Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (3 page)

'The captain-general thinks much the same.' Dagaran looked steadily at Tathrin.

He knew they were right. He chewed his lip dubiously all the same. Could he possibly convince the resentful Triollese to take up arms on another dukedom's behalf? When their sons had so often been forcibly recruited into the militias, to bleed and die in their liege lord's endless futile quarrels. He knew the tavern chimney-corner sages were saying the dukes of Carluse and Draximal had merely reaped what they had sown.

In all honesty, Tathrin struggled to care as much for those slain in the atrocious sack of Wyril as he now feared for Ashgil. Even if Failla had not been there, Ashgil's inhabitants were Carlusian. They were his kith and kin in a way the Draximal folk of Wyril simply were not.

But they had come to bring peace for all Lescari. He had to do this. There was no other option. Tathrin resolutely thrust aside all the doubts and preoccupations hanging around him, as dispiriting as the chill mists rising from Triolle's sodden turf. In some perverse fashion, having a clearly defined task came as a relief. Anything was better than contemplating the looming, elusive ordeal of bringing a lasting peace out of all this uncertainty.

He turned to Dagaran. 'If the captain-general won't release his mercenary companies to us, I hope he won't object to us recruiting some sergeants to stiffen our militiamen's backbones?'

The Soluran smiled. 'I'm sure he won't.'

'We can tell you who to tap on the shoulder.' Gren was honing a dagger with his whetstone.

'They'll want paying,' Sorgrad reminded Tathrin.

He nodded. 'So we must ask Aremil what's left in the war chest.'

And surely Aremil would have more success raising a militia inside Carluse, to defend their own people in Ashgil?

Chapter Two

Aremil

Carluse Castle,

10th of For-Winter

He contemplated the final reports from the mercenary captains in charge of Sharlac and Losand, the first two towns they had captured. Now he needed to decide who to promote in their place, from the militia companies each town had raised against the possibility of the dukes attacking. Given a taste of freedom, none of the guildsmen and merchants was willing to resubmit to their authority.

Which was all well and good, Aremil reflected. But would those same guildmasters begin quarrelling with their rivals in other towns and dukedoms or would they see the benefits of cooperation? If so, who among them would expect to be in charge? Who would make most trouble if they felt overlooked?

Then there were the heaped letters from Lescari nobles, more arriving every day. Captain-General Evord had made it plain that answering those was Aremil's responsibility.

What should he say to those gently born folk who'd swiftly thought better of riding to assist their liege lords, once they'd realised the Soluran was intent on carrying his shocking campaign to a decisive conclusion? A good number wanted recognition and, yes, reward for their forbearance, some share of the plunder they imagined the mercenaries now hoarded.

What of the tear-stained appeals from the families of those who had dutifully answered their dukes' call and paid a brutal price? They begged for news of their loved ones, asking what ransom might buy their freedom. Everyone knew that mercenaries bought and sold their captives as readily as they traded their booty.

Before he could answer those, Aremil must consult Dagaran's ledgers, to discover which fathers, sons or brothers had died, to be burned on some battlefield pyre. Then he must discover where those who still lived were being held - not for ransom, but until they gave their oath not to raise a hand in any duke's cause. Was he now responsible for imprisoning those proving obdurate?

Aremil's head ached at the thought of trying to decipher any more scrawl. His eyesight had always been weak, but lately even the clearest writing blurred in all but the strongest light. The grimy windows of this cramped room were already dim as the afternoon slipped into evening.

Letters from the Guild Councils of Lescar's market towns made another pile. Some were defiant, others abusive. All demanded what was to be done regarding highway dues and town gate tolls and rents and levies due at midwinter.

Aremil gazed at the flames dancing in the hearth. How quickly might those letters burn? Especially that one double-sealed with the fire-basket emblem of Draximal pressed deep into the wax? But that would be no answer.

Only he had so little to say to all these people. Yes, their rebellion had overthrown the dukes and taken possession of their castles in Carluse, Sharlac and Triolle. No, they would not stand for the return of the old tyrannical order. But what did they propose in its place?

Why had all this responsibility landed on his twisted shoulders? He contemplated his crutches, propped against the desk. Because he couldn't ride into battle like Tathrin or undertake the vital journeys their fellow conspirators were currently making.

He contemplated the inkwell and the sticky quill. His fingers and cuff were stained and his page was blotted to illegibility. He must find someone reliably discreet to do his scribing since haste made his shaky handwriting even worse.

Some keeper of his secrets could also run up and down Carluse Castle's stairs, even ride a horse when speed was of the essence. Someone hale and strong, unlike Aremil, crippled by his mother's ordeal in her first childbed. Crippled, yet generously provided for. Sent into anonymous exile, but sent to Vanam and its unrivalled scholars once it was apparent his intellect was undimmed, even if his legs were weak and twisted, however much his hands shook and his voice faltered.

He contemplated the Draximal-sealed letter, still unopened. At least Tathrin had faced his father's wrath. Aremil still had to endure his parents' condemnation, their grief over his unknown brother's death. As word of his true parentage spread, how many would whisper behind their hands, wondering how long it would be before this supposed Master Aremil of Vanam claimed his rightful place as Lord Aremil, heir to Draximal, since he was indeed Duke Secaris's first-born son?

Aremil's heart was hollow with a different loss. Branca knew he had no desire to claim any such rank but she was travelling to Tormalin on Lescar's eastern border, carrying their carefully crafted response to Tormalin Imperial outrage at the autumn's slaughters.

With such chaos raging just across the River Asilor, within bowshot of his nobles' holdings, Emperor Tadriol was surely already mustering Tormalin's legions to defend those border domains. Placating him was one of their most urgent and difficult tasks.

Aremil glanced at the modest timepiece over the mantel. How soon would Branca use her enchantments to speak to him, reaching through the unseen aether that offered a conduit between minds to those who had mastered the mysteries of Artifice?

Until then, should he use his own apprentice skills to contact Tathrin? Unlike the elemental magic of wizards, who could only speak to each other through their spells, Artifice offered a skilled adept the enchantments to contact folk with no knowledge or understanding of their craft.

Aremil sighed. It had seemed so simple. Sending information hither and yonder as swiftly as one adept could talk to another would give their rebellion a decisive advantage over enemies still limited to letters carried by horse or courier dove. They could recruit some of Lescari blood from among those scholars studying this ancient, largely forgotten magic.

It was little more than a curiosity after all, offering none of the lethal potential of magecraft. Such ferocious sorcery was expressly forbidden to Lescar's armies. Any duke enlisting a wizard to cast spears of lightning across a battlefield or to summon up elemental floods to drown his foes would face the Archmage's extreme displeasure. No one knew quite what that might be, because no one in recorded memory had dared risk it. But no Archmage had ever claimed suzerainty over Artifice, and as Aremil had predicted, it had proved central to their victory.

Only they hadn't quite understood what they were dealing with. Talking to Tathrin face to face was one thing. Reading his thoughts, Aremil found himself increasingly weighed down by his friend's doubts, with fears that Tathrin surely had no intention of sharing. He saw glimpses of the men Tathrin had killed, and felt echoes of his uneasy dreams, caught between the torments of guilt and defiance, knowing his only choice had been to kill or be killed. He knew how much Tathrin feared falling short of the myriad challenges before him.

He had done his best to reassure his friend, and not with empty platitudes. Aremil had faith in Tathrin's mettle, and besides, he gave far less credence to tales of great men alone determining the destiny of thousands. Cities and dominions rose and fell according to the ebb and flow of circumstance. Their whole conspiracy could never have succeeded thus far without riding the tides of resentment already rippling across Lescar.

That didn't mean he was confident of ultimate success, any more than Tathrin was. Unforeseen events were sweeping them all in different directions. With this daily flood of letters and demands, Aremil felt like some miller desperately trying to manage his sluices while winter rain swelled an uncaring river, threatening to smash all he had worked for into ruins.

He could only hope his own uncertainties weren't adding to Tathrin's burdens. Aremil knew he was by far the least proficient of the adepts. Branca and her fellow scholar Kerith had studied Artifice in Vanam's peaceful halls long enough to be skilled at veiling their innermost selves from such unwanted intimacies.

As had Jettin. Aremil looked at another pile of letters. Those all demanded to know what was happening in Parnilesse. Had those leading this rebellion planned the brutal execution of Duke Orlin all along? What crimes had his family, his children, committed that warranted their unsanctioned murder?

Aremil, along with Branca and Kerith, burned to ask Jettin those exact same questions. Their most youthful adept, born in Vanam of exiled Lescari parents, had been sent to Parnilesse with Reniack after their decisive victory in battle at Pannal. The rabble-rouser had promised that the common folk of Parnilesse would follow the rebellion's banner. They had not doubted him.

After all, his skills had been worth another regiment of mercenaries in their campaign. He had written scurrilous pamphlets to entertain gutter riff-raff. His soberly argued broadsheets persuaded those who fancied themselves loftier thinkers. As thatchers and sweeps, stockmen and peddlers wore out their shoes on the byways criss-crossing Lescar, they carried Reniack's writings. They hummed the engagingly seditious songs that he composed for rough-hewn musicians rolling from tavern to tavern.

Only Reniack had gone his own way now, intent on bloody revenge for all he and his long-time confederates had suffered through their years of defying their duke and his tyranny. Somehow Reniack had convinced Jettin to rebuff any approach through the aether. Now none of them had any idea what might be happening in Parnilesse.

A knock rattled the door. Before Aremil could answer, the unheralded caller entered.

'Master Gruit?' Astonished, Aremil looked at the sleepy little girl in the burly merchant's arms, cloaked and creased from travelling. 'Anilt?'

They should be safe in Abray, in Caladhria, along with Kerith. Master Gruit's task was keeping Caladhria's nobles from interfering in Lescari affairs. Who was doing that now?

'Good day, Master Aremil.' Master Gruit smiled wearily. 'Where's the little one's mother?'

'Mama?' The child twisted in his arms, looking around.

Was she looking for Failla, who had borne her in such secrecy? Or for Lathi, the cousin who had fostered her since birth?

'Failla has gone to Ashgil,' Aremil replied. 'She will be surprised to learn you're both here.'

Surprised and displeased. Had Gruit no notion of his folly in bringing the child to Carluse?

'Delighted too, I'll warrant.' The snowy-haired wine merchant sat on a chair, settling the curly-headed child on his knee.

'Mama coming?' The little girl's brown eyes were huge with uncertainty.

'Soon, chick,' he promised.

'Where is Lathi?' demanded Aremil.

'She had a letter from her husband,' Gruit said tartly, 'insisting that she return to their farm now the battles are done.' His arms closed around the child, a steely glint in his eye. 'Halcarion help the pair of them if they choose to run the gauntlet of beggars and bandits on the road with their own children, but I won't risk Anilt.'

'You think she'll be safe here?' Aremil retorted, taut with anger. 'If she's known to be Failla's child, everyone will guess who her father must be!'

Gruit scowled and the little girl began to grizzle, burying her round face in his cloak's fur collar.

'She needs supper, a bath and a bed.' The merchant's expression brooked no argument.

'Tegel!' Aremil rang the little brass bell beside his inkwell. The youthful lackey came quickly from the outer room.

'He said he was a friend of yours.' He shot an accusing look at Gruit.

'He is,' Aremil assured the youth. 'Please, can you find Serafia?'

The youth nodded. 'Of course.'

'She's another of Failla's cousins,' Aremil explained, low-voiced, as the boy departed. 'She's been nursing the wounded here. She can take Anilt outside the castle, well away from the gossips.'