Blood in the Water (21 page)

That wasn’t what Lord Rousharn wished to hear. “I’m sure I can muster some of my own militiamen, if you’re unwilling to spare us your swords.”

“Don’t you think you might spare Duchess Aphanie the grief of seeing the ruin of her home, at least for a little while longer?” Aremil retorted. He paused as if to gather his thoughts. Talking clearly became a trial when he was annoyed, and he’d be bitten by Poldrion’s demons before he’d give this man any more excuse to despise him. He continued with careful precision.

“Do you fully understand the hazards the duchess and her daughters would face on such a journey? Some of those mercenaries who’ve abandoned Duke Garnot will have turned to banditry. There are other perils besides. What if some enterprising vassal lord seizes the duchess with a view to marrying her daughter by rape? That would secure a claim on the dukedom, wouldn’t it?”

“None of Duke Moncan’s vassals would do such a thing.” Lord Rousharn was outraged.

“No?” Aremil challenged. “What about his erstwhile mercenary captains? Have they no ambitions?”

“Let’s set that aside for the moment,” Derenna interrupted. “What are Captain-General Evord’s plans for Sharlac, when peace has been restored?”

“What will become of Carluse when Duke Garnot is driven out for good?” Lord Rousharn quickly added.

Those weren’t casual questions. Aremil saw they’d come here seeking those very answers. This business with Duchess Aphanie was just a convenient excuse.

“Captain-General Evord is focusing all his efforts on securing that peace,” he said curtly. “There’s time enough to decide what comes later.”

“Not if you want calm to continue in Sharlac,” Lord Rousharn asserted. He turned to Dagaran. “I have sounded out the most clear-headed and reasonable noblemen. We are agreed. The dukedom needs a regent, not least to defend Duchess Aphanie from any who seek to exploit her.”

Somewhat to his surprise, Aremil saw the man was wholly sincere. But why should that surprise him? Once again he reminded himself reason must rule emotion. When he had first met Lady Derenna back in Vanam, her integrity had impressed him, balancing her abrasive character. She would only have married a man of similar resolve. Even if he did despise cripples.

This time he didn’t wait for Dagaran to refer Lord Rousharn for his answer. “I will put your suggestion to the captain-general.”

Derenna looked Aremil straight in the eye. “Kindly tell him all the vassal lords of Sharlac agree my husband is by far the most suitable regent.”

Rousharn hastily demurred. “My wife does me too much honour.”

He wasn’t even being falsely modest, Aremil had to acknowledge that.

Not that it altered the facts. This unwelcome development promised to be a considerable headache. Derenna had many influential friends throughout Sharlac, nobles who shared her scholarly inclinations. These men and women had devoted their energies to natural philosophy, mathematics and the like precisely because they were intelligent enough to scorn the squabbles of Lescar’s dukes and their toadies. They had accepted her arguments that the most rational course was to wait out this war and see how the final runes fell.

Derenna was still speaking. “The captain-general cannot take his campaign forward if he has to worry about chaos at his back. A regent in Sharlac can rescind Duke Moncan’s most loathsome decrees, and that will win more nobles to our cause. The commonalty will be reassured as well. Those who might well exploit the current uncertainties will see we’re determined to secure good governance.”

Lord Rousharn nodded. “If Draximal sees unity among Sharlac’s lords, Duke Secaris will be less inclined to attack us in order to threaten the captain-general on two fronts.” He bowed briefly to Dagaran. “Forgive me. I know from my wife that Captain-General Evord has no intention of seizing Sharlac or Carluse for himself, still less Lescar’s crown. But many will fear just that and Parnilesse and Draximal will swear he has kingly ambitions. A regent in Sharlac, of Sharlac blood, will do much to negate such alarm.”

Did he think Aremil was incapable of understanding such concerns? Because he was crippled or because he was supposedly of modest birth? Lady Derenna had no notion that he was Duke Secaris of Draximal’s son, so she could hardly have told her husband.

Aremil briefly considered letting saliva trickle down his chin or yielding to the cramps that were tormenting him, so his feet jerked awkwardly. That might drive Lord Rousharn out of the room. Not Derenna though. She was made of sterner stuff.

Yet again, Dagaran declined to answer, looking to Aremil instead. How long would it take for Lord Rousharn to get that message?

“I will certainly put your arguments to Captain-General Evord.” Aremil nodded politely to them both. “In the meantime, would you use your evident influence with Sharlac’s vassals on our behalf? Clearly no ducal levies have been gathered this Autumn Festival, not in Sharlac Town or anywhere our writ runs. I’m not sure what noble lords have done in their own demesnes. Could you see who might agree to support Captain-General Evord with solid coin as well as good wishes? Sharlac’s lords can help secure their freedom from coercion by dukes or by anyone else by helping us pay off our mercenaries as soon as their job is done.” That should give them something else to argue about.

“That’s something a regent would be well placed to do,” Lord Rousharn said quickly.

“Quite.” To his exasperation, Aremil was unable to stop a tremor shaking his hand.

To his profound relief, Dagaran walked over to open the door. “It has been an honour to meet you, my lord, my lady.” He bowed to them each in turn. “Please leave word where you’re lodging with my clerk. If there’s anything we can do while you’re here, you only have to ask.”

“Thank you.” With a brisk nod to Aremil, Lord Rousharn strode from the room.

“Till later, gentlemen.” Derenna followed more slowly, her expression contemplative.

Dagaran closed the door behind her. “Those two seem very well suited,” he commented softly as they heard them descending the stairs.

Aremil grimaced, shifting in an effort to ease his aching back. “Derenna is a formidable woman. I’m just glad Reniack is away in Abray.”

Dagaran was quick to catch his meaning. “You think we’d see popular feeling rise up in favour of a regent for Sharlac?”

“Derenna didn’t scruple to use Reniack’s talent for rabble-rousing to stir up resentment when Jackal Moncan kept her husband locked inside his own house.”

However unlikely it seemed, Aremil knew the Sharlac noblewoman and the Parnilesse whore’s bastard had been working together long before Master Gruit introduced them both to him and Tathrin.

The Soluran retrieved his ledger. “Why send them chasing the vassal lords’ spare coin?” He was curious, not critical. “It’s not as if we need the gold, not yet anyway, and that’ll just give them more opportunities to enlist support for this regency.”

Aremil shrugged in his ungainly fashion. “They’ll argue in favour of it regardless. At least this way it might look as if Derenna and Rousharn are out to enrich themselves. Someone else may decide they’d like their own cows drinking at that pond.”

Dagaran laughed. “What will we do if a handful of hopefuls present themselves?”

“Invite them to decide among themselves?” Aremil suggested. “That should keep them talking in circles for a good while.”

“That always keeps the Caladhrians out of mischief,” Dagaran allowed.

“Kerith was saying we’ll need answers for Caladhria, when their lords start asking what becomes of Lescar with no dukes.” Aremil sighed. “The sooner Evord can break though this siege of Carluse Town the better. As long as he’s marching and fighting, everyone else is too busy watching and waiting for news to come up with all these inconvenient questions and initiatives.”

“Perhaps Mistress Charoleia will have some interesting suggestions to put a spoke in Lord Rousharn’s wheel.” Dagaran headed for the door. “You and I can discuss it all over dinner.”

“I look forward to it.”

As the Soluran departed, Aremil swiftly turned his thoughts towards Branca. There was no one’s advice he would rather seek.

Chapter Fifteen

Branca

The House of Caprice, Toremal,

6th of Aft-Autumn

“
We really need to think about Lescar’s future when all the fighting’s done. We don’t have that much time, not if Evord makes good on his promise to finish this campaign by mid-winter.
”

“Kerith said the same.”

“
Did you get the feeling there was something he wasn’t telling us?
”

Aremil’s instincts were becoming more finely tuned.

“Yes, I did.” But Branca had found no way to pierce Kerith’s mental armour.

“
In the meantime, do you think Charoleia could find something to Lord Rousharn’s discredit?”

Aremil’s dislike of the Sharlac noble seared the aether like acid. Branca found that troubling.

“I doubt he had much opportunity for mischief locked up at home. Shall we leave slinging muck from the gutters to Reniack? To counter Parnilesse and Draximal’s slanders here?”

“
How are their appeals being received in Tormalin?”

“There’s a great deal of outrage, but as yet, no princely house seems ready to advocate the Emperor dispatch the legions.” Branca hesitated before continuing. “Lord Cassat is well known in noble circles, and much admired.”

She half-expected to feel Aremil’s resentment of this unknown boy enjoying the rank and privilege that should have been his. She’d seen the intractable bitterness in the back of Aremil’s mind, that any crippled child should be discarded so readily.

To her surprise, she saw instead that Aremil was guiltily relieved to be spared the burden of defending a dukedom. He wouldn’t be called on to risk life and limb while his unknown father stayed safe in his castle. He only envied Lord Cassat his fine horses, as he envied Tathrin and Jettin their mounted adventures these days.

Branca quickly cast around for something to say before Aremil realised what she was seeing. “Tell the captain-general to keep a weather eye to the west. Charoleia says the Duke of Triolle is recruiting mercenaries in Relshaz.”

“
She does?”

Aremil’s surprise was twofold: firstly, that Iruvain of Triolle was finally taking some initiative; secondly that Charoleia had news from Relshaz when she herself was in Toremal.

Branca heard the flutter of wings. For the first time in this conversation, she yielded and allowed herself to be drawn into Aremil’s echoing stone hall. Looking up, she saw courier doves fluttering amid the fanned vaults.

“
A line drawn straight across the map between the two cities must measure more than two hundred leagues.”

A chart table appeared by Aremil’s chair, showing how Caladhria and Tormalin framed the Gulf of Lescar.

“
Can courier birds fly so far over open water?
”

“I’ve no idea,” Branca admitted.

Aremil smiled at her, as crookedly as always. His thin body, painfully twisted, was confined to his chair as usual.

Branca looked past him to the shadows. Aremil might think he had no illusions about his infirmity but sometimes she saw a different reflection of him in the distance, confident and straight-limbed. Not today. Was that thanks to Lord Rousharn?

“
That dress is very becoming.”

“Thank you.” She curtseyed, her blue skirts whispering on the flagstones.

“
Where are you? Can I hear voices?”

Yes, his aetheric senses were definitely strengthening.

“See for yourself,” she invited.

The more she could draw him out of that imagined hall the better. She’d be doing him no favours if he became as much a recluse there as he had been in his house in Vanam.

“
It’s a playhouse?”

“For marionettes. The Tormalins adore them. Charoleia says it’s an ancient and honoured art.”

She turned her attention to the figures frozen on the stage below the private balcony box where she sat. Each one was half as tall as an adult, their wooden faces lifelike, their clothes finely tailored. The painted backdrop was a work of art, framed by a gilded facade that hid the puppeteers. The opulence wasn’t limited to the stage. Every seat was cushioned with scarlet velvet and the walls were hung with painted silk.

She could sense Aremil beside her. Closing her eyes, she recalled the marionettes’ intricate dance for him, their fluent gestures and the eloquent melodies of the flutes and viols.

“It’s very different from tavern puppets’ cavorting, isn’t it?”

She immediately wished the thought unspoken as Aremil wistfully answered.

“
I wouldn’t know.”

He had never seen the stuffed cloth caricatures waved in the inns along Vanam’s lakeshore, the bawdier the fable the better. He’d never even enjoyed the decorous plays preferred by the scholars in their walled citadel on the heights.

Too late. Branca felt him withdraw as he sensed her pity. A stray thought could be as deadly as a loose arrow, and as impossible to recall. That’s what Mentor Tonin had always said.