Blood in the Water (41 page)

“On the high road.” Trissa pointed at a pale stone marker blotched with wet leaves.

The road ahead blurred and the trees beyond the broad verge reshaped themselves into the pillars of Aremil’s hall. Branca’s awareness of the reins in her hands, of the saddle beneath her aching rump faded. Fearing such loss of sensation would rapidly mean she’d lose her balance, Branca ruthlessly closed herself to all but the lightest touch of Aremil’s Artifice.

“We’re looking for a tavern for the night. We should reach Adel by tomorrow evening.”

For a moment she felt his hurt at her rejection. Then his surprise washed over her, coloured with his own longing and faint echoes of Tathrin and Jettin’s exultant charges in the campaign’s first battles.

“
You’ve never ridden a horse before?
”

His surprise let her see something else.

“Aremil, what’s wrong?”

“What’s happened?”

As Charoleia asked what was amiss, Branca raised her hand. If she tried to juggle two conversations, she would surely fall off the mare.

“
Someone has told Lord Rousharn that I am Duke Secaris of Draximal’s son.”

Branca flinched at an echo of the Sharlac lord’s enraged accusation. “It was Derenna?”

“
She says a trusted friend from Vanam wrote with the news.”

Aremil’s chagrin at being unmasked like this was riven by differing fears. Was it Lyrlen who’d betrayed him? Who else could it be? What would Duke Secaris do once he knew? What fate might befall his faithful nurse, when he was so far away, unable to protect her?

Branca shook her head to clear her thoughts.

“What has Derenna said?”

Travelling together through Sharlac, Branca had learned the noblewoman’s commitment to the duties of her rank was as unwavering as her devotion to natural philosophy.

“
She says I have no excuse for refusing the obligations of birth.”

Aremil’s fierce irritation stung Branca.

“How dare she?”

She felt her outrage soothe him a little.

“What’s happened?” Charoleia asked again.

“Derenna and Lord Rousharn know that Aremil is Duke Secaris’s son.” Branca closed her eyes to concentrate on the Artifice linking them. “How soon do you think word will spread?”

“
That’s what I wanted to ask Mistress Charoleia, but find some shelter and tell me at your leisure. Dear heart, you’re freezing!”

Aremil’s concern warmed Branca’s thoughts, if not her fingers and toes.

“Branca.” Charoleia’s thoughts were elsewhere. “Ask him about the Vixen. How did Sorgrad and Gren fare?”

“
Not well. Or at least, well enough for them to return alive. But she’s resumed her advance to Triolle.”

Branca opened her eyes. “Marlier’s army is still resolute.”

“
Evord’s army is still one step ahead. They’ll be at the gates of Triolle Town in the morning. Duke Iruvain is still cowering in his castle. He’s shown no sign of wanting another drubbing.”

Branca repeated his words for the other women’s benefit.

“Will the captain-general be able to drive Marlier’s army away from Triolle before Parnilesse’s army arrives?” Charoleia demanded.

“
Tathrin says so.”

Aremil was certain of Tathrin’s opinion and Tathrin had total faith in Evord. Branca could only hope neither man’s confidence was misplaced.

“They believe so.”

“Well, that’s good news, but can we discuss this when we’re safely off the highway?” Trissa glanced back down the darkling road.

“Duke Iruvain will be sending a whole company of dispatch riders to hurry Geferin along, if he fears he’s about to be besieged.” Charoleia grimaced. “Let’s find that tavern and get warm and dry. Then we can look for the least travelled byways to take us into Carluse.”

Branca found the notion of being caught between the two hostile dukes profoundly unnerving.

“We have to go.”

“
Go safely.
”

Aremil was gone, leaving only the fading echo of his loving concern. The dwindling day seemed danker than ever, the wind sour with rotting leaves.

“If there isn’t an inn, I’m sure we’ll find a house to take us in.” Charoleia released the roan’s bridle and urged her own horse on.

The brief respite had reinvigorated their mounts. Jennet, gelding and mare all sought to nose ahead of their stablemates. Trotting jolted Branca horribly, renewing every ache. She gritted her teeth and endured it, Trissa close beside her.

Thankfully it wasn’t long before lights ahead pierced the gloom. A small tavern claimed one quarter of a crossroads where a byway cut across the high road. A brazier’s cheerful flames illuminated the tavern’s sign, a circle of homely horn cups.

An old man warming himself regarded them with astonishment. “You’re out late, my ladies.”

“Our coach has damaged not one but two of its wheels.” Charoleia sighed with heartbreaking weariness. “Has our luggage arrived yet?”

“Luggage, my lady?” The old man was concerned. “We ain’t seen no one since this morning and that was only stockmen.”

“The men could have been delayed, my lady.” Trissa frowned. “Or we might have passed them, if they turned aside from the road for some reason.”

“Unless they took the wrong choice at the fork.” Charoleia’s voice faltered on the suggestion of a sob.

“Oh, my lady.” Trissa reached out a comforting hand.

Seeing she had no lines in this well-rehearsed masquerade, Branca sat silently on her mare.

“We’ll stop here for the night,” Trissa said firmly, as befitted a privileged retainer. “I’m sure we’ll have word of Fikal and Senn in the morning. We may even wake to find the coach repaired and waiting.”

As she spoke, she was dismounting, handing the jennet’s reins to the old man before helping Charoleia from her saddle.

The old man hurried to hold the gelding’s head. “Ansin!”

“My lady.” Trissa’s tone as she turned to Branca was respectful, if not quite as deferential. Unseen by the old man, her eyes were lit with amusement.

Branca slipped gracelessly down from the mare. Standing on her own two feet relieved her aches only at the cost of new torments. The mare whickered at the sound of an opening door, catching the scent of a stable.

“We’re not what you’d call an inn for quality,” the old man said anxiously, doing his best to curb the gelding and the jennet who were both equally keen on hay and shelter. “But we can offer a clean bedroom and good food.”

“That will be quite sufficient and most welcome …” Charoleia’s voice broke on her assurance.

Assuming the youth hurrying into the pool of light cast by the brazier was Ansin, Branca handed him the roan mare’s reins.

He ducked his head dutifully. “We’ll bring your bags in, my ladies, soon as we’ve got the horses settled.”

“Thank you.”

Charoleia and Trissa were already pushing open the tavern’s door. Branca hurried after them and breathed a sigh of relief. There was no one to remark on their unescorted, unannounced arrival.

The room’s sole occupant was a fat man relaxing in the inglenook of the broad fire at the far end of the room. Hastily rising, he hurried towards them, wiping broad red hands on his spotless apron.

“Your ladyships? It’s a nasty night to be on the road. How can we be of service?”

As Charoleia repeated the tale of a broken-down carriage, Branca took the measure of the inn. The taproom was basic, offering wooden benches and tables and a row of casks racked against the far wall. The pewter candlesticks were polished, though, no trails of tallow spilling on the scrubbed tabletops. No cobwebs were tolerated even in the most deeply shadowed corners and the rushes on the floor were freshened with judicious herbs.

“Let me draw you some ale. I’ll get my wife.”

All sympathy, the tavern-keeper ushered them to a table and clapped his leathery hands. A startled girl with the flat round face and snub nose of a simpleton hurried through the door beside the great fireplace.

“Take these good ladies’ cloaks and see them hung to dry,” he urged her as he fetched a foaming jug and horn cups.

Trissa had already taken Charoleia’s cloak and handed it over along with her own. Surrendering her own cape to the willing simpleton, Branca poured drinks for them all as the kindly man ushered the girl away through the inner door.

The first mouthful of ale merely cut through the dust in her throat. She savoured the second more appreciatively. “I warn you, three cups of this and I’ll be asleep.”

“We should all turn in early.” Closest to the fire, Trissa spread her damp skirts over the bench. “Ready for a prompt start in the morning.”

Charoleia hadn’t surrendered her precious map case with their saddlebags. She took a drink, nodded her own approval for the brew and sorted through the leather cylinders holding the maps. “Our safest course will be to skirt eastwards, along this lesser road.” She spread a strip of vellum on the clean table.

Branca shifted to get a better look. “Yes, I see.”

The door in the fireplace wall opened, with the sounds of a freshly roused kitchen beyond.

“Good evening, my ladies.” The tavern-keeper’s wife was as thin as he was round, a little woman with a freckled face in a brown gown. As her hands fluttered apologetically, Branca was irresistibly reminded of a thrush.

“With the weather and the rumours on the road, we weren’t expecting callers, not beyond the men of the village wanting their ale. I can offer you collops in a cream sauce, with pease and fresh bread?”

“As long as we’re not eating your own supper.” Charoleia studied her closely.

“Oh, no, my lady,” the woman assured her. “We killed a pig last market day.”

“Then collops and pease will be most welcome.” Charoleia smiled.

Chiming in with Trissa’s agreement, Branca allowed herself to hope for sausage for breakfast. She took another draught of the fragrant ale and felt the day’s tensions ebbing away. Now she just had to stay awake until their dinner arrived, and play her part in whatever story Charoleia had contrived.

“What’s my role here?” she asked quietly once the tavern-keeper’s wife returned to the kitchen.

“I’m Mistress Lanagyre,” Charoleia said quickly, “unwed sister to a Triolle joiner, a man of some wealth but no Guild ambition. You’ll be the daughter of my fondest friend, who is married to another joiner living in Pannal. You’re coming to spend some time in Triolle in hopes of finding a husband. Naturally, our plans have been entirely overcome by events.”

She didn’t need to explain that Trissa was, as always, her loyal maid.

The tavern-keeper’s wife proved as good a cook as her husband was a brewer. Fried slices of pork were succulent in a sauce flavoured with hoarded spices in their honour. Newly baked, the loaf was speckled with meal rather than the fine white bread Charoleia’s guises normally demanded but Branca didn’t care. It was what she was more used to eating. The pease pottage was equally fine, buttery with onion and the humble herbs that grew by the scullery door.

She was wiping her plate with a last crust as the goodwife bustled out of the kitchen with a plate of honeyed griddle cakes. “The girl’s made up the guest bed with fresh linen and Ansin’s took your bags up.”

“You’re a woman made in Drianon’s own image,” Branca said with fervent gratitude.

“You are indeed,” Charoleia agreed, taking a cake a moment ahead of Trissa.

Despite dining so well, Branca found she had room for two or three but by the time the plate was empty, she could barely keep her eyes open.

“Now,” Charoleia said briskly, “I’m going to call for my cloak and my horse and you’re going to protest at first and then you’re going to let me go in search of our errant coachmen. Tell our good host and his wife that I’m always this headstrong, but you’re sure I’ll come hurrying back, once I realise how cold and dark the night is. Make sure they don’t send anyone after me, not for at least half a chime.”

“Where are you going?” Alarm put Branca’s weariness to flight.

“You say Lord Rousharn knows that Aremil is Duke Secaris’s son?” Charoleia tucked a wisp of her dull dyed hair under her lace cap.

“I’d like to know how he learned that,” Trissa commented.

“As would I,” Charoleia agreed. “But that’s a question for another day. Now, Derenna would probably keep her tongue behind her teeth but I’ve no such confidence in her lord. However, it’ll take him a day or so to consult with his closest allies and longer still to decide what this might mean.”

“What can you do about it?” Branca was confused.

“Now the word’s out, it’s as far beyond recall as a loosed arrow. So we’d better see the news spreads fastest where it’ll do us most good.” Charoleia’s eyes brightened with mischief belying her matronly appearance. “Let’s see if we can drive a wedge between Duke Secaris and Duke Orlin. We might just deprive Duke Iruvain of those Draximal troops he salvaged from the rout at Tyrle.”

“Do you really think so? Could it make any real difference?”