Blood in the Water (37 page)

Branca crossed the Golden Carp’s threshold. The broad inn of brick and timber served travellers who could afford comforts on the road as well as the prosperous merchants they came to meet. Its parlour served fine Tormalin wine to men and women playing thoughtful games of white raven or just enjoying quiet conversation.

Charoleia had entertained a discreet stream of visitors these past few evenings. Or rather, Mistress Halisoun had, her Parnilesse accent faultless, her hair a dowdy brown beneath her lace caps, thanks to Trissa’s deft hand with a dye bottle. Her figure matronly, thanks to heavily padded stays, Mistress Halisoun had once been a governess. She still had a wide acquaintance among the musicians and dancing masters who circulated around noble schoolrooms. Parnilesse’s lords and their ladies were adamant their children’s accomplishments should equal their Tormalin neighbours’.

The parlour was empty, and so was the dining salon. Branca went swiftly up the stairs to halt surprised in the doorway of the bedchamber they shared. Trissa was briskly folding the last of their gowns into the travelling chest.

“Are we leaving?”

“As soon as Lord Usine’s coach arrives.” Charoleia was clearing the dressing table. “We’ll travel as far as possible before dark today.”

Branca wondered in passing what this local lord might owe Mistress Halisoun that made him so very eager to assist her. Never mind; getting safely out of the town was what mattered. She closed the door and shed her cloak. “Why such haste?”

“Lord Geferin and Duke Orlin have realised they’ll be fighting inside Parnilesse’s borders if they don’t make a stand in Triolle.” Charoleia stowed cosmetic jars in their padded coffer. “They’re moving faster than I expected. Duke Iruvain’s messengers must be flogging their horses to half to death.”

“Some rain wouldn’t go amiss, to slow their courier doves.” Branca glanced through the window towards the tall tower where Brynock’s reeve cherished the birds bred in Parnilesse Castle’s lofts. They’d seen two and three fly at a time, each one carrying copies of vital news reaching this first foothold over the river.

“The Parnilesse baggage train will arrive within the day.” Trissa folded a chemise. “The town will be choked with camp followers.”

“If you think the streets are dangerous now…” Charoleia shook her head. “Women following the drum are five times as vicious as their menfolk.”

Branca sat on the bed. “Where are we going?”

“To Carluse, by the straightest route we can find.” Charoleia tucked silver-backed hairbrushes into the coffer’s corners. “Since Parnilesse’s army is doing the same, men and wagons will be nose to tail on the high road. But once we’re beyond Pannal, we can take to the byways. Don’t worry. I’ll find a path to keep us well away from the fighting.” She patted the brass-bound case that held her maps.

Branca didn’t doubt the collection was irreplaceable. These weren’t the broad charts she’d seen Nath drawing up when they’d all been together in Losand. Rather, the long strips of vellum that Charoleia prized followed each major road, noting the hazards, accommodation and settlements the traveller could expect.

She cast her mind back to Nath’s maps. Pannal was a day’s journey into Triolle, beyond the meadows so often submerged beneath winter floods. “Won’t they ask our business, when we cross the bridge?”

“Lord Usine is sending a handful of men to guard us,” Trissa assured her.

“He appreciates Mistress Halisoun’s worth.” Charoleia smiled pertly, then became more serious. “We shall have to shed them once we reach Pannal. We’ll travel a good deal faster by horse and much less noticeably.”

Branca bit her lip. “I don’t know how to ride a horse. We walk, in Vanam, or hire coaches.”

“Oh.” Charoleia looked momentarily surprised. “No matter. We’ll find you a well-tempered beast and we’ll hardly be riding at breakneck pace. We just need to stay ahead of foraging quartermasters.”

“Don’t fret,” Trissa encouraged her.

That was easy for her to say. She’d doubtless been riding horses all her life. As far as Branca was concerned, horses were unpleasantly large, wholly unpredictable and inclined to bite, kick or both, at the slightest provocation. But she’d be cursed before she’d make such a feeble admission to Trissa or Charoleia.

“Could you let Master Aremil know we’ll be leaving here today?” Charoleia’s gaze was sympathetic. “And do give him our fondest regards.”

“How is he?” Trissa asked.

“Still very distressed.” Branca’s own tears threatened.

If she or Kerith or some other adept had been able to master the right enchantments, could they have stopped this war before Aremil’s worst fears for his unknown brother had been so brutally realised?

Steeling herself, she went to the window, gazing unseeing at the mossy roof opposite.

“
Al daera sa Aremil sast elarmin as feorel.
”

It hardly took a moment’s thought to reach him.

“
They’ve found his body.
”

His unguarded thoughts washed over her. She was instantly drawn into the echoing stone hall of Aremil’s imagination. No semblance of sunlight shone through the coloured windows. Outside, all was dark, torches blazing along the pillared aisles within.

His crippled self sat motionless in the shadows while the reflection of the man he so desperately wished he could be paced impatiently back and forth. She was shocked to feel his distress coloured with fury.

He was incensed at Tathrin’s unguarded instant of relief when he had heard Lord Cassat was dead. Aremil couldn’t forgive his friend. Even if the battle for Tyrle, indeed both battles, had been the most savage, the most closely fought struggles of all their campaign thus far. Even if the balance could easily have tipped against them, if luck and Lord Cassat’s leadership had inspired the Draximal army.

Branca gasped as she saw a young man’s blighted face, his hair burned away, the skin blackened and cracked to show dull red flesh beneath. One eye was entirely gone. Consumed by fire or eaten by some scavenging animal? She couldn’t escape Tathrin’s horrified thoughts when he’d come to make certain this really was Cassat’s body, finally reclaimed from the battlefield.

“
They won’t tell me if he was killed with magic.”

Aremil’s anger was swelling rather than receding. Branca wasn’t sure what to say for the best.

“Reher only helped bring down the towers, didn’t he? So the Mountain Men could scale the walls. Sorgrad wasn’t even there.”

She opened her thoughts to Aremil, to remind him of that uncanny magewoman with her grisly talents in Relshaz, who was already hunting down renegade wizards. Tathrin had insisted she’d warned Sorgrad off using his magic in battle.

“
They arrived just before the battle. Ask Charoleia if he could keep his wizardry to himself once the fighting started!”

Branca saw the Mountain Man had sworn he was innocent. Tathrin wanted to believe him, to credit Sorgrad with that much decency. Aremil couldn’t help suspecting the ruthless mercenary had used his magic to do deliberate murder. She shook her head, dizzy with all these layers of thought and memory blurring her mind’s eye.

“What’s the latest news from Tyrle? Is everyone all right?”

Branca’s vision of Aremil’s hall wavered as Charoleia took her hand. She snatched it away.

“A moment, please.”

But Aremil was already answering. Branca’s heart twisted as she felt his bleak relief at having something else on which to focus his thoughts.

“
There’s a great deal to do before we can pursue Duke Iruvain. Our men must rest and tend their wounds. The muster rolls are being revised. It seems we’ve lost around five hundred men from our fighting strength.
”

Branca winced at a vision of the battlefield littered with the plundered dead and dying.

“
Duke Iruvain lost at least the same number when we took the town. More than eight hundred died beyond the walls with Lord Cassat. We’ve more than two and a half thousand prisoners. They must be escorted to Abray under guard.”

Branca remembered what had happened after the first battles in Carluse. “Can’t we enlist them in our own army? To make up our numbers?”

“
Some, but there are a great many companies we don’t want anywhere near our own, troublemakers, brutes and the like. Not that our army can boast of any great virtue.”

Aremil’s rising anger drew her back into the stone hall. He was pacing again, the torches on the pillars blazing.

“
Some of our companies began looting Tyrle as soon as the walls were breached. They’re being allowed to keep what they stole, as are those companies sworn to Triolle who decided to surrender. Tathrin says if they can carry their booty, they’re allowed to take it with them.
”

Aremil couldn’t conceal his outrage even as he explained the captain-general’s reasoning.

“
Too many men have made a bad bargain taking a duke’s coin. They’ll be looking to cut their losses. If we let them keep what they can carry, to see them through the winter, they’re more likely to keep on walking once they reach the Great West Road.
”

Charoleia took Branca’s hand once more, insistent. “Do we know where Duke Iruvain is now?”

“Aremil? The Duke of Triolle—?”

For the first time, Branca saw the pacing facsimile of Aremil frozen as his true semblance sitting in the high-backed chair stirred.

“
All Tathrin can say is he hasn’t reached Triolle Castle. Apparently Sorgrad has been scrying on Duchess Litasse, though he won’t say why. As best as we can tell, Iruvain led near half the Draximal army away in good order. Our scouts say about the same number of his own militia and mercenaries are already heading back to Triolle. They’re the ones who saw sense and abandoned Tyrle during the night after the walls were first breached. Iruvain’s been beaten, but not defeated.”

He looked straight at her, visibly troubled.

“
Apparently a sizeable contingent of Draximal mercenaries have abandoned their allegiance completely. We’re trying to find out where they’re headed.”

Charoleia took her hand once again. “Branca, the coach is here.”

“I’m sorry, we have to go.”

“
Go carefully.”

“We will,” she promised him fervently as his presence in her mind faded away.

She drew a deep breath.

“Well, what’s the news?” Charoleia tucked a wisp of Mistress Halisoun’s dull hair under her lace cap.

“I’ll tell you in the carriage.” Branca looked at her. “Would Sorgrad have killed Lord Cassat? With his wizardry?”

“He could have, though I doubt it. Does it matter?” Charoleia tied her cloak’s ribbons and raised her hood. “Lord Cassat could just as easily have been killed by an arrow or a lance. War’s a perilous business for men of all ranks.” She frowned. “Did Aremil say anything about Ridianne the Vixen? How soon are her forces expected to reach Marlier’s border?”

“My lady,” Trissa warned as someone knocked on the bedchamber door.

“We can discuss it in the carriage.” Charoleia handed Branca her cloak. “You can tell our friends from me, if something doesn’t hobble Lord Geferin or slow Ridianne the Vixen’s advance, Captain-General Evord’s prospects will be balanced on a knife-edge. I’ll put some thought to wedging a stone into Parnilesse’s shoe. Tell Tathrin he and Sorgrad and Gren could do well to pay a visit to Marlier on the same errand.”

Falling silent, Charoleia nodded and Trissa opened the door to admit the inn’s porters, ready to carry their luggage down to the coach.

Walking beside Trissa, Branca followed Charoleia down the stairs. She didn’t doubt Charoleia’s assessment. She’d soon realised the woman could have been a mercenary captain to rival the finest company’s tacticians if she hadn’t scorned the hardships of such a life. No matter how many battles they won, it seemed they could never be certain of victory.

Not unless magic tipped the scales.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Litasse

Triolle Castle,

24th of Aft-Autumn

“He’s here.” Karn slipped through the music room’s door.

Litasse caught a glimpse of the man behind him, the candles on the stair burnishing golden hair. The wizard had finally come? Her stomach hollowed with apprehension.

“Your Grace, may I present Master Minelas of Grynth?” Karn bowed with unusual formality. “Master Minelas, I have the honour to make you known to Her Grace Duchess Litasse of Triolle.”

She studied him frankly, as Hamare had taught her. Perhaps a couple of years older than her husband, he wasn’t as tall or as well muscled as Iruvain. Still, he wore boots and breeches with an ease suggesting he preferred riding to coach journeys. How far had he ridden? Beneath his dusty cloak, his midnight-blue doublet was creased and travel-stained.

“Grynth is in the far north of Ensaimin, Your Grace.” The slender man was neither overawed by her rank nor discomfited by his dishevelment. “A town of wool merchants and mine owners, tucked between the mountains and the plain.”