Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (10 page)

Weariness clawed her. Even though Iruvain had forsworn her body, she still woke a handful of times every night. Each time he shifted in that bed they were forced to share, she feared habit would rouse him, half-sleeping, to force her thighs open, to slake his mindless lust. She was terrified of what he might do if she tried to refuse him.

Then there were his nightmares now he couldn't afford the wine to drown them. Whatever memories tormented him, Iruvain moaned and whimpered inarticulate pleas.

She stretched out on the lumpy mattress stuffed with flock. Litasse only hoped it wasn't too verminous. She shifted as the dagger hilt beneath her skirts dug into her leg.

Would she have fared better or worse if she'd killed Iruvain? Or if that wound to his palm had festered? Iruvain would never let a surgeon take his sword hand, not until he was too far gone to be saved.

Then she could have decided where to go next instead of dutifully following Iruvain first to Relshaz and then to this miserable sump of a town. She would still have had Karn to protect her, for the sake of his dead master, Hamare.

A suspicion teased her; one she hesitated to entertain in her innermost thoughts. Would Karn kill Iruvain if she asked?

According to her husband, the enquiry agent had already slain one duke. Garnot of Carluse had fallen victim to Karn's swift knife, in the upper room of Tyrle's southern gatehouse. Contemptuous in his cups, Iruvain had taunted her, when she had insisted Karn was more loyal to her.

What had they been arguing about, when she had spat that pointless insult? She couldn't recall. But she remembered wishing Iruvain and Garnot both had died in that upper room. In the next breath, she'd been glad Karn wasn't there, lest he see that unspoken wish in her eyes and take it as warrant to act.

Litasse still believed she could trust Karn for Master Hamare's sake. But she had been unnerved by the ruthlessness the lean man had betrayed as they had struggled to rise above the chaos sweeping Lescar.

Perhaps she was being unfair. It had been much easier to trust Karn when he had looked less threatening, before the near-fatal wounds he'd suffered in Lescar's service had left him lean and hollow-eyed.

She sighed and returned to contemplating her possible futures.

Would she fare any better as a widow? She would still be as thoroughly adrift. She had no child, no innocent heir to the dukedom, to rally the Triollese. Indeed, till his body was found, it was possible Iruvain's brother, Lord Roreth, had survived the carnage at Pannal. If he had, and Iruvain died, Roreth would be the next duke.

What would her brother by marriage do then? Take her on as his brood mare, for the sake of her claim to Sharlac now that both her own brothers were dead? Or would he see that obligation best avoided and her reputation too tarnished? Litasse judged Lord Roreth's loyalties would be to Triolle first and last. He'd want rid of her as soon as possible.

Would she be married off to some captain of mercenaries? Some hard-faced ruffian who'd overlook her rumoured adultery for some share in the spoils of Triolle or Sharlac's restoration?

Tears trickled down her exhausted face. Should she leave Iruvain and flee to her mother, go back to being a dutiful daughter? She doubted she'd be any safer. This Lord Rousharn, supposed protector of Duchess Aphanie, was hand in glove with these exiles. Karn had established that. Apparently his wife had been part of these Vanam plots from the outset.

Anyway, how could she even get a letter to her mother? She had no courier doves, ready to fly back to the castle lofts where they had hatched. None of Master Hamare's remaining informants knew where the widowed duchess was, to pass discreet letters on.

Was her fate sealed regardless? How long before the Archmage of Hadrumal accused her of defying his ban on wizardry in Lescar's wars? She was as guilty of suborning sorcery as she was of adultery. How could she defend herself? By insisting those exiles had used wizardry of their own, sending those Mountain Men to assassinate Master Hamare?

Even if anyone believed her, how could that justify what she had done? Her crime hadn't been one of impulse. She had sent Karn to search out a renegade mage. She had promised the wizard gold and jewels to use his arcane powers against Triolle's foes.

Litasse pressed her wet face into the stained pillow. She didn't even have the consolation of success. Minelas the mage had proved worthless. Whatever his wizardly talents, Litasse had only seen huckster's tricks and lies. Worse, he had tortured those women, those rebel spies whom Karn had captured. Not to learn what they knew of these exiles and who had encompassed Hamare's death, but just to satisfy his own revolting, perverted lusts. And Karn had thought that a price worth paying.

The Archmage knew every shameful detail. The wizard woman had made that plain, when she appeared in that foul garret, intent on punishing Minelas. Litasse would have been taken captive to the wizard city there and then, if not for those same assassins sent by some magecraft to rescue the captured women. That was the cruellest wound of all; that she owed her escape from such utter folly to the very men who had killed Hamare.

The most quick-witted had challenged the magewoman. Did the Council of Hadrumal want Minelas's crimes shouted from the rooftops? His guilt would stain every wizard, in the eyes of ordinary men and women. He swore he would spread the whole shameful tale from sunrise to sunset if the Archmage pursued Litasse. Leave her penitent and humbled and no one would be the wiser.

Litasse wept in earnest, the pillow stifling her sobs. The assassin had saved her but she owed him no gratitude. He or one of his confederates had killed Pelletria, her faithful maid, longest serving keeper of Hamare's secrets and the one person left to whom Karn deferred. The loyal woman had been brutally thrown down a stairwell to break her aged neck.

When the opening door startled her awake, Litasse realised grief and fatigue had brought blessed oblivion. The dim light through the window was unchanged, so she had no notion how long she'd slept.

Karn tossed silver bracelets and a lapis necklace onto the darned coverlet. 'I'll sell these later so you'll have some coin that Iruvain doesn't know of.'

'What did you do?' Still woolly-headed with sleep, Litasse looked askance at the jewellery.

'Iruvain won't find her so alluring with two black eyes and a broken nose.' Karn smiled with cruel satisfaction. 'And she'll have some task convincing anyone of her virtue when she's found stripped and robbed in a surprisingly well-travelled back alley.'

Litasse contemplated his spoils feeling a little sick. Had the foolish girl really deserved that?

'She's the eldest daughter of Lord Zervan,' Karn continued. 'His estates are near Dromin in Carluse. I don't think he knew she was whoring herself. Perhaps Iruvain was hoping to win some coin from her for his silence.'

'Truly?' However much she despised him, Litasse struggled to believe her husband would stoop to blackmail.

'Better news.' Karn sank onto one knee, confiding. 'I have a letter from Her Grace your mother, passed to one of Master Hamare's friends here. Lord Leysen remains steadfast in his support for you both.'

'Truly?' Litasse's relief drove all other considerations aside. 'Can we get her a message? Can she send me money?'

Karn's smile widened. 'All in good time. Leysen has more news. There's been fresh fighting in Carluse, on the road between Tyrle and Ashgil. These rebels have no secure hold on whatever they think they've gained.'

'Who's fighting who?' Litasse tried to decide what this could mean.

Chapter Seven

Failla

The Tyrle Road Gatehouse,

Ashgil, Carluse,

17th of For-Winter

'Dinant?' She shaded her eyes to study a distant plume of dust. 'Who are those men?'

'I can't see any banners.' The grizzled man held his spyglass firmly against the buffeting breeze. He was an experienced soldier though he no longer wore Carluse's black and white livery along with his buff breeches and metal-studded boots.

Now his dark leather jerkin bore the five-spoked wheel, badge of Losand. That northerly town had suffered long and often in Garnot's quarrels with Jackal Moncan of Sharlac so its inhabitants had readily accepted the new freedoms offered by this rebellion. Dinant was one of four-score who'd volunteered to form the town's new militia and he'd soon been promoted. Now he was serving as a sergeant-at-arms for Ashgil's hastily mustered defenders.

His expression gave Failla a chill despite the sunshine.

'What's wrong?'

'Did you know some merchants' sons decided to try the road south a few days ago?' Dinant chewed on a tuft of his straggling beard. 'They reckoned folk around Tyrle would be desperate for Ashgil goods now they've no market of their own.'

Failla shook her head. 'I'd no idea.'

'The gaggle arrived back at daybreak after whipping their horses bloody.' Dinant's expression was somewhere between contempt and concern. 'They met up with a column of Triolle militia marching under the Soluran's standard. They said the Triollese had already taken a vicious kicking.'

Failla clenched her fists. That was Tathrin's column's second beating at the renegades' hands, according to the little that Kerith had told her. 'But there's still no word where these renegades might be? Or our allies?'

Dinant lowered his spyglass, scowling. 'We have scouts out on all the roads but we've no way of knowing what's befallen them. They might still be hunting for the curs, or they might be lying dead in a ditch.'

'We can't spare any more men to find out?' Failla asked reluctantly.

Dinant slid her a sideways glance. 'Can we spare one to ride for the captain-general?'

'Even the swiftest horse couldn't reach Triolle soon enough for him to send help to us now,' Failla reminded him.

Dinant grunted. 'Well, let's make sure they're not sneaking up from some other direction.'

'How sound are the defences to the east?' Failla asked quietly as they walked around the battlements. She saw their conversation was attracting attention from other men on the gatehouse and those stationed further around the ill-kept walls.

Dinant grunted again. 'The men of Ashgil are stalwart and a goodly number who served in the duke's militia have come forward.'

Failla knew Dinant was a shrewd judge of men but he hadn't answered her question. 'So what's your concern?'

'Those gate timbers are rotten, the hinges rusted. That's why the duke's militia couldn't close them against the Dalasorians. We've got them shut and barred now but how well will they hold?' Dinant shook his head doubtfully. 'Then again, why bother attacking gates when these walls have been left to crumble? A mouse couldn't run all the way around these battlements without risking its neck.' He spat his disgust over the outer face of the masonry.

Beyond the next set of steps leading down inside Ashgil's walls Failla saw the walkway had fallen away entirely for a stretch and a sizeable chunk of masonry had toppled outwards into the ditch. 'You think the renegades will scale the walls?'

'We'll be hard put to stop them, or even to see them before it's too late.' Contemptuous, Dinant gestured at wood-shingled roofs crowded close around the town. 'Every approach is cluttered with these paupers' hovels. Those fools of guildsmen built workshops and warehouses right against the walls. Renegades could sneak up with a siege-tower and no one would notice.' He shook his head again. 'Never mind them creeping close with grapnels and ladders after dark.'

Failla wrapped her cloak close, hoping he would think she shivered from cold. 'Then Saedrin send that Tathrin and his men rout them first.'

Otherwise there was going to be a second battle for Ashgil. This wouldn't be a near-bloodless affair, as when Dalasorian horsemen overwhelmed Duke Garnot's guard. That assault had happened so fast that most Carluse militiamen had just thrown down their weapons and thrown up their hands.

Though if there was a battle, Failla might understand the nightmares that had Tathrin moaning in his fretful sleep, on those few precious nights when he shared her bed.

Blinking away tears prompted by the cold wind, she turned back to look at the road and the rising dust. The marching men approached the shallow ford where a stream cut across the highway. The leaders slowed and the rest bunched haphazard behind.

She saw rags of green and yellow fluttering above the men's heads: Triolle colours tied to their halberds even if they scorned disgraced Duke Iruvain's green grebe.

'It's them.' Failla searched for the rebellion's standard of cream and gold. There it was, towards the front of the column. Surely that would indicate Tathrin and his lieutenants?

Dinant choked on an obscenity before bellowing to the men on the gatehouse. 'Stand-to! Stand-to!'

Motley attackers were swarming out of a hollow between the stream and the town where they'd lain hidden in thick undergrowth. Failla watched, uncomprehending, as they swiftly blocked the high road with bundled brushwood, stacking faggots fore and aft.

As the brass horns screamed their alarm, every archer on the walls made ready. The militiamen whom Dinant had drilled were rushing to the most vulnerable stretches of the wall, bright steel at the ready.