Blood in the Water (20 page)

Iruvain would never avenge Hamare. He wasn’t even defending Triolle adequately, never mind taking the fight to these vile conspirators, making them pay for destroying Sharlac. There was no way she could do anything of the kind herself, even with Pelletria and Karn to help her.

Could a wizard level the balance? Wasn’t that only fair? These exiles had been the first to bring magic into Lescar after all. Besides, she needn’t make any decision just yet. She had to learn how to read the ledger first. “We need to make sure I can work on this undisturbed.”

“I have an idea about that, Your Grace,” Pelletria assured her.

Until she managed to decipher the ledger, there were things to be done in the meantime, especially with an extra pair of eyes and ears. Litasse looked at Karn. “How well does Duke Iruvain know your face? Does he know you were an enquiry agent for Hamare?” Even if he did, would he recognise the younger man now?

Karn shook his head slowly. “I was only one among a hundred men-at-arms, as far as His Grace was concerned.”

“Good.” Litasse nodded. “Can you get yourself into his retinue? We need to know what his letters say, what reports he is receiving.”

He smiled thinly. “I can do that, Your Grace.”

“Start thinking how we can get a letter to my lady mother.” Litasse turned to Pelletria. “And I want to know all you can tell me about Sharlac and this treacherous vassal Lord Rousharn.”

Chapter Fourteen

Aremil

Losand Merchants’ Exchange,

6th of Aft-Autumn

“We’ve raised two companies of militia in Sharlac. The Shearlings we have convalescing there will give them some backbone, so the Sundowners’ wounded can rejoin Captain-General Evord outside Carluse Town.” Relaxed in the window seat, Dagaran turned a page in his ledger. “We’ve mustered one company of militia hereabouts and the Tallymen are knocking them into shape.”

“So much for their furlough from the battle lines,” Aremil said wryly.

Hobnailed boots marching up and down the square had drowned out the noise of the fountains all morning. They only ever paused for pungent observations from the mercenary sergeants. Aremil had been amused by the inventive obscenity of their insults.

“The Wheelwrights march south this evening.” Dagaran turned another leaf. “With that troop of Pata Mezian’s lancers, now that they’re satisfied with their remounts.”

Aremil swallowed. “Are they still so resolute, after their clan suffered such grievous losses at Carluse Bridge?”

How could the Soluran lieutenant calmly total so many men’s deaths in his neatly inked columns?

“They are.” Dagaran’s raised brows betrayed his own surprise. “Now, do you have any news for me from Ashgil?”

“Jettin tells me Rega Taszar’s regiment still holds the town securely. His scouts are keeping track of the Draximal army.” Aremil stiffened to curb a tremor in his words. “Lord Cassat is definitely marching south, though Rega Taszar won’t swear he’s going to Carluse to relieve the siege.”

“We’ll know more once they cross into Carluse territory.” Dagaran pursed his narrow lips. “If I were inclined to wager, I’d say Lord Cassat will head for Triolle as soon as he hears that’s where Duke Garnot has fled.”

That was good enough for Aremil. He’d heard the mercenary sergeants mocking Dagaran for his refusal to bet on a roll of the runes. The Soluran said he only ever laid his money down on certainties. He played white raven though, and Aremil found him a challenging opponent. But this was all rather more serious than a strategy game.

“How substantial a force have Draximal mustered?”

“They have around thirty companies of mercenaries, mounted as well as marching. We suspect more will join them.” Dagaran frowned. “Lord Cassat is drafting townsmen and farmers into the militia at every halt. Draximal will field at least as big an army as Carluse first mustered, quite probably bigger.”

“Every man fresh, while our forces have already been fighting and marching for twenty hard days.” Aremil couldn’t help a shiver of misgiving.

Dagaran surprised him with a grin. “They’ve been sitting with their feet up outside Carluse for the last handful.”

Only those who weren’t dead or so badly wounded that they could no longer stand. Aremil refused such consolation. “They won’t sit and wait for Draximal to arrive.” Captain-General Evord had told Tathrin that often enough. The thought rang through his mind every time Aremil reached through the aether to him. “Not when there’s every chance we’ll see an army coming from Marlier too.”

“Is there?” Dagaran sat up straight.

“Kerith has been paying close attention to the gossip coming up the River Rel on the barges ferrying goods to Abray,” Aremil said heavily. “The talk along the wharves is that Duke Ferdain has ordered a general muster. So many reports can’t all be wrong, so Kerith says.”

“They won’t all be militiamen drafted at the point of a pike,” the Soluran observed thoughtfully. “Ridianne the Vixen’s hand-picked mercenaries will make that a force to be reckoned with.”

“That’s what the captain-general said,” Aremil agreed. “So we must put an end to this siege, and quickly.” He searched the Soluran’s face. “I don’t suppose you have any idea what the captain-general might be planning?”

Dagaran shook his head. “I couldn’t venture a guess.”

Aremil only hoped his expressionless face hid his foreboding. Tathrin hadn’t actually told him but Aremil heard echoes of conversations that his friend recalled. Hot-headed as ever, Gren had advocated a night assault with a chosen band of mercenaries. They would scale the walls and kill the sentries before opening up the gate for their allies.

Tathrin had expected Sorgrad would mercilessly crush such idiocy. The older Mountain Man had just shrugged and allowed they’d succeeded in something of the kind before. Aremil knew exactly what Tathrin feared when he heard that. Only Sorgrad’s magic could ensure such a raid’s success.

“I’m sure the captain-general will let us know exactly what we have to do to assist.” Dagaran closed his ledger and stood up. “Shall we dine together this evening? I believe you owe me a game of white raven?”

“I would be delighted.” Aremil allowed a smile of genuine pleasure to twist his face.

Dagaran could be relied on to order a meal that Aremil could eat unaided despite his tremulous hands.

A knock at the door interrupted them and a mercenary sergeant stuck his bandaged head around it.

“There’s two Sharlac nobles to see Lord Aremil. Some puffed-up cock and his hen.” He grinned. “Shall I convince them to take no for an answer?”

“I’d prefer to know their names,” said Aremil.

“Lord Rousharn of Nolsedge and his wife Lady Derenna,” the man replied promptly.

“Please show them up.” Aremil pushed against the arms of his chair in an effort to sit up straight. To his relief Dagaran resumed his seat in the window.

He heard the sergeant go back downstairs, his words indistinct. Heavy boots hurried up the wide oak stairs, lighter footsteps following. There was brief whispered conversation outside the door before Derenna strode into the room.

“Good day, gentlemen.” She turned with a swish of crimson skirts. “My lord, may I make known Master Aremil, a student of various disciplines in Vanam. Master Aremil, I have the honour to make you known to my husband, Lord Rousharn of Nolsedge.”

Aremil didn’t recall Derenna being such a stickler for etiquette when they had first met in Vanam. She’d shown no great care for her appearance either. Today, however, there were no frayed hems on this smart gown. Instead of mismatched silver combs, hairpins tipped with tiny enamelled lilies secured her dark braids.

He inclined his head. “Forgive me if I don’t rise—”

“No, of course, your infirmities.” Lord Rousharn was looking at his withered and twisted legs, not his face. Then he looked at Aremil’s hands. “A student but not a scholar? Well no, naturally. Forgive me.” The burly man’s eyes drifted to his crutches.

Derenna’s husband could justifiably claim to still be in his prime. His dark hair was barely receding; his shoulders were broad beneath his belted buff jerkin, his waist trim and his legs muscular in his close-fitting breeches and riding boots. He was at least the same height as Tathrin, who was the tallest man Aremil knew.

Rousharn also had a remarkably eloquent face. No wonder he’d fallen foul of Duke Moncan. Aremil saw both his curiosity and his instinctive revulsion for a cripple. He clenched his weak hands. He wasn’t about to explain just why they were still bare of a silver ring boasting Vanam’s blazon. Not when claiming one would have meant either lying on his oath to the university’s archivists or revealing his own true birth.

He cleared his throat of the spittle that so often beset him. Drooling would hardly make a good impression. “My lord, my lady, the honour is all mine. May I also make known to you Dagaran Esk Breven, lieutenant of Evord Fal Breven?”

“Forgive me, I’m not familiar with the conventions of Soluran names.” Lord Rousharn stripped off his gauntlets to offer Dagaran his broad hand.

Dagaran clasped his forearm in mercenary fashion. “Breven is the district of my birth. The distinction is that my family owns no land in our own right. The captain-general is lord of a broad demesne.”

“Is that so?” Lord Rousharn nodded with interest.

“You can discuss it some other time. We do have more pressing matters to address.” Derenna sounded more amused than exasperated.

Aremil couldn’t recall seeing her smile before. He’d heard from various friends in Vanam’s learned halls that shared intellectual curiosity had first drawn this couple together. Mutual respect for each other’s intelligence had kept them devoted through the birth of their five children and their trials under Duke Moncan. Now it looked as if genuine affection also blessed their match.

“Indeed.” Lord Rousharn continued to address Dagaran. “Duchess Aphanie has made a request of us and we feel we should refer it to the captain-general, my wife and I.”

He glanced at Derenna and she spoke up. “The bodies of Duke Moncan and Lord Kerlin were naturally brought to Duchess Aphanie, as we sheltered her and her daughters at Nolsedge.”

Lord Rousharn interjected. “Their pyres were lit with all deference and every rite that she wished for was duly observed.”

Why did he feel the need to stress that, Aremil wondered? Did he think he’d be accused of ill-treating his unwilling guests? True, Rousharn was a noted Rationalist, and so many inclining to that philosophy derided religion as outmoded superstition. Aremil was inclined to agree.

Derenna continued. “Duchess Aphanie wishes to dedicate the urns of their ashes in the shrine to Poldrion within Sharlac Castle. She also asks if anyone knows what became of her son Lord Jaras’s ashes, when the castle was sacked.”

Her disapproval of that destruction was clear. Usually Aremil found it hard to tell what she was thinking, her features were naturally so severe. Being reunited with her husband was revealing new facets of her character. Aremil wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that.

Dagaran bowed politely and withdrew a step. “Master Aremil will relay such questions to Captain-General Evord’s retinue.”

“Naturally.” Now it was Lord Rousharn’s turn to clear his throat. He turned towards Aremil but still didn’t meet his eyes. Despite his best efforts, his expression betrayed his disdain.

Aremil reminded himself to rule emotion with reason. As a Rationalist, Lord Rousharn was doubtless dismissive of any magic, elemental or aetheric. His own scholar’s ring was from Col, after all. He hadn’t had the benefit of tutors like Mentor Tonin, explaining that dismissing the undeniable reality of magic was the height of irrationality.

“Though Sharlac Castle was extensively damaged once the fires took hold, I am assured the sanctity of the shrines was respected.” Aremil glanced at Dagaran and was relieved to see the Soluran’s nod. “Dagaran, please make enquiries about the urn.”

“Lord Jaras’s ashes weren’t safely stowed in Poldrion’s shrine,” Derenna said testily. “Duke Moncan kept them in his own apartments.”

“I see.” That wasn’t good news. Aremil knew every room save the Sharlac Castle shrines had been extensively plundered.

Still, if Lord Jaras’s urn was anywhere, it would be in Sharlac or Losand. Captain-General Evord had decreed the advancing army wasn’t to be burdened with booty, not when it could be safely left with friends. Aremil could only hope the seals were intact and no mercenary had dumped the former Sharlac heir’s ashes to use the urn as a spittoon or worse.

“How soon can you provide Duchess Aphanie with a fitting escort?” Lord Rousharn turned to Dagaran again.

Aremil felt his irritation with this overbearing man turning to outright dislike. Was he one of those Rationalists so rigorous in their logic that they believed afflicted children shouldn’t be supported through their infirmities, living or dying as nature intended?

Once again, Dagaran deferred to Aremil. “We must refer such a request to the captain-general, don’t you think?”

“I quite agree,” Aremil said as firmly as he could. “I’m quite sure he’ll tell us any such visit must wait until peace is restored to Sharlac and all of Lescar.”