Blood in the Water (40 page)

“Sweet talking as well as straight talking.” Ridianne smiled amiably. “A Carluse man, by your accent. Why’ve you joined these incomers to overthrow your liege lords?”

Tathrin met her gaze. “Duke Garnot’s contempt for his people has forfeited any claim on their fealty. Too many humble Lescari suffer for the sake of noble quarrels that they have no part in. I seek a better future for us all.”

“You come into my camp and say that to my face? You’re either a fool or admirably brave.” Ridianne laughed. “I’ve read those pamphlets your people have been strewing round the markets. I’d prefer more reasoned arguments and rather less high-flown rhetoric or low calumny.”

To Tathrin’s relief, she returned her attention to Sorgrad. “Perhaps your captain-general could fight me to a standstill, perhaps not. Either way, his regiments will be cut to shreds. Parnilesse can mop up the stragglers.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Sorgrad pursed his lips. “I hear the militia Duke Iruvain salvaged from the field at Tyrle have fled to hide under their beds and he’s locked himself up in his castle.”

“A goodly number of the companies fool enough to take Lord Cassat’s coin have thought better of that bargain,” Gren chipped in.

Ridianne waved that away. “Parnilesse will bring their fighting cocks up to the scratch. No one gainsays Lord Geferin.”

“That’s what they used to say about Duke Garnot,” Sorgrad observed. “But what good does it do you to have Lord Geferin crowing as cock of the walk? Even if our forces can only win a bloody victory over you alone, where does that leave Duke Ferdain? Without swords or allies to back him, he can only stand by while Duke Orlin proclaims himself High King, his heirs to follow. What future for your own sons then?”

Ridianne’s face hardened. “You need not concern yourself with me and mine.”

“I mean no disrespect.” Sorgrad’s contrition seemed sincere.

“Duke Orlin will not be High King.” Ridianne shook her head. “Once I join forces with Lord Geferin, we will have double the men you can muster, including your Mountain kindred, the grassland horsemen and all the Soluran’s regiments. You’ll be smashed like wheat in a hailstorm and Marlier and Parnilesse will come to terms as equals.”

“But you won’t join forces with Lord Geferin,” Sorgrad said apologetically. “You can’t do that without fighting your way through us.”

Ridianne angled her head. “If your captain-general fights us first, he cannot hope to defeat Parnilesse.”

“So you suppose.” A hint of complacency coloured Sorgrad’s smile.

“You suppose otherwise?” Ridianne challenged.

“Much as I respect you, there are things I cannot say.” Sorgrad spread his hands, entreating. “Why not come to terms with Captain-General Evord? What do you owe Parnilesse? It’s barely a generation since Duke Orlin’s father burned Marlier’s crops.”

Tathrin saw Ridianne’s gaze lengthen to look past his shoulder. What were they going to do if she decided her sergeants could try beating their secrets out of them? He dared not turn to see who was stood there.

“You think Duke Ferdain would leave my head on my shoulders if I did that?” scoffed Ridianne. “When you people intend throwing him down along with every other duke? No matter.” She leaned back against her cushions, deftly setting her stool upright with the toe of her boot. “You’ll be beaten, whether by my regiments or Lord Geferin’s. Your Soluran should sue for terms now, if he hopes to get home with his skin whole. But if he wants to die in Lescar, that’s no concern of mine. Good day to you. Edlich!”

The black-jowled mercenary appeared at Tathrin’s shoulder. “Captain?”

“We march at first light tomorrow.” Ridianne reached for her book. “See these three fine fools safely out of the camp. We respect any herald’s immunity.”

The mercenary led them away. “Where did you leave your horses?”

“At the Peapod Inn, in Skebban.” Sorgrad was looking around.

“The Pisspot?” Edlich laughed. “Don’t risk a meal or you’ll be squatting in a ditch and wishing for dock leaves before you reach the border.”

Tathrin couldn’t understand how mercenaries could be so friendly, even when they found themselves on opposing sides.

He realised they were taking a different route out of the camp and began gloomily looking for insignia. They may as well take some useful information back to Captain-General Evord. There was a circle of oak leaves around Marlier’s three swords. Beyond he saw a brace of cups and then a goat’s head with some sort of halter around its neck. He’d have to ask Sorgrad if he knew those companies.

What would Evord do now that Ridianne’s intentions were clear? He couldn’t help feeling downcast, even though this had been a wild roll of the runes.

“Look on the bright side, long lad,” Sorgrad said quietly. “They didn’t hang us from the nearest tree.”

“I wasn’t expecting to see Alsar’s Eaglets here.” Gren nodded towards an orange banner where a tawny bird spread finger-feathered wings.

Edlich grinned. “Captain Boon has a keen eye for a winning side.”

“That he does,” Sorgrad admitted.

They walked on in silence. At the edge of the camp Edlich let them go on unescorted. Tathrin glanced back now and again. Every time, he saw the mercenary still watching.

Not even bothering to pause in Skebban, they continued along the wide road between the stubbled fields. Finally, Sorgrad halted beneath the shelter of a sturdy oak.

“Time to go home?” Tathrin braced himself.

“Not just yet.” Sorgrad rubbed his chin. “If Ridianne won’t sniff at our hand, and Charoleia still hasn’t found a way to hobble Lord Geferin, I think we’d better piss in Duke Iruvain’s ale.”

“What are you going to do?” Tathrin asked with foreboding.

Sorgrad searched his belt pouch for the silver bowl he normally used for scrying. “I’ve seen that renegade mage Madam Jilseth is looking for, in Triolle Castle.”

“How long has he been there?” Tathrin was horrified. “Why haven’t you told the captain-general?”

Sorgrad shrugged. “For the moment he’s done nothing but eat and drink and idle his days away.”

“Then why hand him over to Hadrumal?” Gren objected.

“Triolle can’t bridge the gap between Marlier and Parnilesse if Duke Iruvain’s answering for his crimes to Planir.” Sorgrad raised a hand. “Now, don’t say a word or Jilseth will hear you.”

As he turned the little dish bottom uppermost, he plucked a twig from the hedge. It flared with magefire, casting a scarlet reflection on the polished metal. The light swirled into a circle framing an enchanted image.

Jilseth looked back through the magic, unperturbed by this interruption. “Sorgrad. I’d hoped to hear from you sooner than this.”

“There’s no profit in sharing no news.” Sorgrad smiled at the distant magewoman. “Today, we have news.”

“We know where your renegade is,” Gren interrupted gleefully.

“Excellent,” Jilseth said coolly.

Sorgrad matched her equanimity. “He’s in Triolle Castle. Do remove him from this game of raven just as soon as you like.”

“Once I’ve scried over the area.” As Jilseth spoke, the magefire circle flared golden.

“You can’t translocate anywhere close?” Faint concern creased Sorgrad’s brow.

“That’s no concern of yours.” Jilseth’s face loomed larger within the spell. “I confess, I’m surprised you’ve betrayed him. If there’s no wizardry on Triolle’s side, you’ve no excuse to use your own. Well, I’m glad you’ve finally seen sense.”

“Don’t presume to understand me in the least,” Sorgrad said curtly. “Now, excuse me, we must continue on our way.”

“Good day, then.”

Before Sorgrad could end his spell, the fiery ring vanished to leave a sooty circle on the upturned silver.

“She could have said thank you.” Gren wasn’t impressed.

“Planir should teach her some manners.” Sorgrad was scrubbing the black circle away with what looked like unnecessary violence to Tathrin. “Never mind that. Let’s just hope she snares this bastard good and fast.” He glowered at the blind surface of the bowl. “I don’t want her—”

He broke off to shoot Tathrin a stern look. “Jilseth can think what she likes about me forswearing magic in battle. If we need wizardry to win the day against Marlier, Parnilesse or both, I’ll use it. You’ll need to help me convince Reher to use his talents too.”

“I’ll try.” Tathrin wasn’t convinced he’d succeed. It had been hard enough to persuade the smith to undermine Tyrle’s walls. He’d been so furious at the havoc that followed, Tathrin had feared Reher was about to hit him.

Gren’s thoughts were still elsewhere. “Why do you keep scrying into Triolle? And why don’t you want this Minelas around your bold lass?”

If Sorgrad replied, Tathrin didn’t hear it, as the white magelight swirled around to carry them back to Evord’s camp.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Branca

The Pannal High Road,

in the Lescari Dukedom of Triolle,

25th of Aft-Autumn

The road forked ahead. Which way to go? One route must be the highway, but Triolle’s roads were so ill-kept it was hard to tell which that might be. The roan mare sensed Branca’s uncertainty, stopping on the crown of the road. The rain buffeted her but she didn’t seek shelter. The highway margins were too treacherous with potholes hidden by autumn leaves stripped from the trees by the blustery winds.

“Where are we?” Branca wiped damp tendrils of hair from her face and threw back her hood. She was already cold and wet and the cloth only blinkered her and muffled her voice.

Charoleia was sheltering a vellum strip inside her cloak. They’d abandoned almost all their belongings when they’d slipped away from the inn where Lord Usine’s men had escorted them. Charoleia had kept safe hold of her map case though.

Did she have an itinerary for every highway, the length and breadth of Lescar, Ensaimin and beyond, all annotated with her tiniest handwriting, if not in that sturdy case, then safely stowed in some distant dwelling? Branca wouldn’t be in the least surprised if she did.

She shivered, chilled to the bone, stiff and aching. Staying in a horse’s saddle hadn’t proved the challenge she’d feared but she’d had no notion riding could be so tiring. She wriggled her feet inside her boots, trying to feel her cold toes.

“We’re still twenty leagues short of Adel,” Charoleia said finally, swiftly coiling the map.

“The castle on the lake?” Trissa’s jennet stamped impatient hooves despite the encumbering saddlebags, their leather black with damp. She soothed the beast with a gloved hand. “We might make that tomorrow but this isn’t a night for travelling any further, my lady.”

“But what about those mercenaries we saw this morning?” Branca desperately contradicted the maid. As they’d been leaving the inn where they’d stopped for the night, two men had ridden into the yard. One wore a pied crow badge with the wreath from Parnilesse’s banner in the bird’s beak. The other man’s shield displayed a leather bottle atop Duke Orlin’s crossed halberd and sword. “I told you, those blazons were the first standards I saw cross the bridge.”

“Scouts or couriers, either way they’ll be at least a day ahead of Lord Geferin,” Trissa assured her.

“They won’t be travelling any faster than us in this weather.” Charoleia looked upwards.

The Greater Moon was now at its half but that was no more use than the last paring of the Lesser Moon that accompanied it. The autumnal rain had brought unbroken clouds and dusk was already gathering beneath the hedgerows.

“If we continue along the high road, there’s a village that should offer a tavern, not too far distant.” Charoleia contemplated their choices. “But which one is the high road, do you suppose?”

“We may as well roll a rune,” Branca said sourly.

“It’ll be the one with proper waymarks.” Trissa curbed her jennet’s ill-tempered snap at Branca’s mare. “If we don’t see something inside half a league, we’ll turn back and take the other fork.”

“Indeed,” Charoleia agreed.

Branca let her roan mare follow Charoleia’s bay gelding. They were bound to take the wrong route, she thought wearily. Then they’d have to retrace their steps and be no further on for all that wasted effort. By which time night would doubtless have fallen with the day’s showers settling into ceaseless rain. Always assuming one of the horses or Trissa’s burdened jennet didn’t lame itself.

Which was a wholly irrational set of assumptions, she chided herself.

“
Yes, it is.”

His amusement warmed her mentally if not physically.

“Aremil!”

She hadn’t even felt his touch on her mind through the aether. She must be more tired than she realised.

Hearing Branca’s surprise, Charoleia reined her own horse back and reached for the roan mare’s bridle. “Go on,” she reassured Branca.

“
Where are you?
”

For a few moments, Branca struggled to hear Aremil. She couldn’t have initiated any Artifice herself, so tired and cold and painfully unsure of herself on horseback.

“We’re travelling towards Adel,” Charoleia prompted.