Blood in the Water (7 page)

“I see.” Aremil felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draughts in the room.

“Make sure Tathrin knows he must tell us at once, if the tide of battle turns against the captain-general tomorrow.” Dagaran rolled up the map and bowed briefly. “Till later.”

“Till later,” Aremil echoed.

The door closed behind the Soluran and Aremil was left alone with his apprehensive thoughts. He really didn’t think this war would be won as easily as Jettin imagined.

Chapter Five

Litasse

Triolle Castle, in the Kingdom of Lescar,

Autumn Equinox Festival, Third Day, Evening

The great hall’s flagstones had been scoured white and the panelling glowed with polish. Garlands of leaves had been fashioned from scarlet silk and gold brocade. The harvest’s fruits had been cunningly crafted from glossy wax. Up in their gallery, the musicians wove every horn’s voice, each viol’s thrill into seamless harmony.

Those disinclined to dance, too old or too replete with roasted venison, capon and goose, sat at tables in the side aisles. Dishes of candied fruits flanked platters of wafer cakes and marchpane fancies. Lackeys offered goblets of wine or cups of barley cream dusted with Aldabreshin spices.

No one could accuse her of dereliction in her duties as duchess this festival. Which was just as well, because no one had suggested, with her father and brother newly dead, her mother and sisters’ fate unknown, that she might be spared the burden of ensuring everyone else’s enjoyment, of providing all their guests’ entertainments.

Litasse paced out the next measure of the dance, her fingertips touching those of Duke Orlin’s brother. Lord Geferin stepped deftly around as she sank into a curtsey, her rich maroon skirts rustling. His gaze lingered on the low-cut neck of her gown before meeting her eyes with unmistakable invitation.

She rose from her curtsey, her smile as meaningless as she could possibly make it. Unable to stop humiliation colouring her pale cheeks, she consoled herself with a glance around. All those dancing were just as flushed, thanks to the heat from the tiered candle-stands that made the hall with its coloured glass windows a jewelled lantern in the castle’s dark courtyard.

No one would be discussing her choices for the banquet or the decorations, though. Litasse knew all the whispers were debating her choice of bedfellows. How could she have deceived her handsome husband with someone as undistinguished as Master Hamare? She had heard Lady Erasie asking Lady Mazien just that, not realising she was within earshot.

Even more deliciously scandalous, what lovers’ quarrel could possibly have ended with Litasse stabbing the spymaster? Was it true the castle guards had broken down a locked door to find the Master Intelligencer dead at her feet? It was. They had found her with his blood on her skirts and the dagger that killed him in her hand.

Litasse matched Lady Erasie’s steps down the hall. What would the empty-headed gossip say if she explained how Master Hamare’s interest in her daily pleasures and trials had warmed her lonely heart? Was it any surprise that she’d welcomed his discreet adoration and soon yielded so gladly to his ardour? When Duke Iruvain paid her less heed than his hounds and his horses. When his visits to her bedchamber were as selfish as his daily routine. If everyone were so scandalised by her failings as a wife, what of his failings as a husband?

What would any of them say, as they murmured behind their hands, if she told them she hadn’t stabbed Hamare at all? That he had been murdered by two Mountain Men, who’d appeared out of nowhere thanks to some foul wizardry. Then that same magic had carried them away, leaving her trapped in the locked room with no one else to be blamed.

No, no one would ever believe that. Because magic was the one weapon that no duke dared wield in their endless skirmishes and periodic campaigns, testing another dukedom’s strength, encroaching upon their borders. Far easier to believe that Litasse, once of Sharlac, now of Triolle, was just a faithless whore.

Reaching the end of the hall, she spun around to walk elegantly back outside the lines of dancers. From the corner of her eye, she could see Duchess Sherista of Parnilesse doing the same on the opposite side. She moved as lightly on her feet, despite the four children and twelve years’ advantage she had over Litasse. While every other woman wore autumn hues in honour of the festival, Duke Orlin’s duchess wore a sumptuous emerald gown in tribute to her husband’s livery colours. That had the happy effect of drawing every eye to her, Litasse thought tartly.

Had Sherista ever taken a lover? Had she found the marriage arranged for her parents’ advantage and a dukedom’s gain as cold and lonely as Litasse had? Or had she grown to love her husband and found that love returned, as Litasse’s mother had assured her would happen?

There was no way to tell. Sherista’s face was as serenely unreadable as ever as she slipped past Lord Geferin. Did he keep brushing against her, Litasse wondered? Did she have to endure him caressing her shoulder, even her rump if they encountered each other on some narrow stair? Or did he only take such liberties with a known adulteress? From his manner this festival, he seemed to assume Litasse would open her knees to any man. How dare he? Litasse stifled her irritation and walked on, head high, shoulders back.

She reached the head of the hall. Behind the high table on the stepped dais, Duke Orlin of Parnilesse still sat in his place of honour, his eyes shifting from his duchess to his brother as they made their way through the dance. Was he a jealous spouse or a fond one? Did he suspect his own brother’s intentions? Or did he fear what Lord Geferin might let slip? The rumours they had conspired to poison their father persisted.

This was no time for such idle thoughts. Her own husband approached, his arms outstretched. When they had first met, Litasse had admired his broad shoulders, his strong hands. As their wedding renewed the alliances between Triolle and Sharlac, Duchess Aphanie had promised her tender companionship in her marriage. That promise had proved hollow indeed. Now Litasse merely wondered what might provoke Iruvain to hit her again.

Stepping into his embrace, she linked her hands behind his head. His doublet matched her gown. The garnets studding his gilt collar echoed the rubies glittering on her breast. They were the most handsome couple in the gathering, even if that wasn’t why all eyes were on them.

“Smile,” he ordered.

“I don’t—”

He lifted her off her feet, whirling her around. Their cheeks brushed, his rich brown curls tickling her neck. His dark eyes were stony. “I said, smile.”

“My lord, I grieve—”

“Shut up.”

As he lifted her again, Litasse ended the dance with elegantly pointed toes and a flourish of her skirts. The long knife’s scabbard pressed against her thigh. She wouldn’t be caught unarmed again, even if she didn’t know who she feared most: her husband or the men who’d slain Hamare.

The musicians concluded with a triumphant chord. All around, husbands and wives returned to each other’s sides.

Duke Iruvain bowed low, brushing his full lips against her jewelled rings. In public at least, he was doing all he could to still lively expectation that he’d repudiate his slut of a wife. He still insisted Litasse had merely defended her honour. She didn’t know why. Who could possibly believe that loyal Hamare would force himself on his own duke’s wife?

“Your rouge is smudged.”

He wouldn’t want anyone seeing the fading bruise left by his furious blow.

“I’ll see to it.”

“Your Grace.” Her elderly waiting woman was already on hand, her lined face disapproving. “You are unbecomingly flushed.”

“That will do, Pelletria,” Litasse said sharply.

Iruvain walked away with a hint of satisfaction on his face. If he wouldn’t punish Litasse by setting her aside, he’d quickly made sure she was as friendless as possible. He’d dismissed all her waiting women, even hapless Valesti who’d known nothing of Litasse’s deceptions.

A solitary lutenist sang up in the gallery. The other musicians were ringing a steward carrying a tray of horn cups and a flagon of ale. On the dais Sherista of Parnilesse embraced her husband, her burnished tresses ebony against his silver beard. His mossy doublet was just a shade darker than her gown. As he caressed her milky shoulder, the jet of his rings reflected dark fire from the candlelight.

Pelletria led Litasse to a tapestry-hung corner. “No need for
you
to hide a dyer’s bottle in your baggage.” With her back to the gathering, her thin lips curved in a confiding smile.

“That’s gratifying to know, but have you discovered anything more immediately useful?” Litasse tucked an errant wisp into the golden net confining her own black hair.

“This Soluran and his mercenary army are marching through the forest to Carluse.” Pelletria’s lips barely moved. “They’ll join battle today or tomorrow.”

“How soon will we know the outcome?” Litasse searched the great hall for Iruvain.

How much did he know? Now that Hamare was dead, all the dukedom’s couriers brought the news they’d once carried to the Master Intelligencer straight to their duke instead. But Litasse had seen how Iruvain scorned so many of the other reports, from merchants and those who served them on the road, who collected the tolls on the dukedom’s bridges. The intricate web of informants that Hamare had so carefully woven was in danger of falling apart.

“I left three courier doves with a trusted man in Carluse Castle.” Pelletria dabbed the fine gloss of sweat from Litasse’s brow with a scrap of powdered muslin. “We’ll know how Duke Garnot’s army fares half a day after Duchess Tadira.”

Iruvain would never have allowed Pelletria to serve her if he suspected her tirewoman had been one of Hamare’s enquiry agents. Still less if he knew the crone had been unobtrusively searching out Carluse secrets this past half-year. She need not fear that he’d guess Litasse was defying him and gathering her own reports, making good use of Hamare’s legacy, even if Iruvain wouldn’t.

“What will Duke Garnot do, once he’s whipped these curs?”

A frown deepened Pelletria’s wrinkles. “That depends whether he crushes them or merely puts them to flight.”

Litasse watched Iruvain smiling. Lady Mazien laid a flirtatious white hand on his arm. The duke’s rich laugh echoed around the hall, louder than the lutenist’s ballad.

“Do you think he’ll take a mistress?” Litasse wondered aloud. “To pay me back with my own base coin?” If he was dipping his middle finger in some vassal lord’s purse, would she be any safer?

“Perhaps. He’ll only believe you’re innocent if we can find proof that these rebels have suborned magic.” Pelletria searched the purse on her girdle for a pot of rouge.

Litasse watched Iruvain escort Lady Mazien to a shadowed side table. “Some are saying it was him who cut Hamare’s throat.” And no one who whispered that condemned him.

“Then they’ll choke on their words, when we prove it was foulest sorcery.” Pelletria carefully blurred the lingering marks of Iruvain’s fingers.

Litasse closed her eyes to curb prickling tears. She would have utterly despaired if Pelletria hadn’t believed her. But the old woman knew Hamare could never love a woman capable of killing him. More, Pelletria had loved Hamare like a son. She had been Hamare’s first confidante, when he’d returned from Col’s university to serve Iruvain’s father.

Duke Gerone had known information could protect his vulnerable fiefdom better than armies. Triolle was surrounded by all Lescar’s other dukedoms and in battle was a match for none. Iruvain could deny that all he liked and diligently drill his brightly liveried militiamen, but sticking feathers on a bantam didn’t make it an eagle.

Pelletria stepped back to survey her handiwork. “Duke Orlin has been asking why Iruvain doesn’t dissolve your marriage. Your husband tells him he’s intent on securing Triolle’s claim to Sharlac’s succession. He can hardly press your claims as Duke Moncan’s eldest daughter if he sets you aside.” She screwed the lid tight on the rouge pot. “Once you bear him a child, he’ll think again. But he won’t want you pregnant until there’s no possible chance you might carry Hamare’s baby.”

Litasse had wondered why Iruvain hadn’t chosen to punish her in their bed. “Everyone would start counting back on their fingers.”

Pelletria nodded. “Especially those with their own claim on Sharlac lands. So I don’t think you have much to fear until you bear a child of undisputed Triolle blood and we know that it will thrive. After that?” She tucked the cosmetics back in her purse. “Some poisons mimic a wasting disease. Never fear, Your Grace. We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen to you.”

Her faded eyes glinted with ruthlessness that both reassured and unnerved Litasse. She saw Iruvain had abandoned Lady Mazien and was heading for their corner.

“Send a courier bird to Hamare’s man in Draximal,” she said quickly. “I want to know what Duke Secaris plans, and see if we’ve had any word from Marlier.”

“As you command, Your Grace.” Pelletria withdrew, her expression as stern as ever, no hint of indulgence for her mistress.

“You’re neglecting our guests,” hissed the duke.

“Forgive me.”

She followed him onto the dais, eyes modestly downcast, every measure the dutiful wife. He drew her chair back, as attentive a husband as a woman could wish for.