Blood in the Water (47 page)

Karn opened the door as, inevitably, Lord Geferin offered his arm. With no choice but to take it, Litasse smiled brightly as the Parnilesse lord escorted her down the hall’s central aisle. She could still smell the mildew that afflicted the faded tapestries, even above the smoke of the candles and the aroma of sketchily washed bodies and inadequately dried leather. What a hovel this castle was.

Conversation continued all along the tables as she passed by. She found it impossible to untangle the words. Did she detect speculation or condemnation? Or did anyone care what she did with her favours, now that Triolle was menaced so sorely?

“Your Grace.” Lord Geferin courteously ushered her up the dais steps.

She was sure his hand stroked her hip. Had Iruvain noticed? Unlikely. Her husband was tearing a slice of bread into tasteless fragments, his eyes unfocused in thought.

Thank Saedrin, he’d taken the central seat. Litasse walked briskly past him. Karn swiftly pulled out her high-backed chair as Lord Geferin’s bodyguard did the same for his master. Karn poured damson-coloured wine into two empty goblets and topped up the one in front of the duke.

Iruvain took a drink. “Forgive me, my lord. This isn’t quite the hospitality I should be offering.”

“You’ll soon be enjoying every comfort that Parnilesse can provide,” Lord Geferin said easily.

“I’m sorry?” Iruvain’s sharp reply was loud enough to startle those sitting closest to the dais.

Filling their mouths should stop their ears. Litasse gestured quickly to the castle’s steward hesitating at the side of the hall. He clapped his hands and servitors hurried from the kitchen corridor, laden with platters of baked fish, and bowls of apples and parsnips tumbled in peppercorn sauce.

“Your Grace.” Karn set a succulent haunch of roast venison on the table.

“Thank you.” As Iruvain deftly wielded the knife, he looked sternly at Lord Geferin. “We’ll be happy to visit Parnilesse once order is restored in Triolle.”

Litasse nodded silent thanks as a lackey set down a dish of little marrows stuffed with minced mushrooms. Another brought a bowl of cabbage dressed with spices, apple and juniper berries.

Lord Geferin shook his head. “No, we’ll be heading back to Brynock just as soon as this foul weather breaks.”

Iruvain stared at him, uncomprehending. “We’ll be taking battle to this upstart Soluran!”

“If you wish to hand him your dukedom along with Sharlac and Carluse,” Lord Geferin said calmly, “I shan’t be following you, nor any of my men.”

“Then why are you here?” Iruvain stabbed the carving knife into the table, heedless of the fine napery.

“To explain how you save your dukedom.” Lord Geferin reached for the silver wine jug and refilled his goblet.

“By crushing these exiles between our army and Marlier’s whore’s!” Iruvain snarled, shoving the venison away.

“No.” Geferin was infuriatingly calm. “We leave the Vixen to the roll of the runes. I imagine she’ll run before she’s beaten too soundly.” He shrugged. “If she survives, we can reward her.”

“What can we possibly gain by this folly?” cried Iruvain.

“Winter.” Lord Geferin frowned at his empty plate. His bodyguard hurried to serve him a generous slice of meat.

“Winter?” Iruvain stared at the Parnilesse lord.

“This alliance, between these exiles and our own malcontents, between all these ragged-arsed mercenaries, these mobs from the uplands and the grasslands and Talagrin only knows where else, how long do you think it can endure?” Geferin chewed briskly as the boy served him with vegetables. “Their thieves’ bargain won’t hold until spring, you may be certain of that.” He set down his knife and fork to trace lines across the tablecloth. “We retreat across the River Anock. We hold all the bridges. There’s simply no way for this Soluran to cross into Parnilesse.”

“Unless he marches north and comes at you through Draximal,” Iruvain objected.

Geferin resumed eating, unbothered. “That’s a journey which will take him deep into For-Winter and all the travails of cold and hunger. When he arrives, he’ll find Secaris of Draximal’s men ready and waiting to avenge Lord Cassat.”

Iruvain shook his head. “Draximal’s mercenaries have slipped their leash.”

“No matter. Twenty companies of our own militia will still be waiting in those woods for the Soluran and his footsore band.” Lord Geferin smiled. “Parnilesse has six thousand men under arms now. Every market day we hand out more halberds and helmets. How many men can you muster? Two thousand?”

“From Triolle? A few hundreds more than that,” Iruvain admitted grudgingly.

Too sick at heart to eat, Litasse could only push the food around her plate.

Lord Geferin glanced at Karn. “You were Master Hamare’s man? I take it you know the enemy’s strength.”

Karn stood impassive, hands clasped behind his back. “Of the order of five thousand men, my lord.”

“So if we add the Vixen’s army to our tally, the rightful rulers of Lescar can already muster two men for every one in this exiles’ army. By the spring, we shall have half as many again.” Lord Geferin paused to eat some mushroom-stuffed marrow. “While this Soluran has already exhausted his men with this foolishly fierce campaign. How many do you think will desert him over the winter?”

Iruvain’s reply was a grunt as he drank more wine. Litasse saw his food was as untouched as her own.

“The Soluran cannot win this campaign if it runs into the spring,” Lord Geferin said firmly through a mouthful of cabbage, “so we merely have to avoid losing it through the folly of joining battle too soon. We rally Draximal to our side as we mourn Lord Cassat’s murder. We can seal that alliance by marrying one of my nephews to one of his daughters, or maybe that handsome brother of yours will take one of the lasses’ fancy. We make common cause with Duke Ferdain—”

“After we abandoned his whore to her fate?” Iruvain protested.

Lord Geferin waved that away with his knife. “Ferdain has the gold to make good whatever losses her mercenaries may have suffered. Believe me, he won’t pass up the chance to extend his holdings all the way up the Rel to Abray, when we settle Carluse’s affairs.” Pausing to drink some wine, he looked meaningfully at Karn. “All the while, we can sow dissent among these exiles and their allies. We may find no one left to fight, when spring arrives.”

Iruvain scowled, spilling wine on the linen as he refilled his goblet. “We can break this Soluran if we meet him now.”

“He won’t even offer you battle once he sees that I’ve withdrawn.” Lord Geferin laughed. “I don’t know whose advice brought you here. Do you think your men will hold their ground along the lakeshore? No, and as soon as the Soluran cuts the bridge to this rat-trap, a mere handful of companies will pen you up here while his main force pursues me and mine.” He began eating again. “He knows the only way to win this war is to defeat Parnilesse before For-Winter. You may rest assured I won’t give him any such opportunity.”

Twelve days until For-Winter. Could it really be so simple, wondered Litasse?

Iruvain stared blindly across the dining hall, brow furrowed.

Litasse noticed how many of the men and women below were watching the dais, expectant. They may not have been able to hear Lord Geferin, but they clearly assumed their overlords were agreeing some campaign.

Iruvain rose abruptly. “We’ll discuss this further tomorrow.”

“As you wish.” Lord Geferin smiled. “But we’ll be leaving by noon, me and mine.”

Was that a threat? Before Litasse could decide, Iruvain disappeared through a door at the back of the dais.

“Well now, Your Grace.” Lord Geferin slid into Iruvain’s empty seat. “What sweetmeats has your excellent cook prepared this evening?”

“Forgive me, my lord.” Litasse summoned up a wan smile. “But I have no appetite, even for such dainties. My woman tells me it’s only to be expected, when I am so… fatigued.” She let her hand slip to the enamelled buckle of her girdle.

“Oh.” Lord Geferin withdrew a little.

“Why don’t I have hot brandy and spice cakes sent to your room?” Litasse suggested.

“That would be very welcome.” Lord Geferin rose and bowed courteously.

Litasse watched him depart down the hall’s central aisle. As soon as the main door closed behind him, Karn deftly withdrew her chair. She swiftly followed Iruvain’s path from the hall, not caring that her exit loosed every tongue in the hall.

The private chamber behind the great hall was empty. Karn closed the door. “Your Grace,” he began cautiously.

“Lord Geferin can tell his duke that I’m pregnant if he wishes. He’ll just look a fool when I’m not.” Litasse stopped, gripped with sudden dread. “They killed their father, didn’t they, Duke Orlin and his brothers? Once they have us both inside Parnilesse, how long before Iruvain breaks his neck out hunting? Will he be safer if they think I carry Triolle’s heir or not?”

“Your Grace.” Karn looked at her, bemused. “Master Hamare never trusted Duke Orlin and Lord Geferin’s without doubt a lecher, but they won’t throw Triolle to these exiles by killing Duke Iruvain—”

But as he broke off, Litasse saw her own doubts reflected in his eyes.

“Not until the Soluran’s defeated, at least,” he went on slowly. “When the day comes to decide a new order for Lescar, though—”

“Never mind.” Litasse pressed her hands to her face, her head throbbing. “Is he right? Is fleeing to Parnilesse the only way to win through in the end?”

“Yes,” Karn said finally.

“Your Grace?” Pelletria hurried in from the stairs leading to the ducal apartments. “Where are you going?”

“I… I don’t know.” Litasse was too exhausted to think. No, that wasn’t true. She looked at Karn. “Can we win this without Minelas? If we do as Lord Geferin says?”

Karn hesitated. “He might still prove useful.”

Pelletria spoke up, unbidden. “He’s been precious little use so far, just eating and drinking and demanding ever more coin.”

“My father never trusted a greedy man,” Litasse said slowly.

“I wouldn’t trust any man who enjoys tormenting captive women.” Pelletria’s voice shook with disgust.

“Can we be rid of him?” Litasse looked at Karn. “Without him taking some revenge?”

He shrugged. “As soon as I get behind him with a knife.”

The emptiness in his eyes startled her. “Is there no way to—”

“Do you want to pay for his silence instead?” He looked steadily at her. “How much coin will that take, and for how many years? And if you refuse, I’m sure Duke Orlin would pay handsomely, to accuse Duke Iruvain of bringing magic into Lescar’s wars.”

Litasse closed her eyes, overwhelmed with guilt and despair. What had she done? How could she have been so stupid, thinking that bringing a mage into Triolle’s affairs could possibly have been an answer?

Wringing your hands and lamenting will do no good. Karn is still waiting for your answer. We’re all still trapped in this sodden castle. That despicable wizard is still indulging Halcarion only knows what base appetites up above. Well, at least you can do something about that.

“Kill him and throw his body in the lake.” She shuddered. “Saedrin forgive me.”

“Raeponin knows he’s earned his death long before now.”

She opened her eyes to see Karn’s own gaze strangely veiled. She seemed to hear some strange echo of his words inside her own head.

Before Litasse could ask what he meant, Pelletria addressed more practical concerns.

“Make sure the body’s well weighted. We don’t want him washing up on the shore.”

Litasse nodded. “As soon as it’s done, you and I must be ready with bandages and salves, and poppy tincture, as much as you have. We will tend the women’s hurts and then you must carry them far away, Karn. When they wake, they can only set their word against ours,” she said desperately.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Branca

Adel Castle,

28th of Aft-Autumn

She was exhausted. She longed to close her eyes. No. Sleep would be fatal and not just for her.

“There are few more delightful places in Vanam.” Charoleia surveyed the Physic Garden with a sigh of contentment.

“Few better for a discreet meeting,” Trissa added with a smile.

“Or simply a peaceful walk.” Branca concentrated on every detail.

They were strolling across the lawn. Over there, an outcrop of the upper town’s granite was covered with creeping plants, tiny white flowers bright amid the ruffles of silvery leaves. Charoleia wore a high-necked green muslin gown and ivory combs secured her demure coiffure.

“One must always beware of ears lurking behind the trees.” Trissa pointed at the carefully nurtured saplings, each one brought home from some distant land by one of Vanam’s scholars. However far they travelled, it was said, scholars always came home.

Branca stopped dead. Would she ever get safely home?

“The sun is very hot today.” Charoleia looked up at the cloudless sky.

“Indeed.” Trissa rubbed the back of her neck. The sleeves of her primrose gown darkened to torn brown, burned flesh livid beneath.