Blood in the Water (58 page)

“Saedrin save us.”

Aremil saw his own appalled reaction reflected in Tathrin’s brown eyes. If that were true, just what was Charoleia’s true history?

The younger man sighed heavily. “I’ll call on her later, if she’s not too weary.”

Aremil saw strain deepening the creases that this past year’s sun, wind and sorrow had carved in Tathrin’s face.

“She doesn’t blame you for Trissa’s death.”

“I know.” Tathrin’s nod was wholly unconvincing.

Artifice itself wouldn’t persuade Tathrin not to blame himself, Aremil reflected. For being too slow, too late, for not even being the one to kill Minelas. The only thing that stopped him castigating himself was dwelling miserably on the man he had cut down on the battlefield at Pannal. Even as he told himself he’d had no choice, Tathrin was still revolted by what he had done.

Failla stuck her head around the door. “I’ve asked the steward to send you some wine.”

“Thank you.” Tathrin’s glance at Aremil involuntarily betrayed him.

“Please, join us.” Aremil gestured towards the settle by the fire and returned to his own chair.

If nothing else, Failla’s presence would save Tathrin from having to repeat their conversation. Anyway, Aremil had no real secrets from her these days.

“Failla has proved invaluable,” he told Tathrin with a smile, “rallying support from the Guilds and the common folk of Carluse.”

“I’m glad of it.” Tathrin’s hand strayed to hers. “Reher will be back to help too, any day now.”

Aremil saw this was no news to Failla. That was hardly surprising. Tathrin’s desire to see her had grown with every league on the road from Pannal. He must have sought her out as soon as he entered the castle. Still, he’d come straight here after that. Aremil could see Tathrin’s boots and breeches still bore all the grime and creases of the road.

“How are things, in Triolle and Tyrle?”

Tathrin leaned back, still holding Failla’s hand. “The town of Pannal surrendered without a fight, so we took the most seriously injured there. The walking wounded came back to Triolle.”

“What does Master Welgren make of their chances?” Aremil didn’t regret his inability to ask the apothecary himself. The last thing he wanted was to endure such pain and loss through the aether.

Tathrin sighed. “He says the toll is sure to rise. So many still linger with cruel wounds and many of those will fester.”

“It would have been worse if the battle was in summer.” Failla gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“True enough.” Tathrin managed a brief smile for her. “There were men taken alive off the field a full night and a day after the battle. Can you believe it? Welgren says the cold staunched their wounds before they could bleed to death. He’s hopeful for some.”

Aremil glanced at the parchment where Dagaran had totalled the latest deaths, the numbers already calamitous. More than a thousand dead on each side. The pyres were still burning, the land for leagues around stripped of firewood, the houses of those who’d fled from both armies demolished for their doors and rafters. There were already reports of deadly flux striking villages along the banks of the Anock, where the unwary or foolhardy had drunk the waters polluted by the dead.

“If we paid a terrible price for our victory,” he said grimly, “Triolle and Parnilesse paid as heavily.”

More heavily, if Dagaran’s numbers were correct. As of this morning, one hundred and sixty-three corpses tilted the balance against the dukes. Would Raeponin call that justice? Aremil had more cause than ever to be grateful he didn’t believe in such gods.

“Their mercenaries suffered more losses than their militias.” Tathrin frowned. “That so many of the common men fled doubtless helped us to win. The other side of that coin is they’re still out there with all their swords and halberds.”

“But without their leaders,” Aremil pointed out. “And isn’t Captain-General Evord encouraging them to go home and defend their families?”

“Talagrin knows, we can’t defend all the towns and villages.” Tathrin was still troubled. “Our offer to save Lescar from ducal rule looks like a basket of bad apples topped with wax ones, for a trickster to sell on market day. Our presence in Triolle is resented far more openly than it is here or in Sharlac.”

“Duke Iruvain was never so feared as Duke Garnot,” Failla said thoughtfully. “Nor did he prompt such uncertainty and anger as Duke Moncan, when he withdrew into his grief for Lord Jaras.”

“What’s the latest news from Ashgil?” Aremil hadn’t heard anything for two days.

“It’s securely held.” Tathrin’s face cleared a little. “Pata Mezian’s Dalasorians made excellent speed from Abray, once they delivered the prisoners from Tyrle into Caladhrian hands.”

“I’ll make sure Master Gruit knows, the next time I talk with Kerith.” Aremil’s relief was tempered with recollection of his last conversation with the scholar. “Do you know how many prisoners were taken at Pannal?”

“Not beyond a guess.” Tathrin frowned.

Aremil sighed. “Master Gruit tells us the guildmasters in Abray, and the Caladhrian lords, won’t stand for us sending them any more prisoners. Far too many have turned to banditry along the Great West Road. Caladhrian militias are hanging any brigands they catch, and doing a fine job by all accounts. But we’ll see such vagabonds driven straight back into Lescar from now on.”

“Can you ship your captives to Relshaz?” Failla looked at Tathrin. “Like Ridianne sending away those mercenaries that she didn’t trust to follow the captain-general?”

Tathrin grimaced. “Have you heard how many of those have already been sold into slavery in the Archipelago?”

Aremil was appalled. “This wizard woman, Mellitha, she told you this?”

Tathrin looked uncomfortable. “Relshazri laws are stern, Sorgrad says. It’s easy to make a misstep, especially if you don’t know the city.”

Aremil knew Tathrin still had his doubts about that wizard woman. Outright fear of the other one, Jilseth, was a dark shadow at the back of his mind. Well, hopefully she was long gone back to the Archmage now the final battle had been won without any illicit magic’s assistance.

Aremil was more concerned with another woman. “Have you any fresh news of Ridianne?”

“She marched the remnants of her regiments back to Triolle and they all took boats down the Dyal and along the Marlier coast to Capast.” Tathrin looked grim. “Her men took appalling losses.”

Aremil hardened his heart. “Then Duke Ferdain won’t be able to attack us before spring.”

“Aremil!” Tathrin was shocked. “She proved a worthy ally.”

“Maybe so, but Duke Ferdain’s still our foe.” Aremil was unrepentant. “Master Gruit and Kerith say he’s been writing to his Caladhrian allies all up the River Rel. They think some of the mercenaries we’ve sent up the Great West Road have been turning south.”

“Marlier’s camps always offered mercenaries a safe haven for the winter seasons,” Tathrin protested half-heartedly.

Failla looked faintly sick. “Then we’ll be fighting again, come the spring?”

“Unless we can find some way to avoid it.” Aremil wasn’t going to lie to her.

Tathrin rallied. “But the task we set ourselves is nearly done. We’ve rid Lescar of three dukes and none of the rest can field an army against us.”

Failla was still pondering the problem of their mercenary captives. “Is there anywhere else we could send prisoners? Where else do they go in the winter?”

“Carif,” Aremil said dourly.

Tathrin sounded less certain. “I’ve heard rumour that’s where the mercenaries who fled the field at Pannal have gone.”

“Ready for Duke Orlin to come recruiting in the spring,” Aremil said grimly.

“I don’t imagine his militiamen will get any choice about re-enlisting.” Failla sounded bitter at that thought.

“I don’t suppose he’ll tolerate the Carifate’s claims to self-rule any longer.” Tathrin looked thoughtful. “The mercenary companies may well find their choice is to take to their ships or bow their heads to Duke Orlin’s yoke.”

Aremil remembered the one hopeful straw they could clutch at. “Parnilesse still won’t have Lord Geferin to lead their army.”

“What happened to him?” Failla seized her chance to ask Tathrin.

Aremil had heard the question whispered all around the castle since the first news of the nobleman’s death.

“He died of bad luck more than anything else.” Tathrin managed a rueful smile. “Sia Kersain was determined to keep his son out of danger. So when the Dalasorians first charged the Parnilesse cavalry, he ordered Sia Nanas to lead a separate company right around the far side of the woods, to hunt down stragglers and runaways. Sia Nanas wasn’t best pleased, but he doesn’t ever disobey his father.”

Tathrin shook his head, still disbelieving. “He and his men stumbled on Lord Geferin and Duke Iruvain both, fleeing for Pannal. Sia Nanas’s archers let loose. I don’t imagine they intended much beyond startling their horses. But an arrow skewered Lord Geferin’s thigh, pinning him to his saddle. Welgren says the arrowhead cut the great blood vessel. He bled to death before anyone could get him off the horse.”

He looked at Aremil with a question of his own. “How’s news of his death been received in Parnilesse? What has Jettin had to say? What’s Reniack making of it?”

“Has Duke Iruvain fled to Parnilesse?” Failla looked expectantly at Aremil.

“To answer you both, we don’t yet know.” He glanced at the unhelpful parchments on his desk. “I’ve reached through the aether time and again and I cannot make Jettin hear me. He hasn’t used his own Artifice to send me news, not for ten days or more now.”

“Is he injured or captured?” Tathrin was alarmed.

Aremil wished the answer were so simple. “No, I can feel his presence though the aether. He’s just being wilfully deaf.”

“Could Branca—?” Tathrin broke off, self-conscious. “No, forgive me. Failla said she’s been nursing Charoleia night and day.”

So Failla had given him all the castle gossip, Aremil reflected. And however hard he tried to hide his worry and his chagrin, he assumed Tathrin knew Branca was still avoiding him as assiduously as she had since her rescue from Adel Castle.

He saved Tathrin from his embarrassment. “Branca has tried to reach Jettin, as has Kerith, but he’s refusing all overtures of Artifice.”

Kerith had told him so and passed on that same message from Branca. That she had reached through the aether to the scholar rather than talking to him herself had hurt Aremil more than anything else.

“What do you suppose is going on in Parnilesse?” Tathrin wondered uneasily.

“We’ll find out soon enough.” Aremil looked at a letter he’d dearly love to throw into the fire. “Lord Rousharn insists we send envoys to all the remaining dukes now that we’ve won this campaign. He has a list of men he recommends and he wishes to know when Captain-General Evord can provide suitable escorts. Sooner rather than later, if the captain-general pleases.”

“What does the captain-general say to that?” Tathrin asked cautiously.

“I imagine he’ll agree. Dagaran seems to think so. What harm can talking to them do, after all?”

“What do you suppose they’ll say?” Failla wondered.

“Who knows?” Aremil looked at an unopened letter, its wax seals unbroken, beneath the latest one Rousharn had sent him. Once Evord agreed to send envoys, he would have to open that and tell the Soluran its contents. He would have to read whatever his unknown father had written.

Should he tell Tathrin about the letter? Should they open it together? If he couldn’t share this with Branca, Aremil couldn’t think of anyone else he would rather trust.

A knock broke the awkward silence.

Failla sprang up. “The wine.”

But it was Dagaran, the Soluran lieutenant.

“A letter for you, Master Aremil.” He read aloud from the enveloping outer parchment. “‘From His Imperial Majesty Tadriol the Provident, Third of that Name, on behalf of the Convocation of Princes of Tormalin’. It’s addressed to Lord Aremil of Draximal,” he added.

“Who told him to call you that?” Tathrin was baffled.

“I don’t know.” Aremil could guess. “Please, open it,” he asked with foreboding.

Dagaran used his belt knife to cut through the florid seals. He shook free a letter threaded with golden ribbon, a lead seal dangling from the end “This looks very official,” he commented.

Aremil’s back tightened with cramp. “Please, read it.”

Dagaran cleared his throat.

“‘On behalf of the Convocation of Tormalin Princes, honouring my election as their Emperor and my oath to manage our Empire’s relations with all powers beyond our borders, I demand that you answer for the following outrages against the Dukes of Lescar and the people they have ruled with the full sanction and fealty of their vassals and the commonalty.’” He paused for breath.

“Go on,” Tathrin invited.

“‘Firstly the murder of Duke Moncan of Sharlac and his heir, together with the wanton destruction of Sharlac Castle and the barbarous imprisonment of his duchess and daughters.

“‘Secondly, the murder of Duke Garnot of Carluse, his duchess and his heir, and the subsequent theft of his castle and property.