much he might wish he was back there.

“Yes. I’m listening.”

The Tallyman shrugged. “From what we can tell, Duke Garnot’s got a scant cavalry regiment left and twenty-some companies of foot still following.”

“Will these men be hanged?” Tathrin asked with misgiving. He remembered the stench lingering around Losand when the prisoners from Wynald’s Warband were executed.

“When we need reinforcements?” The Tallyman was startled. “You don’t waste a mind as sharp as Dorish’s.”

Tathrin saw the stocky man bend to retrieve his company’s standard.

“I’ll gladly accept your service.” Evord’s words rang around the marketplace as his lieutenant returned Captain Dorish’s sword.

The mercenary brandished it boldly. “We’ll gladly pay Duke Garnot back for his cowardice!”

That won a cheer from Evord’s men and those who’d just abandoned Carluse alike.

Tathrin was astonished. He was even more surprised to see a few cautiously opened shutters around the marketplace, as men from all the different companies knocked on doors, offering Tormalin gold for bread and ale. Then he saw the captain-general beckoning and hurried forwards.

“In here, I think.” Evord led him into Trimon’s shrine. “Find Jettin and tell him to send word to Aremil. Duke Garnot is beaten.”

“You’ve captured him?” Tathrin’s heart leaped.

“No, but I’ll settle for what we’ve won today.” Evord smiled thinly. “Duke Garnot has fled for Tyrle with the remnants of his army. Tell Aremil I want Reniack to set every tavern in Lescar buzzing with the news that Duke Garnot has abandoned both his castle and his duchess.”

“We’ve taken Carluse Town?” Then Duke Garnot was surely beaten.

“No.” Evord blighted Tathrin’s hopes once again. “But Pata Mezian has the town garrison securely penned.”

Tathrin stripped off his sodden gloves and ran a filthy hand through his hair. “I thought we couldn’t risk a siege.”

“Besieging Duke Garnot with all his mercenaries and militia safely inside the town would be one thing. Camping at Carluse’s gates while we wait for Duchess Tadira to see she’s no choice but to yield the castle is quite another. We need to rest the horses and tend our wounded regardless, and we must deal with all these prisoners.”

“You’re paying Duke Garnot’s mercenaries to turn their coats?” Tathrin couldn’t help the doubt in his voice.

“Only those we agree we can trust,” Evord assured him. “All our own captains must say yea or nay before any company joins us.”

“What happens to the ones you don’t want?”

Evord understood what Tathrin was asking.

“The men of Wynald’s Warband indulged their every base lust while they rode under Duke Garnot’s protection. They paid the penalty.” Evord looked at the statue of Trimon. “If anyone here accuses these men, they will stand trial according to Lescari laws. But most are honestly fighting for hire. I want whatever companies march with Draximal and Parnilesse to know they can surrender to us safely.

“That said,” the Soluran continued, “there will be plenty we’ve captured who we don’t want and plenty who’ll scorn our offer. Far too many to let loose this time. Duke Garnot may be a broken spear but Marlier and Draximal will be recruiting all the swords they can. Our prisoners must be escorted to Abray under guard. Tell Aremil that Master Gruit needs to prepare the Caladhrians for their arrival. Master Reniack should send some of his songsters and storytellers along to persuade them to keep walking westwards.”

“What about the Carluse militia?”

“As long as they give us their oath not to raise arms against us again, they can go home—with a full belly,” Evord added, “and their wounds tended and all their autumn levies excused. That’s another task for Reniack, to spread word of our clemency as widely as he can. As soon as we take the castle, anyone who’s already paid Duke Garnot’s levy will get their coin back.”

Tathrin was surprised into a grin. “You will be popular, my lord.”

“My rank is captain-general,” Evord reminded him. “Make sure your countrymen know it. Everyone must believe I’m not looking to rule in Duke Garnot or Duke Moncan’s stead. Now, once you’ve told Aremil everything that’s happened here today, I need all the latest news that Dagaran has gathered from Sharlac, Losand and Ashgil. We must make sure all our gains thus far are garrisoned. We have to secure Carluse Town as soon as Duchess Tadira surrenders.”

“How soon will that be?” Tathrin wondered.

Evord looked thoughtful. “It could be all the sooner if we can get word to Failla’s uncle the priest. Tell Aremil to ask if she knows any hidden ways in through the walls.”

Chapter Eleven

Failla

Abray, on the Border of Lescar and Caladhria,

4th of Aft-Autumn

“My lady.” The grey-gowned maid bobbed a curtsey as she opened the door.

“Thank you, Courra.” Entering the house, Failla handed the girl her painted silk shawl and her bonnet, a frivolous curl of woven straw adorned with iridescent feathers from the wild isles of Aldabreshi warlords. “Where’s Master Gruit?”

“He’s with Master Cardel and Baron Dacren.” The girl bobbed another nervous curtsey at the mention of those formidable men. “They’ve sent for their coach so I’m sure they’ll be leaving soon.”

Failla checked her reflection in the mirror and smoothed her apricot silk dress. “Is there a fire in the honeysuckle salon?”

Though the days continued bright and clear, more like Aft-Summer than Aft-Autumn, the afternoon sunshine had been deceptive. That elegant shawl hadn’t been nearly enough to keep her warm, even on the short carriage ride from Baroness Lynast’s house.

“Yes, my lady.” Thin-faced and ginger-haired, the maid curtseyed yet again. “Shall I bring you some almond cordial, my lady?”

“Yes, please.” Failla smiled. “And spiced wafer cakes?”

She longed to tell the girl there was no need to go in awe of her. To explain she’d known the biting poverty that had robbed Courra of most of her teeth. But she had her role to play here, so she must act like a lady who’d been pampered since birth. Still, she’d insist the girl accept a cake when she brought them.

“I can open the salon door myself.” She smiled to take any sting from her words. “Just take my hat and shawl to my dressing room and then fetch the cordial and cakes.”

As Duke Garnot’s mistress, she’d been tacitly ignored by most of his servants, covertly scorned by those loyal to Duchess Tadira. If she played the queen at the duke’s high table whenever the duchess was absent, everyone knew that was as much an illusion as a juggler’s tricks. Her rich gowns were all bought for the duke’s pleasure, and every stitch of lace beneath. If he tired of her, Garnot could throw her out naked, everyone knew that. Anyone who imagined she had traded her virtue for wealth and influence would have agreed they’d been sadly mistaken.

Now she pretended she was Master Gruit’s niece, a merchant whom Garnot would disdain as lacking any rank. Yet all these gowns and jewels were hers to keep, along with the daily allowance of small silver that the old wine merchant pressed into her hand. She smiled as she headed for the honeysuckle salon, halting only as the main door to the street opened a second time, unheralded by the knocker.

“Here’s Mama!” The nursemaid ushered in a little girl wearing a lemon linen gown in much the same style as Failla’s. Though the child was spared the rigour of a boned bodice and her hems prudently ended above her ankles. A cream wool wrap saved her from the season’s chills.

“Mama?” The child’s soft brown eyes searched the cobalt-tiled hall.

“Here I am, my love.” Failla sank down, her arms outstretched. “Anilt?”

“Go to Mama.” Untucking her wrap, the nursemaid encouraged her charge with a gentle push.

The little girl’s rose-petal lips twisted with disappointment. “Mama?” She advanced uncertainly.

“Little chick.” Failla embraced her.

Her heart ached as she felt Anilt stiffen, resisting. She hid her face in the child’s soft black curls. As dark and curly as Duke Garnot’s hair. She didn’t imagine these servants wondered about Anilt’s father, though. They’d be gossiping about the way the child barely seemed to know her own mother.