Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (6 page)

'
Failla, it's Kerith.'

Why was he assailing her with his foul enchantments? Her heart skipped a terrified beat. Had something happened to Anilt?

As he explained, her breathing barely slowed. Finally his loathsome voice concluded.

'
So you must leave, at first light, before the renegades come anywhere close.
'

'Once I've warned the guildmasters.' She knotted her hands in her lap, knuckles white, as his abrupt departure from her thoughts left her trembling.

Then she squared her shoulders and rose, walking quickly through the stalls where Ashgil's traders sold their goods in the market hall's open lower storey. Whatever the current uncertainties, people must keep themselves clothed and fed.

Halfway along, a broad stone stair filled the space between two pillars, rising to the long upper room. In more normal times, local merchants would gather there to make deals and share news while their apprentices and journeymen conducted more mundane commerce below.

This market day, the guildsmen had been discussing the town's uncertain future, after the withdrawal of the Dalasorians under Pata Mezian. His lancers had first captured then defended Ashgil in Captain-General Evord's name. It had been one of Duke Garnot's most loyal towns, but Pata Mezian's lightning assault had drawn his startled watchdogs' teeth before they had even been able to bark.

Word of the Dalasorians' recent departure must have reached Wyril, Failla reflected, to prompt this new boldness from the renegades.

She knew the Ashgil guildsmen were wracked with apprehension and uncertainty. She'd seen the strain in their faces when she had delivered her uncle's letters. Would they accept his reassurances, sealed with his authority as Carluse Town's most revered priest, sworn to Saedrin's shrine?

She'd also noted which guildsmen had most shamelessly tried to see down the neck of her gown as she curtseyed. Master Satril, for one. The master butcher had eyed her like a wolf coveting a suckling lamb. Did he fancy his chances with the dead duke's whore? Did he think she was so unprotected?

Little did he know. As she had delivered Uncle Ernout's letters Failla had been careful not to catch Master Odlan's eye.

Though of all the influential men of this district, the miller had been the only one to join her uncle and his allies in helping those suffering under Garnot's rule. Odlan had discreetly set aside a hundredth share of flour ground from ducal grain, its loss attributed to rats. Ernout's men would leave it on the windowsills of the hungry, or stow it inside looted doorways. They'd had a visit from the Woodsmen, grateful recipients whispered to trusted friends. Naturally the priests and guildsmen all professed themselves astonished that anyone still believed those old wives' tales of hidden benefactors living unseen in the forests.

Failla was waiting for the miller's clandestine reply to the private letter she'd brought him from her uncle. Back in Carluse, Aremil and Ernout needed to know every detail of the Ashgil Guilds' discussions in this upper hall.

Grey skirts flowing gracefully, Failla walked to the foot of the stair. The watchman drowsing in his cubbyhole was too slow to stop her. But as she reached the upper landing, she saw a burly sergeant-at-arms standing before the council room's closed door. He looked at her unsmiling, leaning on his halberd. The infinitesimal shake of his head told her all she needed to know.

Failla favoured him with her sweetest smile as she swiftly considered her options. Barely slowing, she turned to the smaller room opposite that claimed barely a quarter of this upper floor. As she knocked on the door, low conversation inside stopped dead.

'Come in,' a surprised voice said.

Faces hardened as Failla entered. They knew who she was. Of all the town's sewing circles, this would be the most well informed, the most influential, dominated by guildsmen's wives and mothers, with their daughters by birth and marriage invited to listen and learn the more subtle governance of the town.

'May I ask what you want?' A grave-faced woman set the linen cap she was embroidering down in her lap.

'We've nothing to say to the likes of you.' A stout woman in a sprigged pink gown snapped her scissors viciously.

'I have urgent news which you must share with your husbands.' Failla met the grave-faced woman's gaze. Whoever she was, it was a safe bet the sergeant-at-arms wouldn't deny her.

Through her lashes, she saw the younger women were agog, questions burning their throats. What had her life as Duke Garnot's mistress truly entailed? Were the jewels, the gowns, the delicacies served at his table sufficient recompense for her duties in his bedchamber? And those duties . . . ?

'We don't consort with whores.' A dark-haired woman threw a hunk of wood into the fire with venomous precision.

'No?' Failla stood her ground. 'So Ashgil's shrines provide for every woman left destitute? No mother who's lost her husband to Duke Garnot's militias need ever choose between selling her body and feeding her children? Any girl abused by some passing mercenary can hope for an honourable man's love, not to be cast out as ruined goods?'

'Is that--' A fresh-faced young woman broke off and shook chestnut ringlets forward, to hide her blush of mortification at speaking out of turn.

Failla answered her regardless. 'I made my own choice. There was only my mother and myself. My father abandoned us long since and he'd no trade, so there was no Guild for us to call on. There was rent to pay and the quarterly levy, even when we had no coin to put bread on our table.'

Though they would never have entirely starved, thanks to relatives sharing what little they could spare from the little they had. Naturally Failla was expected to be properly grateful, fetching and carrying and minding babies and cleaning floors and running countless errands, endlessly told to be glad of such charity. Eventually she preferred to go hungry rather than choke on such barbed generosity.

Folding her hands at her waist, she looked around the room. 'Those who prosper in Carluse Town are generous to Saedrin's shrine. My mother and I could take our place with the paupers, for our share of leftovers and remnants cleared from the back shelves of pantries. I could unpick cast-off gowns in hopes of enough good fabric to make up a dress. Or I could sell the one thing I had that men value. So I sold it for the best possible price. I was young and I was foolish but I believed that was the least of the evils besetting me.'

If these women expected shame-faced tears of remorse, they were mistaken.

'You're not the first to make such a bargain.' The grave-faced woman contemplated the yellow silk flower she had completed.

'I'm guessing you were Duke Garnot's last.' A broad-hipped matron on the far side of the hearth nodded with a glint in her hazel eyes. 'Shut the door, girl. You're letting in a fearsome draught.'

As a goodwife with shadowed eyes nudged her neighbour along their bench, Failla bobbed a curtsey and perched on the end.

She still felt the chill of hostility in the room. If these women were to believe her warning of approaching renegades, if they weren't to let loose their own fears and frustration upon her, like hedge sparrows mobbing a hawk, she must win them over, at least a little. This conversation would have to follow its natural course, until she could turn it to her purposes. As long as the guildsmen knew what threatened them before nightfall.

She contemplated the three goddesses on the mantelshelf. It would be a brave and foolhardy guildsman who challenged the women's tacit claim to this place by removing them.

Maewelin stooped over her stick, swathed in a voluminous shawl. Her sharp eyes were vigilant for any who'd abuse the widows and orphans she cared for. The Winter Hag always had plenty of devotees in Lescar.

Crowned with a circle of braids, Drianon held her besom in one hand, her other arm cradling a sheaf of wheat. Her level gaze reminded Failla of her Aunt Derou. Like Derou, the mother-goddess would curse any who abused her hospitality, driving them from her threshold with a clout from her house-broom if needs be.

Halcarion was more modestly dressed than Failla was used to. Garnot had favoured paintings of the goddess of love and luck clad in gossamer and a winsome smile. He paid artists to model her luscious curves on Failla's naked form. Why shouldn't he strip her for other men's eyes, when he paid for every stitch that clothed her? These Ashgil women doubtless prayed their more decorous goddess would protect their daughters from the perils of catching the wrong man's eye.

'What's this news of yours?' the hazel-eyed matron demanded after a few moments. 'What truly befell Duke Garnot in Tyrle?'

Was her husband currently discussing some fresh rumour with his colleagues across the way? Or had the guildsmen's wish to know been a recent topic within the privacy of her marriage bed's curtains? Either way, Failla had some measure of the truth to share.

'He was found dead in an upper room of the Triolle Gate after Tyrle was taken by the rebellion's army. A Carluse man lay fallen beside him, and another in Triolle livery. There were bloodied blades on the floor. As to who killed who and why?' She shrugged. 'Poldrion only knows.'

'I'll wager the marsh-squatter murdered both Carluse men,' muttered the woman in pink.

'One Triolle man overcame two of our own?' The dark-haired woman who'd called Failla a whore was indignant. 'The duke such a noted swordsman?'

The grave-faced woman raised a work-roughened hand. 'You can tell us how Duchess Tadira died.'

Every linen rustle stilled. Failla was equal to this challenge.

'Tadira ordered my death. I had made my way into Carluse Town and up to the castle while the rebels and their army besieged it. The Soluran had already driven Duke Garnot away. Captain-General Evord didn't want to storm the town and see innocent folk caught between his men and the castle's swords. He wanted the garrison to know the truth, along with the militiamen holding the walls. Duke Garnot was beaten, his hold over Carluse broken. Carluse men had the chance to rule themselves, just as your husbands and brothers have done since the Dalasorians set you free of Garnot's leash.'

Her brief gesture took in the whole town beyond the room.

'When I was discovered, Lord Ricart beat me bloody. Tadira wanted me dead before I could tell anyone the Soluran offered mercy. Before I told her household how her men-at-arms had plundered the town, taking food and fuel from their kin even though they had no hope of finding more. All so Tadira could hold her vanquished husband's castle for half a season longer.

'One sergeant stood between me and Tadira's henchman's sword. He said if I'd committed some crime, I should be fairly accused and tried. Only Tadira had already locked up Saedrin's priest. Her men had hanged one guildmaster and beaten another close to death. She cared nothing for justice.'

Despite her best efforts, Failla's voice shook. 'A groom in the stables was thrown into a dungeon just for trying to leave the castle to visit his mother. The boy was left starving in the darkness shackled to a corpse.'

As the women shuddered, she went on. 'Tadira took up a sword to kill me herself. A crossbow bolt from the battlements stopped her. Another archer brought down Lord Ricart when he tried to cut my throat.'

'Have these men been brought to answer?' the ringletted girl whispered, horrified.

Failla shook her head. 'They haven't come forward and no one has given them up.'

'Raeponin's scales must be balanced.' The dark-haired woman glanced at the other statues above the fireplace, set in formal niches.

Robed in blue and hooded in white, Raeponin, god of justice, stood with his scales and his warning bell. Mightiest of gods, Saedrin brandished his keys to the door leading to the Otherworld. Ominous in black, Poldrion leaned on his oar, ready to ferry the dead to that final threshold.

'You have a great deal of blood on your hands, for people who claim to be seeking peace.' The grave-faced woman looked sternly at Failla. 'Moncan of Sharlac and his heir died first. Our Duke Garnot, his duchess and heir are all slain. Secaris of Draximal has lost both his heir and his army. Orlin of Parnilesse and his family have been murdered to the last infant.'

'If we could have brought peace to Lescar without warfare, we would have,' Failla promised. 'As Saedrin will judge us all at the gate to the Otherworld.'

'You call this peace?' the dark-haired woman demanded. 'With our duke dead, what's to stop Ferdain of Marlier putting his boot on our necks?'

'Duke Ferdain was hamstrung when his mistress the Vixen threw in her lot with the Soluran,' Failla countered, 'rather than see her men killed for no more gain than Parnilesse's advantage. She commands all Marlier's mercenaries and militias and they haven't the strength left to venture beyond their own borders now.'

The hazel-eyed matron ripped the cambric she held, startling them all. 'You have torn Lescar into rags. Who will stitch it back together?'

'You can help,' Failla retorted, 'unless you're willing to leave it to your husbands.'

'Fighting's none of our affair.' The pink-clad woman's needle stabbed the linen in her tambour. 'Men do as they please while we staunch their wounds and sweep up the wreckage.'

'You don't share any blame for Lescar's strife?' Now Failla challenged the whole gathering. 'How many of you have some scrap of a bloodstained shirt, a torn kerchief passed down from mother to daughter? Deny that you've restitched the name of the place where he died, that brother or husband for whose sake some woman first hemmed and embroidered that remembrance, her own urn long since set in a shrine and forgotten.'