Defiant Peaks (The Hadrumal Crisis)

by Juliet E. McKenna

  ‘Not beyond buying my lady some kidskin gloves from a Friern trader. For my lady wife’s mother, that is,’ Corrain corrected himself. ‘The Widow Zurenne.’

  The kitchen door half opened and Corrain raised his voice. ‘Some ale for my guest would be welcome, when you have a moment.’

  The door opened more fully. ‘Of course.’ It wasn’t the maidservant but the tavern keeper who looked around the taproom before retreating with a scowl boding ill for the absent girl.

  ‘You didn’t have business with anyone from Wrede?’ Vereor raised a bristling eyebrow. ‘Maybe you looked at some furs?’

  ‘From Wrede? No.’ Corrain couldn’t recall ever having dealings with a trader from that distant city. Wrede was in northernmost Ensaimin, tucked into the pine-shrouded foothills where the mountains rose up to divide the lowlands from the wastes of Gidesta.

  ‘So why would a Wrede man ask after you around Ferl’s taverns last night?’ Vereor leaned forward, his elbows on the table. ‘Saying he owed you money after his fool apprentice overcharged you in Duryea’s festival market.’

  ‘Whoever he is, he’s lying.’ But Corrain wondered how many people would have pricked up their ears in hopes of doing the new Baron Halferan a good turn. It wasn’t as though this stranger was making a claim on Corrain’s purse, prompting his friends to say they hadn’t seen him inside a year. He frowned. ‘When did this suspiciously honest fellow arrive?’

  ‘I’ve already asked at the gates.’ Vereor’s grin showed the chipped tooth which Corrain recalled him breaking when he’d tripped and hit himself in the mouth with that very shield hung on the wall.

  ‘Your generous friend arrived a chime after you did, coming down the northern high road. Alas, the gate guards had no notion where you were lodging.’

  ‘Remind me to leave you a purse to buy those lads a few flagons.’ It was good to know he still had friends among Ferl’s troopers. They would have readily guessed he would bring Halferan’s men here but they would need a compelling reason to share any guard captain’s business with a stranger.

  Corrain chewed his lip as the tapster arrived with a jug and two pewter tankards. ‘Your ale, Masters.’

  ‘I never thought to look for anyone following us on the high road,’ he admitted to Vereor as the kitchen door closed behind the man.

  ‘Why should you, safe in Caladhria?’ Vereor shrugged as he poured them each a drink.

  Corrain glanced through the window to see that Reven had the Halferan troopers checking their horses’ hooves one last time. ‘What did this merchant from Wrede look like?’

  ‘Middling tall, middling broad, dressed like any one of ten men on the road.’ Vereor grimaced as he raised his tankard. ‘Nothing to help us catch him if he stole a horse.’

  ‘Just the man to send asking questions in a strange town.’ Corrain took a thoughtful swallow of ale. ‘Did he say where someone might leave answers?’

  ‘At The Dapple Grey Mare.’ Vereor grinned wolfishly. ‘Shall we try to pick up his scent and ask a few questions of our own?’

  Corrain rose to his feet. ‘By all means.’

  He was the baron. If he wasn’t back by the time Reven had the troop ready to ride, they would just have to wait for him.

  All the same, he tapped on the kitchen door. ‘Tell my sergeant I have business in the market place. I’ll be back soon.’

  He didn’t want Reven sending the whole troop out in search of him any more than he wanted the Halferan guardsmen hunting for this stranger before Corrain knew a little more himself.

  ‘Of course, my lord.’ The tapster acknowledged his request with a brief bow.

  Leaving through the inn’s wide front door, Corrain and Vereor strode purposefully through the busy streets. Ferl men and women were seizing this chance to run errands without risking a drenching. Corrain had no great concerns about heads turning to wonder why a nobleman was walking among them. He boasted none of the gold rings which the likes of Baron Karpis flaunted and his cloak was the same sturdy brown wool that kept the Halferan troopers warm.

  He and Vereor soon reached the prosperous square overlooked by The Dapple Grey Mare.

  ‘Shall we see how their cellar man keeps his ale?’ the Ferl man suggested.

  Corrain turned to hide his face from the inn across the square. ‘Is that your man? Talking to the lass with the yellow braid around her hems.’

  Vereor frowned. ‘No. Who’s the girl?’

  ‘The maid who served my breakfast at The Shield Wall.’ The one who had taken herself off without the innkeeper’s permission. ‘What’s she doing?’

  ‘Still talking to the man in the Tormalin top boots.’ Vereor narrowed his eyes. ‘I’d say he was born and raised in Imperial lands with those black curls and a bronzed cheek even in midwinter. Whoever he is, he’s very interested in what she has to say,’ he added.

  ‘But this isn’t the man from Wrede?’ Corrain was growing more concerned. One curious traveller following him down the road could just be happenstance. Two hinted at conspiracy. Corrain didn’t believe in coincidence.

  ‘They’re heading off.’ Vereor stiffened. ‘I don’t think they’re looking for a dry wall to rub up against. She’s definitely leading the way.’

  ‘Someone must have told her that news of me could be turned into coin.’ Though Corrain couldn’t imagine what knowing he’d had blood sausage for breakfast was worth. ‘Let’s follow them back to The Shield Wall and they can answer for themselves there.’

  He didn’t doubt that Reven would drive the Tormalin man off, with a whip if needs be, if he tried asking questions among the Halferan guardsmen. As long as he and Vereor were there to block the stranger’s escape, the man in the topboots could pay for his freedom with some answers of his own.

  Corrain raised his cloak’s hood like any number of passers-by foiling the cold. ‘You take the lead.’

  If the girl recognised Vereor, she’d have no cause for concern. A retired guardsman had plenty of business around the town and the tavern.

  ‘Keep your wits about you.’ The older man sauntered across the square.

  Corrain waited for a count of twenty before following. He frowned. They were taking the southerly lane where a cloth market’s prudent awnings flapped in the breeze above trestles and boards piled with bolts of linen, fustian and calico. This wasn’t the way back to The Shield Wall.

  ‘Excuse me, ladies.’ He slipped past a gaggle of women casting disparaging looks at wooden bowls of brass buttons and horn toggles.

  Vereor was already a plough-length ahead. The maid and the man in the Tormalin boots were in some hurry and it wasn’t lust spurring them on. They had already passed two accommodation houses which Corrain knew full well rented rooms by the chime.

  As he reached the end of the cloth stalls, there was no sign of Vereor even though there were no crowds here to hide the old guardsman or his quarry. Corrain spotted a narrow lane cutting between a cobbler’s workshop and a draper’s warehouse. Turning into it, he was relieved to see Vereor striding purposefully towards the far end.

  Corrain followed, pausing at the far end to get his bearings beside a shop selling crocks and pots. Vereor continued, leading him down the street, through another alley and along two further lanes raggedly pocked with puddles still frozen in the shadows.

  The girl was taking the Tormalin man to a district of Ferl where a nicely-reared maid should hesitate to go even in broad daylight. Corrain adjusted his sword hilt. Never mind gold rings. Scoundrels here would happily rob him of his cloak. At least he’d have no one to answer to if he drew steel to kill a footpad. Only Baron Ferl could hold a fellow nobleman to account and he was still days behind on the high road, travelling at an easy pace.

  Vereor halted beside a timber-framed building scabrous with flaking plaster. The gates to a down-at-heel tavern’s dung-strewn yard hung askew on their hinges. Now Corrain knew where they were.

  ‘Will you wait here while I waste some Halferan coin on undrinkable al
e,’ Vereor asked as Corrain joined him, ‘to find out what they’re doing in there?’

  ‘No, I’ll show my face and we’ll see what they make of that.’ Corrain settled his scabbard on his hip. ‘How soon could you whistle up some swords if they choose to make trouble?’

  Vereor sucked his teeth. ‘Around here? Probably best if you keep it civil. I’ll cut around to the front,’ he offered. ‘If you shout for Halferan, I’ll kick in the door and we can both make a run for it?’

  ‘That should be good enough. Let’s roll these runes.’ Corrain headed for the tavern’s open back door.

  The last time he’d been at this particular inn, he’d had the whole Halferan troop with him. It had been the only accommodation available when the parliament had been summoned out of season, meeting here in Ferl with the express intention of denouncing his marriage to Ilysh, to dishonour his claim to Halferan. Corrain hoped that whoever was in the taproom now remembered how emphatically he had won that battle.

  He walked cautiously into a grimy kitchen. A small white dog with black ears was licking rancid dripping from a tray beneath the spit in the hearth. Corrain moved as quietly as he could to avoid attracting the beast’s attention. That was easier said than done as his boots stuck unpleasantly to flagstones which hadn’t seen a mop in years.

  The door to the tap room was closed. Corrain opened it and stepped quickly through before the startled dog had offered a half-hearted bark.

  The girl from The Shield Wall pressed guilty hands to her mouth. A second girl dropped a letter onto the frayed and filthy rushes covering the floor. The only other person in the tap room was the black-haired man.

  He took a step back, shoving a purse back into his breeches’ pocket. There was no doubt he was a Tormalin native, and a wealthy one judging by the cut of his long-sleeved velvet jerkin and the ornamentation on his slender sword’s hilt.

  Corrain wouldn’t hesitate to fight him. The Tormalin man was fresh faced and slightly built, only a few years older than Kusint.

  ‘I believe that’s addressed to me.’ Corrain nodded at the fallen letter.

  ‘I was keeping it safe,’ the resident maidservant wailed, ‘against the day you returned, my lord.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Corrain said with calculated menace. ‘Otherwise you’ll face the baron’s assize for selling a nobleman’s correspondence.’

  ‘Could such a crime be proved,’ the Tormalin man mused, ‘while a letter’s seal stays unbroken? Letters must pass from hand to hand if they’re ever to reach their destination.’

  The Shield Wall’s maid seized that excuse. ‘I came to collect the letter, my lord. I remembered—’

  Corrain silenced her with a raised hand, looking at the Tormalin man. ‘You kindly offered to escort her?’ He didn’t hide his disbelief.

  The Tormalin’s grin admitted his guilt even as he nodded. ‘Quite so.’

  ‘What brings a noble esquire to a humble Caladhrian town like Ferl?’ Corrain demanded bluntly. Those finely honed accents meant this Tormalin was a true-born scion of some princely house.

  Why was he so interested in Corrain? Where was his partner from Wrede? Why were two men from opposite ends of the long fallen Old Tormalin Empire working hand in glove?

  ‘Shall we discuss both our travels over a glass of wine?’ the young man suggested, guileless.

  ‘No.’ Uncompromising, Corrain nodded at the maidservant. ‘I’ll take that letter now.’

  The nervous girl snatched up the grimy parchment. Corrain took it from her trembling hand and shoved it into the pocket inside his cloak’s lining.

  ‘Aren’t you going to read that?’ the Tormalin enquired.

  ‘I can guess what it says.’ The writing and the seal had confirmed Corrain’s suspicions.

  This particular letter had merely been an excuse for Baron Karpis’s men to come here and provoke another scuffle with Halferan’s guards. Karpis’s sergeant had dropped it in some horseshit, hoping that Linset would throw the first punch. Corrain had ordered the boy to let it lie; letter and insult alike.

  He waited for the Tormalin youth to make the next move. When it was clear he wouldn’t, Corrain raised his voice. ‘Captain Vereor, would you join us?’

  The old guardsman entered so swiftly he must have been standing with his ear pressed against the door. ‘My lord Halferan?’

  ‘Take that one in hand to answer to Lord Ferl at the Spring Equinox assize.’ Corrain jerked his head towards The Shield Wall’s girl before glaring at the resident maid. ‘You lose yourself before I change my mind.’

  ‘My lord.’ Vereor seized The Shield Wall girl’s arm. She burst into noisy tears, wailing incoherent protests as the other maid fled though the kitchen door.

  The young Tormalin noble winced. ‘My lord Baron, there is no need to ruin a girl’s prospects with a season spent in lock-up. Any fault here lies with me. Please let her go and we can share a glass of wine while I explain.’

  Corrain shook his head. ‘I don’t drink with men I don’t know. Vereor, have that slut put in irons.’

  ‘My apologies, my lord Halferan.’ The Tormalin offered him a bow fit for the Emperor’s throne room. ‘I am Yadres, Esquire Den Dalderin.’

  The name meant nothing to Corrain, though he made sure to remember it. ‘Good day to you, Esquire. Vereor, let her loose.’

  Since the Tormalin had been the first to yield, Corrain would see what a gesture on his part might win him.

  Vereor forced the grizzling maidservant out through the street door with a merciless shove which sent her sprawling into the gutter.

  ‘My lord,’ the Tormalin protested.

  Corrain ignored that. ‘Why were you so interested in buying a letter addressed to me?’

  ‘To see if it held anything which you wouldn’t want widely known.’

  The young esquire’s frank answer surprised Corrain almost as much as the glimpse of ruthlessness beneath his diffident manner.

  He pulled the letter from his cloak pocket to win some time to think. Snapping the wax seal, he took petty pleasure in ruining Baron’s Karpis’s blazon. Unfolding the parchment, Corrain read the cursory blend of open insults and veiled threats, just as he had suspected.

  He refolded the letter. ‘What interest does Tormalin have in seeing Halferan’s baron cast down?’

  ‘You mistake me. You’re welcome to your barony.’ The Tormalin shook his head. ‘We would have offered you a trade; our discretion for information.’

  ‘Who is “we”?’ Corrain demanded.

  ‘My uncle the Sieur Den Dalderin has the Emperor’s ear,’ the Esquire said bluntly. ‘Both are most interested to hear the full story of your return from the Archipelago. They’re still more eager to learn the truth of the corsairs’ fate and what became of their plunder.’

  Corrain stared at the young man, incredulous. ‘You think that their loot fills Halferan’s strong rooms? Does the Tormalin Emperor claim it too?’

  The corsairs had never raided so far east. The currents and storms around the Cape of Winds were notorious and besides, Tormalin’s own pirates lurked in that headland’s remote coves.

  ‘What? No, neither my uncle nor the Emperor has any interest in whatever gold you might have recovered,’ Den Dalderin assured him.

  ‘What does interest them?’ Corrain was growing impatient.

  ‘Ensorcelled artefacts.’ Den Dalderin looked at him keenly.

  Corrain looked back mystified. ‘What?’

  Now Den Dalderin was wrong-footed. ‘You agreed to support Planir with Caladhrian swords because the corsairs had discovered treasures imbued with magic among their loot.’

  ‘What of it?’ Corrain stared at him. ‘You think we would bring such cursed things home to Halferan? When hoarding such magic is what finally persuaded the Archmage to attack the corsairs after all Caladhria’s years of suffering had left him unmoved?’

  ‘You never thought to claim a share, to secure an advantage in your own dealings with Planir?’
Den Dalderin persisted. ‘You don’t know that Hadrumal’s wizards covet such treasures?’

  But Corrain heard the first hint of doubt in the esquire’s words.

  ‘The Archmage may have salvaged such artefacts but I know nothing of that,’ he assured Den Dalderin. ‘We want nothing more to do with Hadrumal, no more than any other Caladhrian barony. Hasn’t your Ensaimin lackey told you that our parliament has just outlawed any suborning of wizardry in warfare? There are riders on the road carrying letters to your princes, recommending the self-same decree to your Emperor.’

  Den Dalderin shook his head. ‘The Convocation of Princes will never agree to forgo magical aid, not when we must rely on elemental spells to see our ships safely across the ocean to Kellarin.’

  Corrain shrugged. ‘That’s no business of mine. If you want to know about these ensorcelled artefacts ask Archmage Planir.’

  He nodded to Vereor and took a step towards the tavern’s street door.

  Den Dalderin moved into his path. ‘You could ask Planir what he plans to do with these artefacts. You have a legitimate interest in knowing.’

  He looked straight at Corrain. ‘Tell me and the Emperor’s gratitude could be worth more than gold to you. Halferan has precious few friends at present but while Caladhria’s baronies find their wares and harvests shunned by Relshazri merchants fearing Archipelagan prejudice, you could earn even your enemies’ acclaim if you could offer them introductions to Toremal’s merchants instead.’

  ‘No,’ Corrain said shortly.

  Den Dalderin folded his arms. ‘My uncle would be most interested to learn of your dealings with Solura’s wizards.’

  ‘No,’ Corrain said again.

  ‘Forgive me, but we know that you visited Castle Pastamar and met with the Elders of the Order of Fornet.’

  Corrain noted the reach of Tormalin’s spies as well as the unyielding resolve in the esquire’s eyes, so at odds with his inconsequential appearance.

  ‘I don’t deny my travels to Solura, nor who I met there. When I said no, I was answering your next question.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Den Dalderin grinned despite himself.