Sceptical, Karn had kept his eyes as well as his ears open as he'd travelled south. All around the stone-walled farmsteads, cows were being turned out to enjoy the new grass, sway-hipped heifers round-bellied with calves soon to come. Shepherds were cleaning out their huts in more remote pastures, ready for lambing. Cottagers were herding pigs into common fields left rough over the winter so that hungry snouts could begin breaking up the ground for pease planting.
He passed through the open gate in the town's wall and started down the slope to the river. The solid grey pillars of the fortified bridge cut the river into a skein of swirling silver threads. Each end was guarded by a squat tower and a taller fortification kept watch from the centre of the bridge. Two long, low boats heaped with sacks rode the flood towards the central span. Each was steered by a solitary figure with a stern oar and both were sunk deep in the water. Beyond, the high road continued along the embankment reaching out across the sprawling reed beds.
Common folk's lives depended on knowing which way the winds blew. If the same peaceable activity was evident in Parnilesse, it would take more than market-town gossip to convince Karn that either duke planned an attack. Would Master Hamare consider that good news or bad?
Galloping hooves scattered his thoughts as horses raced through the sleepy town. Karn sprang into the tangled grass by the side of the road and crouched low. He saw a company of armoured men reach the town gate. A militiaman, braver or more foolish than the rest, challenged them, waving his halberd. The first horseman swung his sword, cutting clean through the shaft to sever the man's head from his shoulders.
A maidservant standing close by screamed with horror as blood spattered her white apron. The first cries of alarm from whoever was keeping watch at the near end of the bridge down below were lost beneath the fearsome howls of the attackers. They spurred their horses fearlessly on down the sloping road. Bloody blades told Karn that more bodies lay behind them in the town.
He settled down to watch. Someone on the bridge managed to shut the gates. Men in Draximal livery were left outside to face this onslaught. Panicking, half of them turned to hammer on the wood instead of readying their weapons. Someone up on the battlements remembered his crossbow, but too late to kill more than one of the attackers' rearguard. He could only look down helplessly as his friends, inextricably mingled with the enemy, died with shrieks of pain and terror.
Was the town militia about to take on these brigands? Karn looked around for activity by the town gate or on the walls. There was no one to be seen. Who would have expected an attack in the middle of festival?
Turning back to the bridge, he saw that a second assault had been launched against the gatehouse on the far side. He suspected that the duke's men on that side of the bridge had managed to release their portcullis. Certainly the attackers hadn't broken through to the roadway. On this side, however, whoever had managed to shut the gate had failed to bar it. Between the guards seeking refuge and the attackers pursuing them, it was soon forced open.
What of the men holding the central tower that straddled the bridge, where the road passed through a wide archway? Thinking back to a previous journey along this road, Karn recalled the portcullises at either end of that passageway, ready to cut the bridge in half. If they could trap their foes between the gates' lethal confines, there were gratings in the roof. Defenders in the tower room above could drop murderous darts or pour boiling water onto whoever they trapped.
But he saw the fools rushing out of the tower onto the bridge. They deserved to die for such stupidity, he concluded.
Then he realised that quarrels from crossbows on the central tower's battlements were sending the militiamen sprawling across the hard-packed stones of the roadway. More were picking off the defenders atop either end tower rather than piercing the armoured assailants down below.
Downstream, there was no sign of the laden boats he'd seen passing beneath the bridge's central span. Karn laughed. He should have wondered who could send sacks of turnips to market at the end of a hungry winter. This armoured band must have hidden men beneath the sacking, and they'd snagged the underside of the bridge with grapnels. There must be some doorway down below by the waterline, some last escape for besieged defenders. It had been turned against them.
Now a crowd was gathering by the town gate. Demands that something be done were immediately challenged. Just what did they propose? Foolhardy exhortations that the townsfolk take up arms were swiftly scorned. A cry went up for the duke's reeve, heartily endorsed. The crowd stilled, expectant.
Karn settled himself more comfortably on the damp grass and waited to see what transpired. He'd definitely have something interesting to tell Master Hamare now.
The defenders on the far side of the bridge soon capitulated, only to be stripped and marched naked out onto the causeway. The militiamen captured on this side of the river suffered the same humiliation. The crowd shouted, urging them to run for the safety of the town walls. One bold man ran forward to offer the foremost a cloak. When he wasn't cut down by a crossbow bolt, others did the same.
Karn had no sympathy for the weeping youths who passed him, scarlet-faced and trying to hide their inadequate manhood with shaking hands. They were still alive.
Now the force who'd taken this tower began throwing the naked dead through the gate to lie tumbled on the muddy road. Wails went up from the crowd.
"Where's the reeve?" a militiaman bellowed, the hair on his chest and groin as grizzled as that on his head. "Where's Nuchel?"
"I'm here." A portly man, doublet unbuttoned over a stained shirt, forced his way through the crowd. His breeches flapped loose at the knee, yellow stockings drooping over his tarnished silver shoe-buckles.
"I have a message." The militiaman scowled. "Captain Arest of the Wyvern Hunters presents his compliments. Anyone who wishes to pass across the bridge is welcome to do so for the appropriate toll."
The reeve gaped. "What's the toll?"
The militiaman spat on the road. "Whatever they think you can pay."
"Mercenaries." The reeve trembled with fury. "Dastennin drown the filthy curs!"
Curses rose, lamentation and accusation. Karn ignored the clamour. Master Hamare would want to know who these mercenaries were and who was paying them.
How could he get close enough to pick up some hint? By crossing the bridge. He had to cross to get to Parnilesse anyway. Master Hamare would be most unimpressed if he turned tail and took the western route home to Triolle, through the hilly ground along Draximal's border.
He wasn't going to be the first offering himself up for the triumphant mercenaries to rob and abuse, though. Was there any sign of that battered coach with the two travellers from the inn? No. He'd bet good coin their horses were already being whipped back northwards.
Still, there would be local people trapped on the wrong side of the river. Labourers come to the town to revel with friends. Townsfolk who'd visited family farmsteads for more sober revelry now unable to return. Karn wrapped his tattered cloak around himself. He'd wait till sufficient folk gathered to get up the nerve to approach the bridge together. He could hide himself among their number.
While he waited, he watched the priest from the shrine to Dastennin lead a nervous gang of townsmen to pick up the dead. Once it was clear the mercenaries weren't going to retaliate, more men hurried to help drag the hurdles with their grisly burdens back up the slope. Women waited, sobbing piteously. Not such a fair festival for them, Karn thought distantly.
No mercenary came to retrieve their fallen comrade. The sentries on the tower didn't react when two townsmen, bolder than the rest, spat on the corpse and kicked it into the ditch. A man who'd had no true friends, Karn concluded, not even among the handful who'd shared a tent with him when they'd been tallied together on the muster roll. More fool him for riding with them.
The morning wore on. Karn ate some bread and leathery ham that he'd tucked in his cloak's pocket and began to contemplate other routes into Parnilesse. T
he ford at Reddock was half a day's walk upstream, but it would only take him to the high road running east. That was no good if he wanted to get back to Triolle as fast as possible.
Wheels rumbled on the cobbles. Karn turned his head. Was the dried-up woman so desperate to continue her journey that she'd ordered her downtrodden escort to face the mercenaries? No. The elegant carriage approaching was newly built in the latest Tormalin fashion and drawn by horses that would have cost more than the duke's reeve hereabouts took in dues every quarter day.
The coachman drew up and leaned down to talk to someone by the town gate. Karn watched him jump from his seat to explain the situation to whoever was travelling inside. Then the coachman climbed back up to his perch and reclaimed the reins from the lackey sitting with him. The throng withdrew respectfully. Instead of turning the carriage around, though, the coachman carefully directed his horses down the slope towards the bridge.
Seeing the coach forging ahead, a few men and women straggled after it. The bravest of those needing to cross the bridge, Karn guessed. Rising from his grassy seat, he tagged along, scuffing suitably reluctant feet.
Dawdling meant he got a good look at the fallen mercenary in the ditch. The dead man wore sturdy boots and buff breeches beneath a dull steel hauberk over a padded black jerkin. These mercenaries could afford to let valuable armour rust in a sodden drain.
Karn walked on towards the gate tower. The blue Draximal banner with its flaming fire-basket in red and gold had been hauled down. A creamy pennant replaced it, bearing a black wyvern hovering with clawed feet extended. The Wyvern Hunters. Karn hadn't heard the name before the captain's message had been repeated to the reeve.
They were a free company; that was the important thing. The screaming wyvern wasn't hovering above the Draximal brazier. Why would Duke Secaris send men to seize a bridge in his own territory, after all? But Karn wouldn't have been surprised to see the winged beast clutching the halberd or the long sword that crossed on Parnilesse's badge, or the oak garland that ringed them. Any one of those elements would have indicated that these mercenaries bent their necks to accept Duke Orlin's leash for the sake of the coin he paid to retain their services.
So this was nothing to do with Parnilesse. Karn unobtrusively quickened his pace as the elegant coach drew up to the gate tower.
"What toll do you propose to pay?" A solidly built mercenary stepped forward to talk to the coachman.
Karn didn't hear the man's reply. The mercenary frowned, snapping his fingers to summon someone else from inside the half-open gate. Along with everyone else, Karn watched with interest. Two yellow-headed men of less than common height emerged and he gasped with the rest. Such blond hair meant they were Mountain-born.
Uncommon, though not unheard of among mercenaries, he thought privately. Mountain Men were generally notable fighters and these two in particular carried themselves like practiced swordsmen. Anyone hoping to join this warband and choosing to prove their mettle against the shortest members would soon rue their mistake.
The two blond men approached the door of the coach. A neatly dressed maid opened it and the heavy-set mercenary gallantly offered his arm. She accepted it calmly and stepped down. There was someone else in the coach. The maid turned to say something and one of the Mountain Men laughed. Frustrated, Karn couldn't get close enough to hear.
The maidservant folded her hands demurely and placed a chaste kiss on the tallest Mountain Man's cheek. She almost had to stoop; he was barely her height.
The second Mountain Man stepped up smartly. Before the woman could object, he swept her into a close embrace, kissing her full on the lips.
"Trimon's teeth!" Outraged, the coachman rose to his feet and the carriage swayed alarmingly.
"Don't be a fool." The heavy-set mercenary half-drew his sword as a warning.
"Toll's paid." The first Mountain Man cuffed the second around the back of the head. "Drive on, with our compliments."
The second blond man released the girl, grinning widely. As soon as her hands were free, she slapped him as hard as she could. He just carried on smiling, despite the mark of her hand on his fair skin burning as red as her outraged blushes. Shaking his head, the heavy-set mercenary helped the girl back into the carriage. As soon as the gates to the bridge opened, the coachman whipped up the horses and drove on. Karn noted how perilously close the lash came to the shorter Mountain Man's head.
"They'd better not want kisses from me," a labourer beside him growled.
"Don't think you've got the looks for it," Karn commented.
These men might take a few liberties with pretty girls but everyone else would be paying with solid coin. If all they had was lead-weighted Lescari marks, they'd pay with whatever else they were carrying.
He had enough Tormalin silver in his everyday purse to satisfy them so that they wouldn't go looking for the gold hidden inside his shirt. As soon as he was safely in Parnilesse, he'd steal a swift horse and ride for home. Master Hamare would want to know all about this day's happenings.
Chapter Four
Tathrin
Master Wyess's Counting-House, in the City of Vanam,
Spring Equinox Festival, Fourth Day, Morning
"Master Wyess punched Master Kierst?"
"In the Furriers' Hall last night?"
All the younger clerks in the airy ledger room abandoned their sloping desks to crowd around Tathrin.
"Yes, he hit him," Tathrin said shortly.
"Saedrin's stones!"
Tathrin clipped the excited boy round the ear. "Dishonour his name like that again and I'll wash your mouth out with vinegar."
"What happened after that?"
"Master Kierst went home and so did Master Gruit and everyone else ate their dinner."
Kierst had said nothing further, possibly because he feared his loosened teeth would fall out if he opened his mouth.
Tathrin looked sternly at the boys until they abandoned hope of learning more and returned to their desks.
"Conversation over the nuts and brandy must have been awkward." One of the older clerks leaned against the doorpost.
Tathrin took a moment to place him. Eclan, who'd warned him that Master Wyess would question him when he least expected it. "It was mostly speculation over which troupes of players have the prettiest dancing girls this festival." He couldn't help grinning at the recollection.
"Nothing of consequence, then." Eclan clapped his hands briskly. "If you lads want to stuff yourselves sick with cakes this afternoon, you had better see to your morning duties. If there's a set of sack-weights or corn-measures in this counting-house left uncertified by noon, I'll flog the lot of you!"
A few voices rose in protest, but the younger boys hurried towards the stairs regardless.
Tathrin thought Eclan was joking. Although he had seen the clerk wield the birch that hung by the door when one lad had stumbled into work stale-drunk on the first morning of the festival.
"Master Wyess said you're wanting to get your father's coin-weights certified?" Eclan crossed the room to unlock one of the cabinets. "I'm to take the counting-house sets. Give me a hand and the magistrate can assess yours at the same time."
"Thanks." Tathrin was relieved. He hadn't been sure of the correct procedure.
"No need to thank me." Eclan hauled out a heavy casket. "Let's just get there before the queue stretches all around the Excise Hall."
"Right."
Tathrin fetched the polished cherrywood case that he'd locked in his own desk over in a favoured spot lit by both the tall windows and the room's broad skylights. Tucking his father's weights securely under one arm, he took one of the chest's handles.
Eclan took the other. "So what were people really saying after Wyess flattened Kierst?"
"The next bells came and went before anyone did more than ask for the pickles." Tathrin grimaced as the weight of his burden pulled at his shoulders. "As soon as the libations to Raeponin were done, people started leaving."
"I wonder how he's feeling this morning." Eclan shifted his grip. Carrying the chest between them was awkward given that he was a head shorter than Tathrin. "Did you have to carry him home?"
"No," Tathrin said shortly.
Though Wyess had drunk a prodigious quantity of wine, silently seething, ignoring the sumptuous banquet, he had leaned heavily on Tathrin's arm all the way back to his own doorstep. At first Tathrin had worried that some footpad might mark them down as a pair of drunks ripe for rolling. Then he'd been more concerned that Master Wyess might welcome such a fight.
They reached the bottom of the stairs and went out into the counting-house yard. Tathrin helped Eclan lift the chest into a pony cart that a groom held ready.
"They must have discussed what Master Gruit had said." Eclan settled himself on the seat and gathered up the reins.
"Mostly they were reassuring each other that they already do all they can for Lescar." Tathrin couldn't help a heavy sigh as he climbed up. "Convincing themselves they cannot be held to account for such suffering." He'd made sure he remembered those for whom such consolation didn't seem to suffice. Now he just had to find out their names and businesses.
Eclan slapped the reins on the pony's dappled rump. "I've never really understood Lescar."
Tathrin looked ahead as they drove through the gate. If the streets were half-empty compared to the night before, they were still twice as busy as on any normal market day.
"Why is that man wearing four hats and three cloaks?" The breeze from the lake was refreshing, but it wasn't that cold in the bright sunlight.
"He's a second-hand clothes seller too miserly or too dishonest to pay half a mark for a stall in the cloth-market. If his customers are lucky, they won't feel the Watch's hand on their shoulder," Eclan added blithely, "because some festival visitor was robbed of that selfsame cloak and hat while they were busy between some whore's dimpled knees."
Irons in the Fire Page 4
