Blood in the Water (50 page)

He heard a fluid whisper beside him. It was Branca, attempting Artifice.

The magewoman narrowed her eyes at the adept. “I think not.”

Branca’s eyes widened as her words were stifled. Tathrin opened his mouth to object and found he too was mute.

“Watch out,” Sorgrad warned.

The Mountain mage’s words were muffled and distorted, as though Tathrin’s head was underwater. To his intense relief, his hearing cleared as Litasse broke the silence with a hoarse whisper.

“I never meant him to go this far.”

“You think that’s any excuse?” Jilseth’s contempt was chilling.

“I was going to kill him,” Karn growled, prostrate on the floor. Tathrin saw the man’s arms flex as he tried, and failed, to raise himself up.

Jilseth was implacable. “That merely compounds your offences against the Archmage’s authority.”

“I had no notion what he was,” cried Litasse.

“You purchase the services of a man who’s abandoned every oath he has sworn?” Jilseth’s voice warmed with anger. “Who’s taken corsair gold and used his magic to enslave Caladhrian peasants, and you’re surprised he’s a vicious brute?”

“He’s done—?”

“What?”

Where Litasse looked uncomprehending at Jilseth, Sorgrad’s eyes sharpened with interest.

Jilseth was having none of it. “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

“Karn!” Angry colour smudged Litasse’s ashen cheekbones. “What is she talking about?”

“What does it matter?” The Triolle man was genuinely perplexed.

“Don’t listen to their lies,” Minelas shrieked.

Branca thumped her fists against the floorboards. There was no sound even though she pounded hard enough to bloody her knuckles.

“Let her speak.” Sorgrad tried to take a step. “For pity’s sake, before she breaks her hands!”

Still scowling, Jilseth gestured and Branca gasped. Her voice shook as she spoke.

“A Caladhrian coastal baron, Lord Halferan, offered Minelas gold, land, every favour in his gift, if he’d defy the Archmage and help defend his fiefdom. Lord Halferan’s people have suffered time and again, raided by corsairs hiding among the northernmost Aldabreshin islands.”

She paused, her distant eyes fixed on some horror only she could see. Cowardly it might be, but Tathrin desperately hoped she wouldn’t share it.

“So he took Halferan’s gold. Then he went to the corsairs and proposed his own bargain. If they paid him more than Lord Halferan, he’d lead the baron and his men into an ambush so the corsairs could kill them. Then he’d claim Lord Halferan’s fiefdom with a forged grant of guardianship. As long as the corsairs shared their plunder, they’d have a safe harbour. While he took all Lord Halferan’s rents and revenues for his own.”

Gren chuckled. “Don’t usually see wizards with that kind of cunning.”

Branca’s gaze bored into Minelas. “But no amount of coin could sate your real greed, could it? It’s never been about the gold, not truly. That just buys victims for your perversions and willing hands to stifle screams and bury bodies.”

“You know nothing—” He flinched and looked fearfully at her.

“I didn’t know!” Litasse protested desperately.

“So you say.” Jilseth clearly disbelieved her. “You were still ready to bring magic into Lescar’s wars.”

Litasse’s knuckles whitened as she clutched the hilt of her dagger. “Only because they did it first!”

“Excuses from the schoolroom?” Jilseth’s lip curled. “Archmage Planir will want something more compelling.”

Sorgrad angled his head. “She’ll answer for her crimes before the whole Council of Mages?”

“As will you,” Jilseth assured him. “You’ve your own tally of offences to settle. That was your thumb on the scales at Tyrle. Don’t imagine that I don’t know it.”

“What are you? Some merchant’s daughter? There’s no honour in battle so you take every advantage you can. Never mind. Hadrumal has no claim on me.” Sorgrad tried to shake his head, muscles taut in his neck. “But does Planir believe he can swear the whole Council to secrecy, when a Duchess of Triolle stands accused? Hearth Master Kalion will insist Emperor Tadriol be informed. You know that as well as I do. Knowing Kalion, he’ll write to every Tormalin prince whom he feels should know. Flood Mistress Troanna has a great many friends in Caladhria. How does Planir propose to silence her?”

“They will respect the Archmage’s authority,” Jilseth insisted.

“The Duchess of Triolle can’t just disappear from a guarded castle in the middle of a lake without some hue and cry. Someone will say magic’s to blame, especially after Emirle Bridge.” Sorgrad looked unblinking at Jilseth, his blue eyes icy. “How will you silence her, or Duke Iruvain, when you hand her back? Or will you imprison her on Hadrumal for the rest of her life?”

“No!” Litasse exclaimed, appalled.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jilseth said quickly.

Sorgrad managed a tight smile. “So, we’re agreed. Word will get out. And what will Hadrumal say, when Her Grace explains she only sought to counter the magic first loosed at Emirle Bridge?”

“That was your magic,” Jilseth snapped.

“Quite so.” Sorgrad was unabashed. “But who will believe that? It’s so much more likely to be Draximal or Parnilesse’s doing. Once Triolle admits to hiring a renegade mage, who’s to believe the other dukes weren’t doing the same? Who’ll believe they won’t all go and search for some compliant wizard? Now that they know there really are wizards who’ll defy Planir for gold? Duke Ferdain has deep pockets and he’s caught between fire and flood. Whether Evord defeats Parnilesse or Lord Geferin wins the day, Marlier’s on the back foot.”

“Save your rhetoric for the Council,” Jilseth advised, scathing.

“You came to suppress any use of magic in Lescar’s wars, and any word of such magic getting out. But don’t you see? Punishing us just ensures every dirty secret will be dragged into the open.” Sorgrad’s face hardened as he looked at Minelas. “How far do you think the stink will reach, when all that scum-sucker’s victims are unearthed? How will that enhance Hadrumal’s reputation?” He glanced at Karn. “You’d have done better to leave well alone and let my brother cut the bastard’s throat. Him or anyone else with a knife and a conscience.”

“The Archmage decides a renegade’s punishment.” White light blurred Tathrin’s vision as Jilseth raised a hand.

So did Sorgrad. “No, he won’t.”

To his fearful surprise, Tathrin found he could move. Not easily, but enough to lay Charoleia down and grip his sword hilt. Gren and Karn both snatched daggers from the floor, rising to their knees before they froze once more. Tathrin felt the sorcery weigh him down again.

Sorgrad looked at Jilseth, unsmiling. “You can’t hold us firm with your magic and still carry us all to Hadrumal. You won’t hold any of us with your magic if Minelas and I both attack you.”

“You’d ally yourself with this murderer?”

Tathrin heard the apprehension undercutting Jilseth’s anger.

“Isn’t he just a mercenary, just like me?” Sorgrad’s gaze slid to Gren. “The same as all our murderous friends?”

He smiled at Minelas and Tathrin saw hope rise in the repellent wizard’s eyes.

“You cannot—”

Jilseth’s words were lost in a crack of violet light. Tathrin was free. Gren and Karn were both on their feet.

Only Karn had moved to drive Sorgrad away from Litasse. Sorgrad barely had his sword ready in time.

So Gren was free to plunge his dagger into Minelas’s belly. He ripped the blade upwards from the mage’s waist clear to the collar of his shirt. The wizard screamed, clutching at his spilling entrails. Falling forwards, he collapsed to writhe shrieking in a stinking pool of blood.

Gren stooped to silence him with a dagger through the back of the neck and regarded his handiwork with satisfaction. “That’s everyone’s problem solved.”

“Don’t,” Sorgrad advised Karn. They stood with their swords locked, muscled arms tense. “I don’t want to kill you. Gren, keep away.”

Tathrin halted a pace in front of Branca, Charoleia and Trissa. His sword was ready though he had no idea what to do now.

“You killed Hamare.” Karn’s hatred for Sorgrad was implacable. “I owe you his death.”

“You just try collecting,” Gren invited, circling with his dripping dagger ready.

“Step back,” Sorgrad told him. He didn’t take his eyes off Karn as he addressed Litasse. “I believe we’ve gone some way to settling that account, Your Grace.”

“Did you have to kill Pelletria?” she asked, desolate.

“Bastards.” Karn shifted his feet, forcing Sorgrad around to block Gren’s deadly intent.

Pelletria? Tathrin didn’t understand. What had the spy who’d forced Failla’s unwilling treachery have to do with any of this?

“Her blood’s not on our hands.” Sorgrad held his ground against Karn’s move to unbalance him.

“But she—” Litasse began, despairing.

“What’s that noise?” Branca trembled.

Tathrin heard the approach of pounding feet.

“Those are Triolle men-at-arms, Madam Mage. The illusion that hid these stairs died with Minelas—” Sorgrad broke off to frustrate Karn’s attempt to twist his sword free of their deadlock. “Do you want to explain yourself when they arrive?”

“This isn’t over.” Jilseth vanished in a golden flash, leaving only the lingering echo of her ominous promise.

“No!” This time Litasse checked Karn.

“This isn’t over.” The gaunt man stared into the Mountain Man’s eyes.

“No, and nor’s this war.” Sorgrad didn’t blink. “The next battle should decide it. Why don’t we meet there like honest men and settle our scores without distressing Her Grace?”

Branca plucked at Tathrin’s elbow, her voice choked with tears. “We have to get Trissa and Charoleia to Master Welgren.”

“Sorgrad?” he begged. No one else could save them. If it wasn’t already too late.

The Mountain wizard’s eyes fixed on Litasse, his expression unreadable. “Until next time, Your Grace.”

Then the white heat of the Mountain Man’s wizardry swept Tathrin and everyone else across countless leagues in the blink of an eye.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Aremil

Carluse Castle,

35th of Aft-Autumn

Step after painful step, however long it took. Gripping the handles of his crutches as best he could, trying not to lean so heavily that the wood dug painfully into his armpits, Aremil swung his inadequate legs forward. He tensed as he let his feet take his weight. There was no rain today, but after three days of deafening thunderstorms, the lawn of this inner ward was sodden. He had to keep moving or his crutches would sink into the grass.

At least the inner ward was sheltered from the buffeting winds. He had nearly fallen headlong in the outer court. The full force of autumn’s weather couldn’t have come at a worse time. How was Captain-General Evord’s army faring? What was happening in the other towns? There’d been no dispatches from Triolle or Losand for two days. Every courier bird must be hiding in a tree, every sodden messenger walking a lamed horse to shelter.

He struggled doggedly onwards. At least there was no one to see his ungainly progress. Almost all of the garrison, with any townsman, any prentice youth who could wield a halberd, had marched to join Evord’s army. Their wives and daughters were tending the wounded. Those too old to fight enforced the guildmasters’ authority, led by Master Ernout the priest.

Supplementary edicts drafted by Lord Rousharn were piling up on Aremil’s desk. They could wait for his approval, or more likely his rejection. He’d waited long enough for this chance. It had been seven interminable days since Tathrin had appeared in a blinding flash of magelight, supporting Branca. Sorgrad had been carrying Charoleia while Gren cradled Trissa’s limp form.

His thin chest heaving with exertion, Aremil reached the stone flagway surrounding the keep. He looked up at Garnot’s erstwhile sanctuary, a turreted conceit of ornate windows and wrought-iron balconies. The duke had never expected to defend this against armed assault. Well, he was gone to answer to Saedrin for his pride and tyranny, or to whatever oblivion truly lay beyond death.

It was almost enough to make one hope that there truly was an Otherworld, Aremil thought savagely. That somehow Duke Garnot knew his private apartments had been turned over to Master Welgren for an infirmary. That his fine Aldabreshin silks were now stained with blood and pus. That nurses rinsed rags foul with piss and shit in his priceless Dalasorian bowls. The only people paying heed to the painted walls and marble inlays were men and women wracked with fever or head wounds, who wove the frolicking gods and goddesses into their own delirium.

Aremil went resolutely on, fighting the villainous ache in his limbs. Duke Garnot’s masons had built a broad stair of shallow stone steps right up through the centre of the keep. Aremil didn’t know if he could tackle it unaided. He had to try, if this was the only way to see Branca. He had to know what had happened to her.

Tathrin had related their shocking encounter with the renegade wizard, the Hadrumal magewoman and Duchess Litasse. Face to face, Aremil couldn’t tell if Tathrin was unable or unwilling to explain Branca’s acute distress. Ruthlessly quashing his scruples, he’d looked deep into his friend’s private thoughts. All he’d found was bemusement to equal his own, and fear that some second emissary from the Archmage would appear to punish him along with Sorgrad and Gren.