Blood in the Water (19 page)

They had shared such exquisite, silent passion there. How soon would she have to feign noisy ecstasy when Iruvain came to rut? How soon would some unloved child’s birth cord tie her to Triolle’s future? Either prospect left Litasse hollow with dread.

They reached the neatly trimmed hedge surrounding the little garden in front of the Duchess’s Tower. Iruvain’s mother had stocked it with the rarest herbs and flowers, now all sinking into autumn torpor. Was that how she had escaped the tedium of her life?

“I hope you know how to prune roses,” Litasse said frankly. “It would be a poor omen if the wretched things die.”

Pelletria pulled a short, sharp knife from a hidden sheath as they approached a tangled arbour. “Let me save Your Grace’s hands from the thorns.”

“Have you had any answer from Hamare’s man in Relshaz?” Litasse glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot.

“He’s spreading the word among trustworthy mercenaries.” Pelletria carefully cut a spray of leaves.

“That should save some time, if we can only make Iruvain admit we need them.”

Litasse longed to kick at the gravelled path, to relieve her frustration. No mercenary captain would order his company north without a parchment sealed with Triolle’s green grebe. Only the duke could put his signature to that.

“Some hired swords are already offering their services to Triolle,” Pelletria said calmly. “I don’t imagine His Grace will turn them away, if only for fear of them wreaking havoc by way of revenge.”

“What do you mean?” Litasse was bemused.

“Duke Garnot is fleeing Carluse.” Pelletria pared another shoot back to weathered wood. “This Soluran’s army fought his forces to a standstill south of Losand and then blocked his retreat to Carluse Castle. Duchess Tadira is besieged inside Carluse Town.”

“How long can she hold out?” Litasse wondered. Was it too much to hope the bitch would starve to death?

Pelletria shook her head. “I can’t say, Your Grace.”

Litasse scowled. “How long before their wizard reduces Carluse’s walls to rubble?”

“I doubt they’ll do anything so obvious to incur the Archmage’s wrath,” Pelletria pointed out.

Litasse couldn’t argue with that. She sighed. “So where’s Duke Garnot now?”

“He retreated to Tyrle in hopes of regrouping. But nearly all his mercenaries decided against throwing good coin after losing runes. They’re on their way to Triolle. Duke Garnot has no choice but to follow.”

“He’s coming here?” Litasse’s hatred nearly choked her.

“Within a few days.” Pelletria paused to look sternly at her. “Didn’t Master Hamare teach you to face ill news as resolutely as good? Talking of good news, I’ve had word of your mother.”

“Where is she?” Litasse sank onto the arbour’s bench as her knees gave way. “What of my sisters?”

“Do you know a manor called Nolsedge?” Pelletria briskly stripped away stray fronds. “Home to Lord Rousharn?”

“I think I’ve heard of it.” Litasse was breathless with relief and then fear. “My father confined Lord Rousharn to his lands for objecting to some decree.” She suddenly remembered. “That anyone paying an overdue levy would gain title to the defaulter’s property.”

Her mother had argued against such a measure but her father had been obdurate. Since her brother Jaras died, he’d listened to no one.

“Lord Rousharn had a wife, Lady Derenna.” Pelletria resumed pruning.

“She fancied herself a natural philosopher?” Litasse had some vague recollection of a stern-faced woman in an outmoded gown and tarnished jewellery.

“That’s her. Well, your lady mother and your sisters are now her guests.” Pelletria contemplated her handiwork. “Insofar as they’re guests who cannot leave or send letters or receive visitors.”

“On whose authority?” Fury warmed Litasse.

Pelletria shrugged. “When your father confined Lord Rousharn, Lady Derenna fled to Vanam.”

Litasse stared at Pelletria. “She’s part of this plot that Hamare uncovered?”

The old woman nodded. “It seems she’s been travelling among her friends, among Sharlac’s nobles, who share her scholarly inclinations. She was persuading them all to keep to their own demesnes even if calamity befell the duke.”

“She should be whipped at a cart’s tail for such treachery,” spat Litasse.

“Maewelin make it so,” Pelletria agreed.

To Litasse’s eyes, blurred with tears, the old woman seemed the very embodiment of the vengeful winter hag, guardian of widows and orphans.

“Who told you this?” she demanded. “How can I get a message to my mother?”

Pelletria looked towards the half-wall sheltering the castle’s narrow back gate. “That will be difficult. She has managed to smuggle some letters out but only because her captors permit it.”

“Hush!” Litasse stiffened as a servant approached, sullenly hunched in his faded livery.

Pelletria continued regardless. “They want to read her appeals to Sharlac’s vassal lords, and to know who replies, and how.”

“Don’t look at me, Your Grace.” The servant bent to pick up the prunings.

It took all Litasse’s resolve not to spring to her feet. “Karn?”

Just as Hamare had been Pelletria’s apprentice in the covert service of Triolle, so Karn had been her lover’s protégé. But Hamare had gone to his funeral pyre thinking the younger man was dead.

Stricken, Litasse looked at Pelletria. “Have you told—?”

“I know,” Karn growled.

“Where have you been?” Litasse twisted her shawl around her hands. “He sent you to Vanam—”

“I was in Marlier trying to find Duke Garnot’s whore when someone tried to kill me. Which proved I’d caught a promising scent.” Beneath his hood, Karn’s voice was harsh with amusement. “Once I was recovered enough to ride, I followed some mercenaries who were quitting the Marlier camps to go north. I found this Soluran’s army gathering. I was trying to find out more. Forgive me, Your Grace. I couldn’t get word to Master Hamare in time to warn of Sharlac’s peril.”

As Karn looked up at her, Litasse drew a shocked breath.

She’d always thought Karn was much her own age. Now he looked ten years older. When she’d last seen him, summer sun had lightened his sandy hair to dark gold. Now his head was shaved to stubble. His eyes were sunken, his cheekbones painfully prominent. Once she had thought him handsome. Hamare had traded on those good looks, sending Karn to seduce women and men, for the sake of their pillow talk. Who would want to bed Karn now? He looked like a death’s head.

“What happened to you?”

“My wound festered repeatedly.” His face twisted with remembered pain. “I had to come down from the hills.”

Pelletria broke in. “Which is how he discovered Lady Derenna’s treachery.”

“They knew I was on their trail.” Frustration sharpened Karn’s words. “These people, who hatched this plot in Vanam, they have their own intelligencer, Your Grace. A woman called Lady Alaric.”

“She has a handful of other names that Master Hamare knew and doubtless more besides,” Pelletria hissed.

“I fell into fever.” Karn was gripping a thorny stem so hard that blood oozed between his fingers. “When I came to my senses Sharlac was already lost.”

“Can we find her? Can we kill her?” Litasse asked with sudden savagery.

“Her loss can’t help but hinder them.” Karn’s red-rimmed eyes were implacable. “And we owe them Master Hamare’s death, don’t we?”

“We have more immediate concerns,” Pelletria interrupted. “What’s to be done with Duke Garnot?”

“I’ve stripped him of his mercenaries.” Karn smiled with gaunt satisfaction. “It wasn’t hard to persuade them to come and serve Triolle instead. I knew that’s what Master Hamare would have wanted.”

“I wish I knew what else he’d advise.” Litasse couldn’t help glancing up at the shuttered windows of the Messenger Tower. “But all his papers were burned, when their wizard came to kill him.” She choked on the awful memory.

“Not all.” Karn shook his head. “Hamare had a ciphered ledger that he always kept hidden.”

“What?” Litasse stared at him.

“No one must know of it, Your Grace.” Pelletria raised a green-stained finger.

“Where is it?” Litasse found she’d wound the end of the shawl painfully tight around her fingers. She ripped herself free.

“Hidden in the Oriel Tower.” Pelletria looked around the bailey.

“Duke Orlin and his retinue lodged there over festival,” Litasse said with alarm.

Pelletria chuckled. “His man was too busy trying to get into Hamare’s rooms to tap the panels in hopes of secrets there.”

“Did he succeed?” Litasse was appalled.

“No, but I made sure he got enough chances to keep him out of other mischief,” the old woman said serenely.

Karn wasn’t amused. “You should have cut his throat.”

“Never mind that,” Litasse said impatiently. “Let’s find this secret ledger.”

“If you’d care to lead the way.” Pelletria nodded towards the Oriel Tower.

Litasse walked as casually as she could across the open bailey. At least inside the castle, the original one-roomed levels of each tower had long since been divided into comfortable apartments lit by generous windows. Triolle’s dukes could accommodate noble guests in all the luxury they were accustomed to. As long as they didn’t mind getting wet if it happened to rain on their way to dinner.

As they approached the steps to the Oriel Tower’s door, Litasse turned to Pelletria. “What’s my excuse for being here?”

She knew Iruvain’s sneaks were constantly watching her, even if he didn’t always listen to what they told him. More fool him. She and Pelletria sifted every scrap of gossip swirling around the back stairs, discussing how to make best use of it.

“You’re seeing if guest linens need renewing,” Pelletria suggested.

“Indeed.”

Litasse went up the steps and allowed Pelletria to open the door. A startled lackey emerged through the parlour door. “Your Grace—”

“Don’t let me disturb you.” With a charming smile, Litasse continued to the stairs.

“I’m not saying the laundry mistress can’t be trusted,” Pelletria protested in querulous tones.

“A chatelaine has a duty to be certain.” As they reached the next floor, Litasse looked a silent question at her.

The old woman nodded upwards, so they climbed the next flight of stairs and the next. Karn followed silently at their heels. The topmost floor was gloomy, only one inadequate window shedding light on the closet doors.

“In here.” Pelletria found a key among the modest bunch hanging from the chain around her waist and unlocked one.

Litasse’s heart was pounding.

Only a single arrow slit lit the panelled storage room. Karn picked his way carefully through heavy chests stacked three deep. He reached up to the moulding beside the window and gasped. Sinking down, he pressed a hand to his side.

“Let me see that injury,” Pelletria demanded.

“No.” Karn glared at her.

“I need you fit and well,” Litasse said bluntly, “if the three of us are to defend Triolle as Master Hamare would have wanted.”

Karn grimaced with something between pain and anger. “As you command, Your Grace.”

He hitched up his tunic and the shirt beneath. All Litasse could see in the dim light was a dark, angry scar. And she could count every one of his ribs.

Pelletria stooped to look more closely. “It’s barely healed. If it breaks open again, it could be the death of you.” She shook her grey head with misgiving.

“I’ll risk a third roll of those runes.” Karn let his clothing fall and reached up to the moulding again. Pushing it up revealed a small hole.

“Here.” Pelletria passed up her bunch of keys.

“You carry such a secret with you?” Litasse stared.

Pelletria smiled. “Where better to hide a leaf than a forest?”

Turning the key, Karn opened the panel like any other cupboard door. Reaching inside, he took out a thick leather-bound book. “These are Master Hamare’s most dangerous secrets.”

Taking it, Litasse found only pages of close-written nonsense. “It’s ciphered. Where’s the key to that?”

Pelletria shook her head. “We don’t have it.”

“Master Hamare said you were an apt pupil.” Karn looked at her, unblinking.

Litasse stared at them both. “It could take until Solstice to break it. We don’t even know if this can help us.”

“There’ll be something we can use in there.” Karn’s sunken eyes were pools of darkness. “Master Hamare knew there are always some mages whoring their wizardry around Caladhria and Tormalin. If anyone else ever used magic against Triolle, he was ready to fight fire with fire.”

“They sent a wizard to kill him,” Pelletria agreed. “We can only avenge him if we suborn one ourselves.”

Litasse hugged the heavy book close. The smell of leather and paper was a bitter reminder of her times with Hamare. The pressure of the scabbarded knife against her thigh was a constant reminder of his death. It was the one the wizard had used, which he’d pressed into her hand. Iruvain had never taken up her challenge to find anyone who could identify it as hers, let alone anyone else’s in the castle. He’d just discarded it. But Pelletria had found it for her.