Blood in the Water (44 page)

Almost incoherent with fury, Aremil had remained adamant that the exiles in Vanam hadn’t begun this awful war to come to terms with any of the dukes. They were going to overturn their corrupt rule entirely.

Branca opened her eyes at the muted rattle of vellum rolling up. She had nearly fallen asleep, she realised with some surprise.

“We’ll make the earliest start we can tomorrow.” Charoleia was briskly replacing her maps. “We’ll take to the byways to skirt around Adel and then we’ll head back to the high road to lose ourselves among the confusion there. Branca, ask Aremil to tell Tathrin that I want Sorgrad and Gren to ride out to meet us. Sorgrad’s scrying will find us easily enough and I think the time has come to have some swords around us. Then we can decide if our best course is heading straight to Triolle or carrying on to Carluse. I think Aremil might welcome some help dealing with Lord Rousharn.”

“Indeed.” Branca saw relief on Trissa’s face to equal her own.

There was a knock at the bedchamber door. What else had the tavern wife thought to offer them? Branca would have stood up but she was simply too stiff and weary.

Trissa opened the door but immediately recoiled, her hands raised in futile defence. A man entered, a short, lethal sword in his hand. He closed the door, pressing his back to it, effectively barring the way to anyone else outside and to the three of them within.

Branca sat frozen with a shock of recognition. It was Karn, the man who’d come hunting her and Lady Derenna when they’d been travelling in Sharlac with Welgren the apothecary.

“Lady Alaric.” He smiled coldly. “Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

After a barely perceptible pause, Charoleia closed the lid of her map case. “It’s certainly a surprise. What’s your business on this road?”

“Never mind that.” Karn cocked his head. “Only you’re not Lady Alaric, are you? You’re a lying bitch, Mistress Lanagyre or whatever your name truly is. No amount of padding and dyed hair will hide that.”

Charoleia didn’t react to his vehemence. “We all travel under false names and faces. Now, say your piece and leave, before someone comes knocking to see why you’re disturbing respectable women at their bedtime.”

“Oh, the tavern wife knows I’m up here.” Karn’s smile was chillingly confident. “I’m your young ward’s desperate suitor, come to beg your permission to pay my addresses.”

“I’m impressed.” Charoleia looked at him with apparent admiration. “How did you know to spin that yarn?”

“Don’t think you can flatter me.” He was unmoved. “You know as well as I do how readily someone will tell everything you need to know without even realising they’ve done so.”

“True enough,” Charoleia acknowledged. “How long have you been tracing our steps?” she asked with quick interest.

“I had no notion you were within a hundred leagues of here till I caught a glimpse of you on the road this afternoon.” Karn laughed without humour. “You can thank Halcarion for that, or curse her as you see fit.”

Branca was inclined to curses, even though she didn’t believe in gods.

“You were carrying letters from Triolle’s duke to Lord Geferin?” Charoleia guessed. “Or his lordship’s replies?”

“Something like that.” Karn scowled.

Charoleia nodded, satisfied. “So what business do you have with me, before you go on your way and we do the same?”

Karn shook his head slowly. “You’ve been meddling in my affairs, my lady.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Charoleia seemed utterly mystified.

Branca guessed what he meant. She knew how Karn had come by the wound that Master Welgren had sworn would prove fatal. So much for the apothecary’s wisdom. She concentrated on the woven patterns in the hearthrug. Neither of the other women’s faces would betray anything, so she didn’t want to inadvertently confirm Karn’s suspicions if he happened to look at her.

“I’ve been in Ridianne’s camp,” he said coldly. “I’ve spoken to the men whose services you bought, to stick their knives in my back. I repaid them in kind,” he added. “They’re all dead.”

After another tense moment of silence, Charoleia chuckled softly. Branca looked up, startled.

“Forgive me.” Charoleia favoured Karn with her most charming smile. “A reliable sword is so hard to find at short notice. It’s all in the roll of the runes, though. You know that.”

“Was killing Master Hamare a fair fall of the bones?”

Looking sideways at him from under her lashes, Branca saw the first light of passion in Karn’s eyes.

“Was sending whatever wizards you seduced or suborned into Triolle fair play?” he demanded. “To cut his throat and leave the duchess accused of his murder?”

Charoleia’s face hardened and she took a step forward. “I’ll admit to sending knives to hamstring you. I’d have wept if they’d killed you, believe that or not as you wish. All the same, it had to be done, to safeguard my principals’ endeavours. You’d have done just the same in my shoes and well you know it.”

Her voice thickened with anger and she took another step. “Don’t accuse me of this other outrage, of murdering Master Hamare. What’s all this wild talk of wizards? Were you even there when Hamare died?” She thrust an accusing finger at him. “Don’t accuse me to relieve your own guilt. Countless things could have driven Duchess Litasse to such desperate straits. Was she—”

“Stop where you are.” Karn wasn’t watching Charoleia. While she had been advancing on him, Trissa had moved unobtrusively behind her, towards the foot of the bed, all the closer to the table by the window.

“Try ringing that bell and you’ll be dead before you touch it.” Karn showed her the throwing dagger in his previously empty hand. He raised his sword-point to threaten Charoleia. “Don’t think you’ll get close enough to stick me with whatever blade you’ve got in your petticoats.”

Charoleia folded her arms, unimpressed. “You can’t cut all our throats before one of us can scream.”

“No,” Karn agreed, unperturbed. “But I can still kill you all, however much noise it makes. And then I’ll kill whoever comes to see what’s amiss. Don’t think I won’t.”

Branca believed him without a doubt. But she could still call for help, she realised belatedly. If she could whisper the enchantments too softly for Karn to hear, she could alert Aremil to their peril. Where were Tathrin, Sorgrad and Gren? Too far to save them or close enough to come to their aid? She closed her eyes, the better to concentrate. She was so tired, so stiff, so scared. But she had to set all that aside, for all their sakes.

Charoleia was still challenging Karn. “How will you explain away so many murders?”

“There’ll be nothing to explain if I kill everyone who’s seen me here.” Karn clearly saw no difficulty. “The locals can go beating the bushes for murderous mercenaries and good luck to them.”

The tavern wife, the stable-hands and the amiable youth selling nuts in the yard, all slaughtered like autumn’s pigs?

The horror of that notion shattered Branca’s painstaking calm. Drawing a careful breath, she began looking inwards once again, searching for the peace that would enable her to reach through the aether. She was on the verge of finding the necessary composure when Karn’s words startled her out of it again.

“You need not have all their blood on your hands,” he offered.

“How so?” Charoleia asked cautiously.

“You’re coming with me to Adel Castle,” he assured her. “The only question is whether you arrive bound and gagged or riding your own horse in comfort.”

“How could I turn a profit at Adel Castle?” Charoleia was politely sceptical.

“You’ll tell us everything you know about this Soluran and his plans.” Karn made it sound simple.

Charoleia looked thoughtful. “I might have some information to share, for the right price.”

“You’ll tell us everything,” Karn said with sudden viciousness, “and be grateful to escape with your whoring hide. Then you’ll tell me where to find those bastard Mountain-born mages so I can see Master Hamare’s final account settled.”

“No, I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Charoleia said judiciously. “And you’ll have nothing to show for your delay on the road if you kill us, will you?”

“Do you think that bothers me?”

Branca couldn’t help it. She opened her eyes to see Karn raise his sword-point to Charoleia’s pale throat. She recalled seeing him lash out at Lady Derenna with a metal rod, not caring in the least if he killed her. Her own heart was pounding. She could see the pulse in Charoleia’s neck.

“One thing at a time, then. You agree to come with me now, you and your maid and the Vanam girl, and we leave everyone here alive.” Unexpectedly, Karn smiled. “Cooperate and you can be looking for your chance to stick a knife in my back a second time, can’t you?”

Charoleia smiled serenely back. “Wouldn’t you do the same?”

“Oh, I would,” he agreed. “So let’s make sure you have other concerns to occupy you. Over there, both of you. Keep your hands where I can see them and don’t move.” He gestured with sword and dagger.

At Charoleia’s nod, Trissa moved obediently with her to the far side of the bed.

That put them near the bell, Branca saw, but how could ringing that possibly help?

Then she realised Karn was looking down at her, as she sat on her stool.

“Did you think I’d forgotten you?” His cold gaze filled her with dread. “Lady Derenna’s boot-faced young waiting-woman? You have the most unfortunate taste in friends. Stand up!”

Stiff as she was, Branca obeyed. Not fast enough.

Swiftly sheathing his dagger, he wound his hand in her hair and hauled her upwards. “I owe you an ill-turn. Letting that sawbones tend my wound would have saved me more pain than you can imagine. I might even have got back to Triolle in time to save Master Hamare,” he snarled with sudden fury.

Charoleia stepped forwards. “What are you—”

“I said, stand still!” Karn menaced her with the sword he still held ready.

Tears blurred Branca’s vision, of weariness, of the absurd pain of having her hair so cruelly pulled. Summoning the calm for aetheric enchantment was utterly beyond her.

“You won’t be stabbing me in the back again.” Karn regained some measure of precarious calm as he addressed Charoleia. “You’ll have your hands too full nursing your friend here.”

As he wrenched her head sideways, Branca did her best to fight back. It was futile. All she could do was twist aside and close her eyes as he smashed her face into the solid oak of the door.

She collapsed onto the floorboards, dimly aware of the sticky warmth of blood trickling down her face. Then everything faded away.

Chapter Thirty-One

Tathrin

Triolle Castle,

28th of Aft-Autumn

“Should we fear knives in the dark?” Tathrin followed Sorgrad and Gren down the spiral stair of the bastion.

“That depends,” said Sorgrad, shrugging, “on whether these servants and soldiers have stayed because they’ve nowhere to run to or because they’re intent on defiance.”

Gren was more certain. “Only some kind of fool would risk dangling from these battlements for a duke who’s already fled like a scalded cat.”

“Blind loyalty might find courage at the bottom of a bottle,” Sorgrad countered. “Especially if they think Ridianne the Vixen has some chance of retaking the town for Iruvain.”

Tathrin was glad of the steel plates between the hardened leather of his jerkin and the linen lining. “Does she?”

“Let’s find out.” Sorgrad opened the door and led the way into the open bailey.

The castle clocks sounded noon’s handful of chimes. Captain-General Evord was waiting, already mounted, his lieutenants gathered close. A groom led their own horses towards them. Tathrin tried to assess the man’s expression but his hood was raised against the cold rain, leaving only his downturned mouth visible.

Captain-General Evord raised his hand to Arest, now commander of the castle’s new guard. At the heavyset mercenary’s shout, the inner gates opened. Evord’s standard-bearer led them out, the cream and gold of the banner bright against the dull day.

Tathrin followed Sorgrad and Gren at the rear of the contingent. The outer gates opened and the leading riders rounded the sharp angle of the bastion’s walls, crossing the wooden bridge that spanned the soggy ditch running down to the mere.

Away to their offside, the town’s gates were solidly barred. Tathrin could see the battlements were still manned by Triolle men-at-arms, who had remained at their posts as the castle had been surrendered. They would not fight, their herald had said, but neither would they allow any of the mercenaries into the town. Had Evord been right to praise their loyalty to their fellow Triollese? Was he wise to allow them to keep their weapons, commending them to the local guildmasters’ command?

“Wondering if that coat of plates will stop some treacherous crossbow bolt?” Gren teased.

“The captain-general can’t spare the men to garrison a hostile town,” Sorgrad said curtly. “Taking them prisoner’s no option either.”

Tathrin said nothing. He was too well aware how many of their Dalasorians were absent escorting recalcitrant mercenaries who’d been captured at Tyrle safely away to Abray.