Blood in the Water (22 page)

“
I must see if Tathrin has any news. I’ll tell him what Charoleia says of Triolle.”

Then he was gone, only his guarded apprehension lingering in her thoughts. Aremil admired Charoleia but couldn’t hide his unease at the way she manipulated so many people as deftly as any puppeteer. What would happen if she got all those strings in a tangle?

Was that his distaste, or her own? Where was Charoleia? The second performance was about to begin. Branca looked over the balcony, down to the floor of the playhouse. The noise rising from the beautifully dressed crowd rivalled any tavern clamour in Vanam.

A few moments later, a quick knock sounded on the door. Branca hurried to unlock it.

Charoleia didn’t enter. “Have you got your wrap and your reticule?”

“Where are we going?” Branca quickly gathered up her warm shawl and the ribbon-tied purse.

“Duke Orlin of Parnilesse has persuaded rather too many of his Tormalin friends to present his pleas the Emperor.” Today Charoleia’s hair, her jewels, her ochre gown, were all as demure as any matron’s. “They’re saying it’s time to send in the legions, while the Soluran’s army is still besieging Carluse.”

Branca’s throat tightened. “Will Emperor Tadriol agree?”

They walked swiftly along the dimly lit corridor.

“Let’s see if he’ll listen to some counter argument. Then we will have to leave, quickly and unseen. Be ready to use whatever Artifice you see fit.”

Before Branca could worry what she meant by that, Charoleia knocked just once on a closed door. A man a handful or so years older than Branca opened it.

“Lady Alaric of Thornlisse. Good evening to you.”

As they went in, he locked the door behind them. Though there were a handful of chairs in the dimly lit box, he was quite alone. Elegant in a dark full-skirted coat over pale breeches and an embroidered waistcoat, his only jewels were a collection of heirloom rings.

“A chaperone, my lady?” He looked quizzically at Charoleia.

She smiled. “I doubt you wish to provoke undue speculation.”

“Everyone’s still debating who I danced with at every festival ball,” he said sardonically. “I gather the tavern wagers on my empress’s birth are divided between four princely houses.”

“My money rests with D’Istrac,” Charoleia said serenely.

The man’s good humour vanished. “Does it?”

Branca stood silently, as a good chaperone should. So this was the Emperor of Tormalin. Tadriol, acclaimed as “the Provident” by the ruling princes of Tormalin’s noble houses when they had approved his nomination to the throne. A reassuring title for a man entrusted with all their dealings beyond the Empire’s borders, and with ensuring impartial laws were enforced within them. He was unremarkable in appearance, of middling height with wavy brown hair and mild eyes. Though his voice held a note of command to equal Captain-General Evord’s.

“Sit, please, and tell me why you’ve requested this audience.”

Charoleia sank elegantly on the chair he indicated. “You know what’s happening in Lescar, Your Highness.”

He swept back the skirts of his coat to stick his hands in his breeches’ pockets, incidentally revealing an elegant small sword. Branca didn’t think it was just there for show.

“I hear your long-running sore of a country is plagued with a fresh outbreak of bloodletting. I cannot decide who’s more blameworthy. Those of your countrymen who follow their noble dukes so blindly into battle, or those who flee to safer lands once they have begged, borrowed or stolen enough. I gather it’s such exiles who hired this Soluran and his mercenaries?”

Branca stiffened. Tadriol’s contempt stung all the more as she heard the echo of her own disdain, before Tathrin and Aremil had enlightened her ignorance.

Charoleia was unruffled. “You’ll be glad to learn we’ve come to our senses. The dukes will soon be thrown down, Your Highness, and wiser heads will prevail.”

“Soluran heads.” Tadriol was clearly displeased. “Well known to King Solquen.”

“Captain-General Evord is an honourable man,” Charoleia assured him. “He will return to his own lands when the fighting is done.”

“Will he?” Tadriol was sceptical. “And the thousands of men he has under arms? They’ll all march meekly away?”

Charoleia nodded, confident. “We will pay them handsomely to do so.”

“You think such treacherous hirelings will stick to their bargain?” Tadriol shook his head. “I will not see King Solquen establish his own man as ruler of Lescar, getting a stranglehold on the Great West Road so that he may crush our trade any time he chooses.”

“That will never happen.” Now Charoleia was amused.

Tadriol wasn’t smiling. “You have some flight of birds to show me, or some concatenation of the stars? You think I’m some credulous Aldabreshi to be swayed by such predictions?”

Charoleia answered his sarcasm calmly. “No, but I can promise that you will see Lescar free of all Solurans, mercenaries and ducal militias. As long as you send in no legions. That will only drag out the bloodshed.”

“Not according to Duke Orlin of Parnilesse,” he said curtly.

There was a moment’s silence, all the more potent for the hum of conversation beyond the balcony.

Charoleia angled her head. “Don’t you think His Grace is as culpable as any other Lescari duke for his people’s suffering? They’ve all indulged their petty quarrels and foolish ambitions by bleeding their vassals and the commonalty dry these past ten generations.”

“I agree,” the Emperor assured her, “and you’re gracious in not accusing me and my fellow princes of aiding them in their folly. Let’s not forget it was the rivals for Tormalin’s throne who first encouraged the governors of Lescar’s provinces to call themselves dukes in the days of the Chaos. It was my predecessors who promised the High King’s crown to whoever brought Lescar back to the Imperial fold.” Tadriol looked at her, unblinking. “One swift way to make amends would be to make good on that promise. Our legions could impose a single ruler. Given the choice between that and a Soluran overlord, even the most fractious duke should see sense.”

“You think so?” Charoleia mused. “With a legionary’s boot on their neck? You don’t think those who’ve lost out will simply unite against both you and your chosen king?”

Emperor Tadriol smiled. “We will make it clear that the kingship will be shared among all their houses, just as the Imperial Throne passes from one princely house to another. I would propose passing the crown from one dukedom to the next as each ruler goes to answer to Saedrin. That should curb any ducal tendency to abuse such a privilege. Every noble house in Tormalin succeeding to the Imperial Throne knows full well that excesses will be punished with the other princes’ displeasure and a new dynasty acclaimed to replace them.”

“You accused King Solquen of undue ambition.” Charoleia shook her head in wonder. “I would have thought Tormalin’s princely houses had more than enough to occupy them in the new lands across the ocean.”

“All the more reason to see peace in Lescar.” The Emperor was unmoved. “All the more reason to forestall even the remote possibility of Soluran forces threatening our western border.”

Even a thousand leagues away in Vanam Branca had heard of the untamed lands far away across the wild waters of the Eastern Ocean. The far continent had first been discovered in the days of the Old Empire, when Tormalin rule extended all the way to the White River and the Emperors contended with the Kings of Solura for rule over Ensaimin. Artifice had enabled the Emperors to govern such vast domains. Aetheric magic had enabled them to cross the raging deep.

But that had been a step too far and the Empire had collapsed into the Chaos. Almost all knowledge of Artifice had been lost. But now Mentor Tonin said all the princes of Tormalin were searching their houses’ archives for scraps of aetheric lore, enlisting scholars such as himself from Vanam and Col.

Had Tormalin’s princes erred in calling this young emperor “the Provident”? Wouldn’t he be better called “the Bold”? What did that mean for Lescar?

Charoleia sat pensive in the stillness. Branca had never known anyone so impossible to read. What was she thinking?

“Who would you crown first?” the beautiful intelligencer asked with interest.

Tadriol pursed his lips. “The Duke of Parnilesse’s lands are closest.”

“That would be a bold move,” Charoleia observed. “To entrust your honour to a man who poisoned his own father.”

“That has never been proven.” Tadriol spoke too quickly.

“It can be proven,” Charoleia assured him. “You could well find such Parnilesse nostrums ensuring that the Lescari crown passes from hand to hand like a hot coal until it comes right back to Duke Orlin’s heirs.”

“Then perhaps I shall honour Duke Secaris of Draximal,” Tadriol retorted.

“When he has suborned sorcery against Parnilesse? You heard how arcane fires burned Emirle Bridge this summer?” Charoleia frowned. “You have always insisted wizardry has no place in governance, Your Highness.”

“I agree with the Archmage that wizardry has no place in warfare,” the Emperor said swiftly. “His Grace of Draximal won’t be tempted to such folly again if such a law is backed by Tormalin’s legions, as well as by Planir’s strictures.”

“True enough.” Charoleia sounded as if she entirely agreed. “And you’ll have the leisure to give such a bold undertaking all the attention it requires?”

“What do you mean?” Tadriol was as puzzled as Branca.

Charoleia smiled. “Semarie D’Istrac is a beautiful girl, but your courtship would become so sadly complicated if her brother’s indiscretions were to come to light.”

Tadriol’s face darkened. “Explain yourself.”

Branca glanced sideways at the locked door. Was the key still there?

“Mud sticks. The whiter the gown, the more impossible it is to remove stains.” Charoleia sighed. “Gossips will believe the worst of even the most innocent girl.”

Tadriol took a step towards her. “Madam—”

“Touch me and I will scream.” Charoleia sprang to her feet. “So will she.”

Tadriol retreated, appalled. “As if anyone would believe—”

“Do you want to take that wager?” Charoleia crossed swiftly to the door and twisted the key. “Good night, Your Highness.”

Branca scurried after her, struggling for words. Charoleia opened an unexpected door in the corridor’s curved wall. Branca followed her down a plain staircase lit with tiny lamps. She finally found her voice as they reached the bottom.

“What now?”

Charoleia was listening at the lower door concealing these servants’ steps. “We’re leaving Toremal,” she whispered. “Your Artifice must hide us as we leave the playhouse. Then you must blur all trace of us until we’re well beyond Tadriol’s reach. Can you do that?”

Branca hastily searched her memory. Mentor Tonin had once shown her an enchantment, not to vanish into thin air as a wizard might, but to ensure anyone catching sight of an adept immediately forgot they had done so. She nodded reluctantly.

Charoleia smiled. “You needn’t fear a beating. But Tadriol would keep us as his closely guarded guests until one of his own Artificers went looking between our ears.”

“So Tadriol does use magic to rule?” Mentor Tonin insisted that forcibly reading another person’s thoughts was only permissible in the direst of circumstances. Branca wondered if he knew how little heed these Tormalins were paying to his principles.

“He doesn’t use wizardry,” Charoleia corrected her, “but he’s as keen as any other Tormalin lord to see what advantages Artifice might offer.”

Branca ran a hand through her hair, heedless of ruining Trissa’s handiwork. “So what happens once we’ve escaped?”

“All Tadriol’s efforts will be turned to finding the truth,” Charoleia said softly, “about D’Istrac, about Parnilesse poisoning his father and about Draximal suborning wizardry.” She smiled. “And how his beloved’s brother might have erred.”

“What has he done, this D’Istrac?” Branca wondered.

“Nothing that I know of.” Charoleia shrugged. “But he’s a wealthy young man in the Empire’s biggest city with every temptation at his elbow. He’ll have some guilty secrets.”

“You were bluffing?” Branca realised she shouldn’t be so surprised.

“Let’s not risk an Artificer discovering that.” Charoleia smiled. “If Tadriol’s looking for something that’s not there to be found, he’ll be too busy to make mischief for us.”

Branca was still worried. “Unless he sends Tormalin’s legions into Lescar regardless?”

Charoleia shook her head. “He’s not convinced he should intervene. Didn’t you hear that in his voice? But if the captain-general’s campaign grinds to a complete standstill, he might be persuaded. Evord must end that siege at Carluse and press on.”

“How long will that take?” Branca had no idea.

“He’s had five days so far. It could only take another handful or he could still be sitting there at Winter Solstice, if nothing shakes Duchess Tadira loose. Even if that does mean Sorgrad using his… ingenuity.” Charoleia wrinkled her nose. “If we could spare a few days, I’d like to find out which princes are so keen to see Duke Orlin made High King. But Lady Alaric is going to have to disappear.” She shrugged. “A great shame, but she was the only one of my guises whose path had crossed Tadriol’s. We’d never have got an audience otherwise. Well, it’s time we were heading for Parnilesse to see what scents we can pick up there.”