Blood in the Water (43 page)

Minelas’s lips tightened. “Last night they camped about a day’s travel south of a lake that boasts a castle on an island opposite a small town. I assume you know where that is?”

“Adel.” Litasse was unimpressed. “Precisely where Lord Geferin’s dispatches said to expect them. Once again, you tell me nothing I don’t already know, Master Mage. What can you tell me of these massacres along the Wyril Road? Do you know who’s responsible?”

She was sure she saw a flicker of surprise in the wizard’s eyes before he smiled with irritating superiority.

“You never asked me to cast my eye in that direction, Your Grace. If you want me to search out such things, I will gladly oblige. You should be more specific in your instructions, and consider what such additional requests will cost you.”

Litasse didn’t need the warning pressure of Pelletria’s hand in the small of her back. She could see that bandying words with the wizard was pointless.

“What else can you do,” she demanded bluntly, “to defend this castle and Triolle Town?”

Minelas raised a finger. “According to the boy who brought my breakfast, Duke Iruvain has already decided to cede this ground to the Soluran. I see no reason to dispute His Grace’s plan.”

“That has yet to be decided,” Litasse snapped. “Tell me, how would you defend us here?”

“With sufficient subtlety to leave your lord and husband unaware of my influence on his victory,” he said loftily. “You may safely leave that to me, should the occasion arise.”

Litasse felt her temper fraying. “What will you do, precisely? Will you slow their advance? Scatter their horses?”

“I’ve already explained the many ways I can turn a battle in your favour.” Minelas shook his head. “There’s no point in discussing it further. I can only make the crucial decisions once the enemy has arrived. I must see how they have drawn up their lines around the roads and the rivers.” His smile turned condescending. “As for the specifics of my craft, explanations would mean nothing to you.”

Litasse found her palms itching to slap his self-satisfied face. “I don’t need specifics of your wizardly arts. I would like something more than evasions, though, when I ask you to explain your plans.”

“If you’ll be specific about my payment,” he answered swiftly, “instead of fobbing me off with vague promises.”

“I have no intention of paying for anything but results,” she assured him.

His handsome features hardened unattractively. “Do you require another demonstration to convince you I can do all that I promise, and more?”

Blue light crackled with menace around his fingers.

“Your Grace.” Pelletria moved to stand between Litasse and the mage. “If Lord Geferin is near Adel, perhaps you should accede to Duke Iruvain’s retreat. The island castle is a stronghold that this Soluran could never storm.”

Litasse saw that the old woman’s eyes were intent with meaning but she couldn’t fathom it out. “Perhaps,” she said slowly.

“I could work far more readily there,” Minelas said swiftly. “Water is so unpredictable, no one would look for explanations beyond bad luck when wind and wave turn against these rebels. I take it you don’t want my presence revealed?” He smiled with renewed composure. “Such a move would also secure your safety, Your Grace.”

The wizard’s solicitude rang hollow in Litasse’s ears. Fighting an urge to tell him so, she watched him cross over to his washstand and pass a hand over the bowl. An eerie green light reflected on his palm.

“What are you doing now?” she demanded.

“I will scry for more news of your allies.” He looked up as if he were surprised to see her still there. “I will also look beyond the most immediate threats, to see what’s happened along the Wyril Road, now I know that’s what you want me to do. Come back later and I’ll tell you what I’ve learned.” He dismissed them with a gesture, peering into the glowing bowl.

Pelletria stiffened with indignation. “I will bring word when Her Grace has the leisure for you to attend on her.”

“As you wish.” Green radiance erupted from the water. Arcane light rippled across Minelas’s face and the ceiling overhead.

There was nothing to be gained by pursuing this. What use was this supercilious mage? He was only bleeding her for the coin he so obviously coveted. The realisation was bitter as ashes in Litasse’s mouth.

“Your Grace.” Pelletria went to open the door.

Litasse didn’t move. How was she to convince Iruvain not to run away from Triolle Castle? That was the most immediate problem.

“Your Grace,” Pelletria said more urgently, her hand waiting on the door handle.

Of course. They dared not risk some passing lackey seeing Minelas’s uncanny behaviour. Litasse quickly hurried from the room and Pelletria shut the magelight safely away behind the door.

“Where is Karn sleeping?” she demanded savagely. “I want him on the road in search of Lord Geferin before the next chime sounds.”

“I’ll rouse him, Your Grace.” Pelletria gave vent to her own frustration. “And he can tell us just what that preening peacock was doing in Caladhria. It had better be something impressive.”

Litasse nodded. “Unless it’s something to convince us he could truly save Triolle, he can make his own way out of the castle and take his chances on the roads alone.”

But cold fear undercut her anger. Minelas was a mage, there was no doubt of that. How could she dismiss him without him turning his wicked wizardry on her?

They walked down the stairs and out into the bustling courtyard. Wagons were being loaded. Burdened pack animals were already following each other nose to tail out through the bastion. Litasse saw cloaked and booted servants clutching meagre bundles of belongings. Those with family and friends among the castle’s men-at-arms embraced in anguished farewells.

“We’re not going to dissuade Iruvain, are we?” That realisation depressed her still further.

“Not if Lord Geferin’s still no closer than Adel. Besides, I’ve been thinking about what the ordinary folk would make of it, for everyone to see the duke go back on his decision, after this decree’s already been cried through the town.” Pelletria’s eyes were hooded with doubt. “It could do more harm than good, especially if they already doubt his leadership.”

“Then we had better do as we’re bid and pack.”

Despite all the people crowding around the castle bailey, Litasse walked back to her own tower feeling more wretchedly alone, more utterly powerless than ever.

Chapter Thirty

Branca

The Hollybush Tavern, on the Triolle High Road,

27th of Aft-Autumn

If the food and the welcome in this inn weren’t as fine as the hospitality they’d enjoyed at the Ring of Cups, Branca didn’t care. After another two days in the saddle, she was even more stiff and sore. Anything was better than spending another night in the open, huddled beneath a hedge.

The tavern wife was already returning with a candle and an armful of towels. “There’s a fire lit and warm water waiting, my ladies.”

It was hard to tell if her expression was sour with disapproval at their travelling with so little luggage and no escort, or from fear of what might happen when the regiments arrived. Every village they had passed through was rife with rumour of the approaching Parnilesse army.

A lifetime’s mistrust of the neighbouring dukedom wasn’t so easily set aside, no matter what Duke Iruvain’s criers had been declaring in the marketplaces, nailing his proclamations of welcome for Lord Geferin to the doors of the wayside shrines.

A wash and a comfortable bed would suffice, Branca decided. If a bath was available, she’d only fall asleep in it. Wincing, she followed the others up the narrow stair.

The largest guest chamber was at the end of this long building. As Trissa opened the door, Branca saw the walls were freshly whitewashed and the small windows under the thatched eaves sparkled in the firelight. Coverlets were invitingly turned down on a broad canopied bedstead with a truckle bed made up at its foot. While the bed hangings were old, they had been scrupulously darned. A faint scent of lavender hung in the air.

“Ring if there’s anything you need.” The tavern wife set down the candle and a silver bell on the table by the window.

“You’ve already done all we could wish for.” Smiling, Charoleia ushered her to the door and closed it behind her.

Branca didn’t dare sit on the bed in all her dirt, so she lowered herself onto a stool by the door. Stifling a groan, she began unlacing her boots.

Trissa was already unbuckling their saddlebags. She clicked her tongue as she assessed the condition of their spare gowns and linen. “Let’s hang these in front of the fire.”

“Here, let me.” Charoleia moved the fire screen back so the fabrics wouldn’t scorch. “Branca, what did Aremil have to say?”

While the two other women had sought to allay the tavern wife’s suspicions with their now well-rehearsed tale, Branca had seized the opportunity of a few moments alone in the privy to let him know where they were.

“Duke Iruvain has abandoned Triolle, both the castle and the town.”

“Saedrin save us,” Trissa exclaimed.

“It gets better. Since Duke Iruvain’s not standing by his people, they’re not inclined to stand by him. When Evord and the army arrived last night, the gates were standing open.” Despite her weariness, Branca couldn’t help smiling at the memory of Aremil’s exultation. “Tathrin says the captain-general is negotiating with the guildmasters and with the captain of the garrison. He expects to breakfast in Duke Iruvain’s dining hall tomorrow. So he’ll hold Triolle before Ridianne the Vixen arrives.”

“Barely,” Charoleia observed. “But that should be good enough. So where are Duke Iruvain and his household? We don’t want to run into them on the road.”

“Sorgrad’s been scrying and as best he can tell, the duke is heading for Adel,” Branca said.

“The castle on the lake,” Trissa said with sudden understanding.

“It’s the most defensible place within reach.” Charoleia nodded. “Iruvain must be thankful that more than one Duke of Triolle has found it necessary to lock up an errant wife yet keep her close to hand. Very well, we will stay well clear of His Grace and whoever’s still clinging to his cart tail as long as we head east and north. It’ll us take longer to get to Carluse, but with Marlier’s army coming in from the west, that will be our safest course.” She went to open her map case.

Branca’s smile faded. “Aremil says we mustn’t risk going anywhere near the Wyril Road. It seems those Draximal mercenary companies that fled the field at Tyrle are heading north, looting and killing as they go.”

Aremil’s thoughts had been grimmer than Branca could ever recall.

“What’s the captain-general doing about that?” Charoleia frowned, concerned.

“At the moment, he’s waiting for the Dalasorian lancers to find out exactly where they’re headed.” Branca shared her unease. “They could threaten Ashgil or they could march on Wyril itself.”

“Can the captain-general spare troops to hunt them down?” Trissa asked doubtfully.

“Not given the quantity of cavalry he’s already had to send to Abray, to make sure the mercenaries who surrendered to us are well and truly taken out of the game.”

That was how Aremil had phrased it. But this was all so much more serious and more complex than a game of white raven, Branca thought bleakly.

“Are we sure these erstwhile Draximal mercenaries are truly running unchecked?” Charoleia’s frown deepened. “It could be a ploy, to force Evord to commit some of his companies to a mere distraction.”

“They’ve already considered that possibility. The captain-general certainly doesn’t want to divide his forces any more than he’s already had to. But all the evidence bears out the reports that these men are solely seeking their own enrichment and carnal pleasures.”

At least Branca had seen something of Aremil and Tathrin’s rapport had returned as they had wrestled with this new conundrum. That was the smallest of consolations.

“Lord Rousharn says we cannot allow such destruction to go unchecked,” she continued. “Not when we need the commonalty’s goodwill, or at very least, their reluctance to support their dukes.”

“Regretfully, I’m forced to agree with him,” Charoleia said grimly.

Branca closed her eyes on echoes of Aremil’s furious argument with Lady Derenna and her husband. Lord Rousharn was insisting that Captain-General Evord must leave Triolle at once to pursue the plundering mercenaries. Lady Derenna was less inclined to give up such gains but nevertheless she insisted the brigands must be stopped and hanged from the roadside gibbets, to prove the exiles’ good faith.

They had to face facts, Lord Rousharn said with insulting condescension. The weather was deteriorating as Aft-Autumn turned towards For-Winter. Captain-General Evord’s army had fought a brave campaign but such efforts couldn’t be sustained much longer. It was time for wiser counsel to prevail. Negotiation was their only rational course.

Derenna didn’t quite agree, but she warned Aremil that the day for offering terms to Draximal could well come sooner rather than later, or to make a settlement with Duke Ferdain or even Duke Orlin, come to that.