Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (4 page)

Serafia's son Kip was another fatherless child, both of them bereft when her beloved Elpin had died in Duke Garnot's militia. Aremil stifled a qualm. Surely she wouldn't refuse to shelter Anilt, just because the child was Duke Garnot's daughter?

'Very well.' Gruit's jowled face sagged.

Aremil tried to recall the portrait of Lord Ricart that had once hung in this chamberlain's office, before the acknowledged heir to the dukedom had died, along with his formidable mother. What about Anilt's legitimate half-sisters? He tried to recall their faces, before they were sent away to be securely housed with Duke Moncan of Sharlac's widow and orphaned daughters. Overthrowing the dukes was all very well but their relicts were proving yet another unforeseen complication.

Did Anilt bear any striking resemblance to her father? Aremil couldn't decide. It hardly mattered. Everyone in Carluse knew Failla had been Duke Garnot's mistress these past four years. Any child she had borne could only be the duke's bastard. No man would dare trespass in his bed.

Failla had gone to such desperate lengths to protect her child; otherwise Anilt's life would have been spent as a plaything in the dead duchess's diplomacy. When chance had offered the hope of concealing her unwanted pregnancy, Failla had seized it. After giving birth, she had lived for the day when the duke would discard her, to reclaim her child from Lathi and travel far enough away to live in anonymity. That was why she had joined their conspiracy: to see Duke Garnot thrown down, never again to cast a shadow over their lives.

Aremil wondered if Failla had even shed a tear when she learned Garnot had died. He glanced at the letters demanding to know exactly how the Carluse duke had been killed. That was another question he had no answer for. But one thing at a time.

'Why not keep Anilt safe in Abray?' He looked searchingly at Gruit.

The old man forced himself to his feet, walking around and patting the child's back to soothe her. 'Caladhria's barons are still muttering into their soup, complaining about these feckless Lescari and their squabbles, wondering how best to profit by selling winter fodder and blankets to both sides. It's business as usual for them.'

'There's no word of them summoning their parliament before Solstice?' Tension knotted Aremil's shoulders.

'They won't tear up their customary calendar on our account.' Cradling the child as he resumed his seat, Gruit's tone was certain. 'But we had better have some path to peace pegged out before the barons gather in Ferl. Otherwise this Winter Parliament could be the first in living memory where enough Caladhrian barons agree on the same thing to take some decisive action. Duke Ferdain of Marlier is writing to all his allies on the far banks of the Rel. No end of Carluse and Triolle nobles have washed up in Relshaz and the riverside towns. They're calling in debts and favours and promising both moons and the stars in between to whoever helps them reclaim their own.'

'Then why aren't you in Abray to hobble such talk?' Aremil demanded. 'Why risk yourself and Anilt on the road? What does Kerith have to say about this?'

Why hadn't Kerith warned him? The scholar could have reached through the aether before Gruit's coach had rattled through Abray's town gates.

'Kerith thinks I'm visiting Baron Dacren's country estate, with the chick and her nurse.' Gruit held Anilt close now the little girl was asleep. 'Please offer my sincerest apologies.' He contemplated Anilt's tear-stained face. 'Warn him to quit the house in Abray. There's Tormalin coin in a bag under my bedroom floorboards, enough to pay the servants what they're owed until Solstice. I settled all the tradesmen's accounts to the end of Aft-Autumn but there's no coin to clear For-Winter's debts. Though Kerith's name is on nothing. He cannot be held liable at law for anything I have done.'

'I don't understand.' A tremor shook Aremil.

'There's no money left.' A mischievous smile lightened Gruit's lined face.

'But . . . the captain-general's disbursements?' Tathrin had assured Aremil that the chests of gold coin had arrived, discreetly conveyed to Evord's camp by the Soluran's most trusted men. 'The funds from Lescari exiles?'

There were enough such outcasts, in every town along the great highways running east and west. Over the generations, those who could scrape together enough coin to flee had settled in Tormalin, in Caladhria, among the independent cities and fiefdoms that made up Ensaimin beyond. Those who prospered had long offered shelter to unfortunates cast onto the high roads with what little they could carry when they had failed to pay their duke's levy at Equinox or Solstice. Other years saw the utterly bereft stumbling along the verges, lucky to salvage the clothes on their backs as their homes and livelihoods burned because smouldering noble hatreds had flared into open warfare.

Such exiles sent gold and silver to their beleaguered families left behind, so their kinsfolk could pay the levies or bribe mercenaries to leave them alone; purchase food and goods, so often in short supply; even buy passage away from their wretched existence for their sons and daughters.

But Aremil had realised that flow of coin merely perpetuated the endless round of blood and pain. That's why he had approached Gruit. Was there any way to deprive the dukes of their gold and silver without starving the commonalty to death? It had been the first step on the road that had brought them both here.

The lengthening silence finally forced Gruit to speak.

'That well of goodwill ran dry by the close of For-Autumn. I still had to buy arrows by the barrel-load, and grain for bread and beer, and meat on the hoof, and pay for everything the captain-general's commissary sergeants have commandeered while he's been campaigning.'

Now the old man's grin was boyishly wicked. 'So I secured more coin with false promises and outright lies. I've sold property I don't own and guaranteed delivery of goods that don't exist and faked letters of credit from Selerima to Toremal. Come settling-up at Winter Solstice, there'll be a hue and cry for my blood in Abray, so I intend to be long gone well before then.'

'So every Caladhrian or Tormalin who's ever abused the Lescari as fools and thieves, as less than the scum in a pisspot, will feel vindicated.' Only choking on his outrage silenced Aremil.

'The men I've defrauded are frauds themselves,' Gruit retorted. 'I've only robbed those who've grown fat from Lescari misery. Who've sold mouldy rye for the cost of the finest wheat. Who've bought Lescari flax and hides for a pittance and sold back the cloth and leather for twice the prices paid in Caladhria. Who've sold silks and furs and brassware to our dukes and their duchesses, never caring that Their Graces beggared honest men and women to scavenge the coin for such finery.'

Aremil simply stared at Gruit. Whatever the merchant's justifications, how were they to rebuild Lescar if there was no more money to be had?

A knock interrupted his desperation. 'Enter!'

It was Serafia, slender and wary, drying her chapped hands on the apron protecting her faded green gown. 'Tegel said you wanted me?'

'Please, shut the door.' Aremil waited until she'd done so before continuing. 'This child--'

'I can guess who she is.' Serafia looked apprehensively at Anilt. 'Very well. I'll take her.'

Gruit made no move to surrender the little girl. 'How will you explain her arrival?'

'Half the town's households are sheltering infants and their mothers who fled the burning of Tyrle.' Serafia's expression hardened. 'No one will question one more orphan in my Aunt Derou's kitchen.'

Aremil saw Gruit was still reluctant. 'Who better to care for her than her own family?'

Gruit grunted. 'I can call to see her tomorrow?'

'Aunt Derou will be pleased to see you,' Serafia promised with deceptive mildness.

Aremil had no doubt that formidable matron would rebuke Gruit with scalding words, for his folly and selfishness in subjecting the child to such a journey in winter weather, all to put her in still greater danger. Which would serve Gruit right.

As the merchant rose to hand her over, the little girl woke with a protesting whimper.

Serafia set her down on her feet and stooped to look her in the eye. 'Anilt, would you like some bread and milk? And a cosy bed?'

The little girl nodded, her rosebud mouth quivering.

'Very well.' Raising Anilt's hood to hide her face, Serafia led her to the door. She glanced at Aremil. 'I'll call on you later.'

Gruit smoothed the rumpled front of his tunic, his aged face momentarily forlorn. Then he turned to Aremil, still defiant. 'Bread and milk's hardly to my taste. Where might I find meat and ale?'

'Try the kitchens.' Aremil fixed him with a hard stare. 'Come back as soon as you've eaten. I need to know every last detail of your dealings.'

In the meantime, he would use his skills with Artifice to warn Kerith of the strife about to entangle him. But first, he must tell Tathrin what had happened.

As the door slammed behind Gruit, Aremil closed his eyes. The ancient enchantments of Artifice came more readily now. He need only think the words as he focused his thoughts on his tall, long-limbed friend.

Al daera sa Tathrin ne fol. Sast elarmin ash feorin el sur.

There he was, so muscular now, far more soldier than the scholar he had been when they had first met. He was standing in that elegant reception room in Triolle Castle. If Aremil didn't begrudge Tathrin those light and spacious quarters, he certainly envied them.

'
Aremil?'

Despite all the times they had done this these past seasons, Tathrin still looked startled to hear Aremil's voice in his head.

'I've troubling news, I'm afraid.'

Aremil could feel Duchess Litasse's rich carpet under his feet, and smell the beeswax that polished the table. If he turned, he would be able to see out into the dusky courtyard. It was as if he were there in person. Better than that, he could walk as swiftly as he chose, unhampered by his crutches.

But Tathrin couldn't even see him. Whatever great deeds Tathrin had done, however expert he had become with that sword he wore, Artifice was one skill he didn't have. Though Aremil took care to veil his satisfaction. He didn't want Tathrin to think he was so mean-spirited.

'
Ashgil? What's happened?'

'Ashgil?' Aremil was confused.

Then he saw all Tathrin's thoughts laid open. Ashgil was menaced by the renegade mercenaries? Appalled, he couldn't shield his dismay from his friend.

'
You can't warn Failla?'

'I still haven't mastered that skill.'

Though he hated to admit it, Aremil could still only reach through the aether to other adepts and those closest to his affections like Tathrin.

Could they possibly warn Failla in time? Before those bloodthirsty renegades slaughtered everyone in Ashgil?

Tathrin's stinging rebuke made his head spin.

'
Get Kerith to warn her! He can reach her even if you can't!'

Chapter Three

Branca

The Hall,

Betwixt and Between,

10th of For-Winter

'Why are we meeting here?' she demanded.

Jettin shrugged. 'It's as good a place as any.'

'This is Aremil's place.' Kerith appeared between two of the stone pillars supporting the lofty fan-vaulted roof.

Jettin turned to him. 'Have you fathomed this particular mystery yet? Why does our crippled friend fashion all this out of his imagination, whenever he reaches through the aether to us?' An unkind smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. 'Do you suppose it's some kind of crutch?'

'I think you imagine this will stop us discovering where you are,' retorted Branca.

Ordinarily she would easily have caught some glimpse of wherever Jettin was finding the peace and calm necessary to work his enchantments. Just as Kerith should know she was in the library of this modest manor just within Carluse's borders, she would have seen the honeysuckle panelling of Master Gruit's house in Abray. Instead her mind's eye was filled with this single vision.

The older adept shot her a stern look before addressing Jettin. 'If this is where you feel most comfortable talking to us, so be it.'

'Indeed.' Branca forced an acquiescent nod.

They had been trying to draw the younger man into conversation for days now. She must not drive him away.

To her surprise, Jettin chose to answer her challenge. 'We're in Brynock, if you must know; me and Reniack and a double handful of our friends.'

Branca recalled the town, just on the Parnilesse side of the River Anock that separated it from the dukedom of Triolle. Was it still as cowed and fearful as it had been when she was last there, risking her neck along with her companions, to tally up the forces Lord Geferin was leading to battle in Duke Orlin's name? Was the river still spewing up the corpses of all those who had died under his banner so soon after?

'We have many friends here,' Jettin was assuring Kerith, sauntering down the wide central expanse of the flagstoned hall. The torches bracketed on the pillars flared as he passed. The light flattered his handsome features and olive skin, complemented by his curly black hair and lithe build. 'Plenty of folk are glad to see Orlin and his brothers repaid in full for all their abuses.'