Blood in the Water (59 page)

“‘Thirdly, the murder of Duke Orlin of Parnilesse—’”

“He means Lord Geferin, surely?” Aremil looked at Tathrin, who nodded.

“The reports reaching Toremal must have got garbled on the way.”

“No,” Dagaran said slowly. “His Imperial Majesty is very precise in his accusation. ‘Thirdly, the murder of Duke Orlin of Parnilesse, of his duchess, his heirs and his daughters and the destruction of Parnilesse Castle through fire and the subsequent massacres in Parnilesse Town.’” He looked up from the parchment. “I don’t believe that’s a mistake.”

“What has happened?” Failla was appalled.

“What’s Reniack done?” growled Tathrin.

No wonder Jettin was wrapping himself in the darkest cloak of Artifice he could muster. Aremil swallowed. “We had better find out, and quickly. Dagaran, what else does the Emperor say?”

The Soluran continued, “‘In the light of this last and most heinous wrong, we are now minded to accede to the pleas of Duchess Aphanie of Sharlac. We hereby offer sanctuary to her and her daughters. You will surrender them to us, through the good offices of her castellan, Lord Rousharn—’” He broke off to look wryly at Aremil. “So that’s the moth in the closet.”

“Never mind him.” Aremil gestured impatiently.

“‘Should you fail to see the duchess and her daughters escorted to our borders with all due courtesy, your incivility will be swiftly punished.’” Dagaran paused once again. “I think he means all of us will suffer, rather than you personally.”

Before Aremil could respond, he continued reading. “‘Should you launch any further attack on Duke Ferdain of Marlier, on Duke Secaris of Draximal or on any of their vassal lords or the towns and villages under their protection, your aggression will be punished.’”

“Does he say how?” Tathrin asked slowly.

Dagaran shook his head. “Why do you ask?”

Tathrin grimaced. “Wouldn’t he threaten to send in his legions, if he’d already made firm alliances with Marlier or Draximal?”

“Perhaps.” Aremil wasn’t sure. He looked at Failla. “We had better see if Charoleia is up to advising us on how best to find out.”

“And Sorgrad.” Tathrin’s lips narrowed. “He can scry and find out what’s gone on. He’s surely been to Parnilesse some time.”

“Does he know Reniack well enough to scry for him?” wondered Failla.

“We’ll find out,” Tathrin assured her.

Dagaran frowned at the parchment. “There’s more.”

“Go on.” Aremil wondered what could possibly be worse.

Dagaran cleared his throat. “‘We demand the surrender of Duke Iruvain of Triolle and his duchess Litasse. You may rest assured you will be held to account for whatever injuries or insults they have suffered as your captives.’”

“Why would he think we’re holding them prisoner?” That made no sense to Aremil. Lord Rousharn knew full well Triolle’s duke had escaped the battle. He felt cold. “You don’t think Reniack and his rabble could have caught them?”

“No.” Tathrin rubbed his chin, calluses rasping on his stubble. “Sorgrad’s been scrying for Litasse.”

Aremil stiffened in his chair. “What?”

“He doesn’t know where she is, exactly,” Tathrin said sheepishly. “All he’s seen is some hunting lodge and camps in the backwoods. But she’s no captive, her or Iruvain.”

“Let’s hope they reach wherever they’re going and appeal to someone who can tell Emperor Tadriol.” Aremil leaned back. “Are we accused of any more crimes to bring Imperial wrath down on our heads?”

“No, that’s all.” The Soluran folded the parchment. “Barring a farewell as florid as the greeting and a request that you send your reply as soon as possible.” He jerked his head in the direction of the gatehouse. “The Imperial courier who brought this tells me he has orders to wait until he’s given one.”

“Then we had better prepare it,” Aremil said sardonically.

“I knew we had a lot of loose ends.” Tathrin looked sombre. “I didn’t imagine this tangle.”

Failla’s sudden laugh made them all look at her.

“I’m sorry.” She pressed the back of one hand to her mouth. “It’s just my mother always used to say, the true test of embroidery isn’t how it looks from the front. It’s how neatly it’s finished at the back.”

“Indeed.” Aremil reached for his crutches. “Let’s see if Charoleia’s awake and able to advise on our needlework.”

Dagaran opened the door to reveal a startled lackey carrying a silver tray with a wine jug and goblets.

“You’ve missed the festival, haven’t you?” Tathrin seemed glad of someone to vent his anger on.

“Bring that to the inner keep,” Aremil ordered the hapless servant.

Sorgrad would doubtless welcome the wine. Then he could use the tray for his scrying.

The battles might be over but there was evidently more still to be settled than he had imagined.

Chapter Forty-One

Litasse

Calsinn Strand,

in the Lescari Dukedom of Triolle,

6th of For-Winter

“Your breakfast, Your Grace.” Karn entered and set the tray on the parlour table.

Fresh from the oven, the rolls smelled wonderful. Litasse noted the butter and preserves were served in crystal dishes, surely the innkeeper’s wife’s most treasured possessions. If only everyone was showing such loyalty.

“Where’s Milda?” The girl had served her yesterday.

“Gone.” Karn wiped a smear from the pewter goblet with a napkin. “Do you want small beer or wine?”

“Small beer, please.” Litasse preferred watered wine but beer would surely be more palatable than any vintage found in this sorry excuse for a village. The barrels had probably washed up on the shingle bar. As for the water, her bedroom ewer smelled so brackish, she wasn’t about to risk anything from a well hereabouts. The thought of being struck down with sickness or worse wasn’t to be contemplated.

It was bad enough she had worn this chemise for three days now. Would she end up wearing her linen unwashed from one market day to the next, like some commoner’s wife? She tried to recall how many of her gowns had been lost when the barge carrying their few salvaged possessions had foundered in the River Anock.

If the vessel
had
foundered. No wreckage had followed them down the current. Had the crew deserted them in the night, throwing the militiamen into the river? Or had they all forsworn their oath so they could split the booty with the watermen?

As Karn poured the light ale, she listened for footsteps in the hall, for voices elsewhere in the inn. There wasn’t much to be heard.

“How many of the household are left now?”

Karn paused to tally them up. “Another seven have gone since yesterday.”

“Every rune rolls one upright face.” Litasse tore open a soft roll. “Fewer mouths to feed.”

Flippancy was a mistake. A brittle note in her voice betrayed her. She spread butter and damson jam with vindictive thrusts of the bone-handled knife.

“I heard more fighting last night, didn’t I?”

“His Grace’s retinue fell out with some lads from the salt-marshes, over something and nothing. Your people are loyal,” Karn assured her.

“I imagine Duchess Sherista thought so, until they broke down her door, cut off her head and stuck it on a pike.” Litasse bit into the soft bread to stifle her fears. “Have you seen any more of those broadsheets?”

“No, Your Grace.”

Litasse wasn’t satisfied. He could well be hiding them to spare her more horrors. “What about travellers from Parnilesse? They could be bringing their murderous lies here.”

“They could,” Karn agreed. “I’m alert for any whispers.”

Litasse could be certain of that. But Karn was only one man, much as she trusted him. He was the only one she could trust. Iruvain was a broken reed.

She had dreamed of Hamare last night. They had turned their backs on the dukedom without regret and sailed to make a new life in Col. She had woken with her face wet with tears.

“Where are we going to go, Karn? Where are we going to be safe?”

He walked to the window, his lean face thoughtful. “We have to make a decision before the weather is too foul for sailing. I recommend making for Relshaz. That takes us along Triolle’s coast and Marlier’s. If we’re forced in to shore, we stand some chance of finding friends.”

Litasse was dubious. “You don’t think the Tormalin Emperor would be a better friend than Relshazri magistrates?”

“Emperor Tadriol’s protection would be preferable,” Karn admitted. “But making for Solland means navigating the full length of the Parnilesse coast, never mind safely rounding Cape Carif.”

Litasse shivered. “Those mercenaries must be looting and plundering the length and breadth of the dukedom without Lord Geferin to bring them to heel.”

Karn nodded. “If we make landfall anywhere along that coast, the best we can hope for is capture and ransom.” He didn’t have to describe the worst that could happen.

“Who would pay that,” Litasse wondered bitterly, “while that Soluran thief hoards our coin?” She managed to finish the roll but had no appetite for another. “What was Iruvain thinking, coming south? We could have found sanctuary in Draximal only he’s too proud to accept it, because it would be offered for my sake and Sharlac’s, not his.”

“A swift escape was our first priority,” Karn reminded her. “A boat down the river was faster and safer than risking the roads. His Grace was right to fear that the mercenaries who fled the battle would turn bandit.”

And that was before they had heard of the calamitous upheavals in Parnilesse. Litasse forbore to argue, though with ill-grace. “I hope we do get forced ashore when we sail for Relshaz. He can choke on the humiliation of going cap in hand to Ferdain.”

“We may well find Duke Ferdain welcomes His Grace as an ally,” Karn said thoughtfully. “Marlier’s Caladhrian allies are far more likely to muster an army if two dukes appeal to them.”

Litasse allowed herself a little hope. “Or three dukes, if we persuade Duke Secaris to uphold my claims to Sharlac.”

The door to the parlour swung open. She jumped up, her hand going to the dagger concealed in her skirts. Karn was already between her and the entrance, his hand on his sword.

“There you are!” Duke Iruvain greeted him with an unexpected smile. “We must rally the men and start hiring horses.”

“Your Grace.” Karn bowed his head.

“We’re going north.” Iruvain spun around to point through the windows.

“To Draximal?” Litasse didn’t know whether to be relieved or apprehensive. Karn was right about the perils of the roads.

“What?” Iruvain didn’t seem to have noticed she was there. “Don’t be a fool, woman. We’re heading for the Anock Hills.” He began pacing back and forth. “We’ll hide out and rally the faithful men of Triolle. We can harry these usurping scum through the winter. Then we strike out in force as soon as Aft-Winter turns to For-Spring. We head west, to Ashgil.” He gestured expansively. “We drive a wedge between Carluse and Sharlac. Once we divide these filthy dogs and their horse-lovers, we turn south to retake Triolle!”

“That’s a bold plan, Your Grace,” Karn said cautiously.

“It’s arrant folly!” snapped Litasse. “You think you can raise an army and start afresh, after a winter of living under hedges like a bandit, starving in the cold and the rain?”

Iruvain rounded on her. “No one will starve. Those hills teem with game. No one will be living like a bandit. We have friends and—”

“You don’t think this Soluran knows all your hunting lodges,” Litasse demanded, “now he can ask your stable-hands and kennel master?”

“They will never betray me.” Iruvain’s good humour vanished like morning mist. “Unlike you, my faithless wife.”

He raised his hand. Litasse refused to flinch. He stepped closer, his colour rising.

Litasse smelled the wine on his breath. Unwatered wine, this early in the day. “You’re drunk,” she said with contempt.

“You’re a whore,” he snarled.

“What has that to do with anything?” She didn’t care any more. “You were a fool not to listen to Hamare. If you’d only heeded him, you might still be—”

His back-handed blow cut her short. Reeling away, Litasse ripped the dagger through the slit in her skirts. She had the vicious point at Iruvain’s belt buckle before he realised what had happened.

“Do that again and I’ll gut you,” she said coldly.

“You won’t get the chance!” Iruvain lunged for the dagger.

Sober, he might have succeeded. Drunk, as Litasse recoiled, the blade sliced deep into his palm.

“Bitch.” He stood staring at the gash, at the welling blood.

“Your Grace.” Karn pressed the napkin from the breakfast tray to the wound. “You must see the surgeon. You cannot risk a disabling wound with everyone relying on you.”

Shocked, Iruvain nodded slowly.

“This way, Your Grace.” Karn tied the linen tight to staunch the bleeding and led him to the door.

Trembling, Litasse watched them go. Her eyes met Karn’s as he glanced over his shoulder. Was that gaze a warning? What did he mean for her to do? As the door closed, she dropped the dagger and collapsed into her chair, shuddering with violent tears.