Well, Emirle Bridge wasn't far now and if he was walking alone, at least he didn't hail from Parnilesse. If Draximal tavern-keepers thought Carluse men were skinflints, they condemned everyone from Parnilesse as whoremongers, thieves and worse. When the carrier hadn't been abusing his pony as a lazy lump of dog meat, he'd regaled Tathrin with endless tales of Parnilesse duplicity witnessed by some friend's cousin's brother by marriage. Or he'd detailed some brutality suffered by the sister of a man who'd once sold a wagonload of charcoal to his neighbour.
Tathrin picked up his pace. Those trees on the horizon marked the beginning of the forest that ran all the way from the hills of northern Triolle just visible in the distant mist to the River Asilor, marking Tormalin's border two hundred and fifty leagues away. He knew that from the map in the book he'd left safely under his bed back at Master Wyess's. Exactly where the boundary between Draximal and Parnilesse ran through those trees was anyone's guess. Naturally, each duke was accustomed to claiming all the woodland for himself. According to the carter, so many battles had been fought under those trees that lichen-stained bones lay thicker than winter-fallen branches.
Mercenaries wouldn't care where he came from, surely? Tathrin found his lips were dry despite the drizzling rain. He reached inside his doublet to reassure himself that he still had Charoleia's double-folded and thrice-sealed letter safe. What would he do if her signet meant nothing to whoever was holding this bridge? Would the names of these mercenaries she was sending him to find prove to be the talismans she'd promised? This plan had sounded all very well in Vanam, but his confidence had been ebbing away with every league of this journey.
At least the mercenaries were still holding the bridge, if that peddler could be believed. All the while he'd been on the road, Tathrin had been worrying about what might have happened without him knowing. What if he arrived to find that Duke Secaris's men had recaptured the bridge for Draximal? If he turned up asking for these two mercenaries by name, only for someone there to hang him for a bandit like them, just to be on the safe side?
The sooner he covered this last stretch of his journey, the better. He lengthened his stride again. The road followed a shallow ridge of higher ground rising above the water meadows and he could see the glint of the river in the distance. Countless streams ran down from the hills behind him to meet here and swell the headwaters of the Anock.
It wasn't long before he saw the walls of Emirle Town ahead. He slowed. Inside his bag, his fingers found the long dagger that Master Gruit had given him. Should he hang it from his belt? His eating knife would be scant use in a fight. But Gruit and Reniack had both told him not to show a weapon. If he looked as if he could defend himself, he was all the more likely to be attacked in a mercenary camp. Then why had Gruit given him the dagger?
"Hold up, there." A heavy-set bearded man stepped out from behind an unkempt hedge and planted himself in Tathrin's path. Much like a Carluse militiaman, he wore iron-bound boots, thick black breeches and a heavy leather jerkin.
Tathrin would have liked to ignore him and walk straight past, but the man was holding a long and brutal-looking sword. Even beneath the overcast sky, the steel gleamed with dull menace.
He wasn't to be some tavern-song hero, Aremil had said very explicitly. He was to deliver Charoleia's letter. If he didn't look like a threat, she had assured him, as long as there didn't look to be any profit in it, any mercenaries he met along the way were unlikely to kill him.
At that moment, the word "unlikely" struck Tathrin as a flaw in this plan big enough to drive the carrier's pony cart through. He let go of the dagger and slowly withdrew his hand from his travelling bag. "Good day to you," he said breathlessly.
"Polite, ain't he?" a voice behind him mocked.
Heart pounding, Tathrin looked around. Taller and thinner than the first man, this second was wearing the same gear. But both men's clothing was far better made than the crude uniforms thrown at Duke Garnot's unwilling recruits. And neither man wore anything resembling Duke Secaris of Draximal's colours of red and gold or the burning beacon-basket that was his badge.
"We can be just as polite." The bearded man smiled unnervingly.
"We can't be that tall, though, not unless some bastard racks us. Long drink of water, ain't he?"
Tathrin saw that another man had joined the first, squinting up at him. Two more were coming out of hiding on his left-hand side. All had long swords, though at least their weapons were still sheathed. None looked overly concerned that he had half a head's advantage on the tallest of them. Why should they, when all of them were broader in the shoulder and thicker in the thigh than him?
"On your way to town?" the man with the drawn sword asked genially.
"Yes," Tathrin said cautiously.
"Looking to cross the bridge?" The swordsman smiled. "You'll be paying the new toll."
Tathrin wasn't inclined to argue the point.
"We'll take it amiss if you turn back now," the second to speak pointed out. "We're getting a bit tired of folk doing that."
Tathrin didn't doubt it. "I'm looking for someone, for two men." He was pleased he managed to keep his tone calm and level. Then he realised he had no idea if these men would see the word "mercenary" as an insult. Better not to risk it. "A man called Sorgrad, and his brother. I have a message from a friend of theirs." His voice rose as apprehension tightened his throat.
"Sorgrad, you say?" The bearded swordsman looked blank. "Don't mean nothing to me, pal."
"The message is from Lady Alaric." That was the name Charoleia had told him to use to anyone but Sorgrad himself.
"Never heard of her," the one behind him said dismissively.
A sinking feeling in his stomach, Tathrin looked around the circle closing in on him. Every man's face was as unhelpful as the first.
He managed a weak smile. "I'll go and ask in Emirle, if you'll let me pass."
"So you're not looking to cross the bridge?" The speaker behind him was a man of fixed ideas.
"That depends on whether I find the men I'm looking for in the town," Tathrin said slowly.
"Don't bandy words with a scholar, Jik." The gang's leader grinned through his black beard. "You ain't got the wits for it."
Tathrin saw every man's eyes fix on his silver seal ring. He clenched his fists.
"We won't rob you of that." The bearded leader sounded truly shocked. "We're not bandits."
"We'll take a look in your bag, mind." The second speaker came up close behind him, drawing his sword. He was a thin man, but looked as tough as whipcord and leather.
Sweat mingling with the drizzle on his brow, Tathrin lifted the strap of his bag over his head and offered it up.
"Good lad," the man called Jik approved. He stepped back to let one of his nameless associates take it.
"Here's a nice piece." The man handed Jik the dagger Gruit had given Tathrin. He threw Tathrin's battered purse to another. "Salo, see how much is in there."
Tathrin tried to look suitably concerned, as if that purse held all the coin he carried. The rest of Gruit's gold was only safe as long as these men didn't search him too closely, so he really didn't want to give them reason to do that.
"Change of linen, some maps, a book." The nameless man was sorting through the rest. He flicked briefly through the small leather-bound volume. "Aldabreshin mathematics."
"Lescari marks, soft as shit." Salo was testing the coin from Tathrin's purse with stained teeth. He scowled. "A man could die of lead poisoning in this cursed country."
"Nice dagger," Jik observed grudgingly. "Gidestan steel, hilt and finishing by an Inglis craftsman."
"So where's this message you were talking about, pal?" The man who'd been searching his bag threw it back at him.
"I have it safe," Tathrin managed to say.
The man shot the gang's leader a look but Tathrin couldn't read it.
"Let's see it." The bearded man held out a commanding hand, his sword still ready.
Tathrin reached sl
owly into his doublet to retrieve it. He held it out, but when the bearded man went to take it, he twitched it out of his reach. "You can see the seals and read the direction but I'm not letting you open it."
Charoleia had been very clear with her instructions. Which was all very well since she wasn't the one risking a sliced throat. Tathrin clenched his jaw. If this man was set on reading the letter, he was hardly in a position to stop him.
The bearded man grinned. "I do like to see a lad taking pride in his work." He bent forward to peer at the impressions in the wax and Charoleia's flowing script. "Fair enough. Best be on your way."
At the bearded man's nod, the others all stepped backwards.
"Thank you." Tathrin tucked the letter back inside his doublet and slung his bag over one shoulder. He hesitated.
The man holding his purse chewed his lip before pouring half the contents into one grimy hand. He tossed the lightened pouch back to Tathrin. "That'll get you a bed for the night in town and pay your way across the bridge."
Jik, the man who had taken Gruit's dagger, just grinned as he tucked the weapon through his own belt. "Better hope you find your friend."
"Shut your mouth." The bearded man smiled pleasantly at Tathrin. "Best be on your way."
"Thank you." Tathrin squared his shoulders and began walking. He didn't dare look back until the next curve in the road offered a chance to sneak a quick glance over his shoulder. There was no sign of the men who'd accosted him. Presumably they were hiding in the hedgerows again, waiting for the next pigeon to step into their trap for the plucking.
He swapped his bag to the other shoulder and kept on walking, his pounding heart gradually slowing. He still had the letter and he still had Gruit's gold, thanks to Reniack's advice. Even if walking with the purse inside his linen drawers wasn't exactly comfortable.
Emirle's walls soon rose up before him. Common grazing stretched out towards the streams on either side. Horses were tethered here and there and he could see small knots of cows ostensibly being herded by youths who seemed more interested in huddling together for purposes of their own. The town gate was open and Tathrin could see men and women milling around. What was he going to say to them?
Heavy boots ran up behind him. Black cloth enveloped his head, a cord wrapping around his neck. He struck out wildly but rope snared his arms, quickly drawn tight. He was choking, golden flashes fracturing his vision in the musty darkness. Someone kicked his feet out from under him, hobnails brutal on his ankle bone. He fell heavily, unable to save himself. Hands grabbed him by the shoulders, waist and knees. He writhed and kicked as best he could but the choking tether tightened and his head swam. Was that a faint laugh he heard?
He was slung over someone's shoulder, carried like a bundle of hides in Master Wyess's storehouse. The noose around his neck slackened just enough for the strangling sensation to fade. He hung limply as he was jolted along, struggling to draw breath through the muffling cloth, fighting not to lose his senses. If they knew he was conscious, would they choke him again? The thought of dying like that was terrifying.
Where were they taking him? Into the depths of the woods to be robbed and murdered and worse? Fear and uncertainty were as much of a torment as the man's shoulder digging into his stomach. Hanging head down like this was making him feel sick and the breath was knocked out of him time and again. He tried to tuck his chin onto his chest to save his neck from the worst of the jolts but the noose threatened to throttle him.
After what felt like half a lifetime, the pounding boots slowed and stopped. Tathrin clenched bowels and bladder, his breath coming faster, harsh with dread. He was trembling, he couldn't help it. Poldrion grant him a quick death at least. He tried to think of a suitable prayer to the god of the dead. All he could recall were the tales of torture and mutilation that the pony-cart man had related.
A despairing moan escaped him despite all his efforts. His family would never learn his fate. All they'd know was that he'd fled from his apprenticeship after repaying Master Wyess's generosity with a pack of lies.
Chapter Ten
Tathrin
Emirle Bridge, in the Dukedom of Draximal,
22nd of Aft-Spring
"You bide still, lad." Whoever was carrying him slung over one broad shoulder patted his thigh.
Before he could wonder at that unexpected courtesy, he was abruptly set down onto his feet. Still hooded and bound, he swayed, dizzy. Someone laughed and shoved him sideways. As he staggered, his feet found a slick slope. Toppling forward with a shocked yelp, he tried to curl up to break his fall. Something dug agonisingly into his side as he landed on a hard, rocking surface.
"You'll answer for any broken ribs, Macra," a menacing tone said.
Belatedly Tathrin recognised the bearded ruffian's voice. That was who had been carrying him.
Something splashed as he was hauled upright. Dampness seeped through his breeches and he felt wood beneath his hands. Everything swayed; that wasn't just dizziness. He was sitting in a boat. He coughed.
"Best not choke him on his own spew."
Tathrin couldn't tell who'd made that laconic observation. Rough hands loosened the cloak swaddling him. Blinking in the daylight, he gasped with relief as cold, damp air filled his lungs.
He was in a rowing boat with the gang who'd accosted him on the road. They were heading into the middle of the fast-flowing river. The bearded man was sitting on a thwart behind him. That must have been what he'd landed on. Tathrin took a cautious breath. He was bruised but thank Saedrin he didn't think he'd cracked a rib.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked, hoarse with apprehension.
"To deliver your letter." The bearded man's smile wasn't in the least reassuring.
"Thank you." Tathrin drew up his knees and hugged his bag, shaking with cold, damp and dread.
The bridge blocked their way, gatehouses at both ends and a tall tower rising in the centre. A pale flag was flying from the topmost turret but Tathrin couldn't make out the blazon. He was more concerned with what lay directly ahead. Each pillar supporting the bridge's seven spans was faced with angled stones that cut the foaming waters. The arches closest to either bank were each blocked by something anchored, but Tathrin couldn't make out what. Debris pressed up against the other pillars. Amid the drowned branches of some uprooted tree, he could see the unmistakable oval of a wrecked boat.
"Head for the middle steps," the bearded man advised.
The rowers facing Tathrin didn't answer, grimacing as they hauled on their mismatched oars. He heard shouts rising above the tumult of the river and saw men looking down from the parapet, waving and cheering. Over on the town bank, there was more shouting, harsher, outraged. Something cut a white streak through the boiling brown waters.
"Shit for brains, the lot of them." Sitting in the prow, Jik laughed. "Don't they know they can't reach us?"
"Let them waste their arrows if they want," the bearded man said equably.
Tathrin couldn't look away from the central pillar. They were hurtling towards it, the boat bucking like an ill-tempered horse. Far too late for his peace of mind, one of the mercenaries was handing out extra oars. Soon all of them were digging deep into the water, muscles bulging. Was drowning as quick and painless as it was supposed to be? Tathrin didn't think being pounded against the bridge's pillars was going to be an easy death.
The rowing boat glanced off the angled face of the central pillar and scraped along it.
"Catch hold!"
Tathrin realised there was a door in the broad base of the pillar, wide enough for two men to stand in. A rope slapped his arm. He grabbed at it without thinking, feeling it sear his palm before he got a firmer grip. He let out a hiss of pain. More ropes followed, the mercenaries dropping their oars to catch them. The boat slowed, pulled tight against the stonework.
The bearded man climbed up onto the weed-strewn stair leading up to the doorway. "Come on, lad."
Tathrin tried to follow but his legs were too weak f
or him to manage the first long step out of the boat.
"Shift yourself!" Jik shoved him in the small of the back.
Tathrin grabbed at the slimy stones and the ropes and hauled himself up. Jik followed close behind.
"Who's this?" A swordsman in black and buff garb was twisting a loop of rope around an iron hook.
"He's got a letter for Sorgrad."
"Has he, by Talagrin?" The stair guard looked at him with interest.
"This way, lad." The bearded man went on upwards.
Still hesitating, Tathrin was astonished to see that the rest of the gang were still in the rowing boat. They let go of their ropes, whooping and cheering as the flow snatched the boat away.
"Shift." The thin man shoved him again, not nearly as genial as his captain.
Tathrin made haste, hoping his knees would soon stop shaking.
The spiral stair was dark and dank but thankfully short. It emerged into a narrow room with slit windows in the three outer walls. The door in the fourth side opened onto an arched passage and Tathrin realised that the bridge's roadway cut through the ground floor of the tower. At the moment, the arch was serving as a stable for some horses and this guardroom was piled high with newly cut forage.
"Where's Sorgrad?" the bearded man asked a man sharpening a scythe with leisurely strokes of a whetstone.
"Upstairs." The man nodded toward a ladder.
"Up you go." The bearded man jerked his head.
Glad to feel some strength returning to his arms and legs, Tathrin climbed up to find a room filling the whole width of the tower. It was crowded with armed men and, he realised belatedly, a small number of equally dangerous-looking women. Most of the mercenaries were little different from the common folk of Lescar, though quite a number had the burnished copper hair of the Forest Folk. There were even a few with the thickly curled black hair and rich brown skin of the Aldabreshin Archipelago. All wore the same uniform of black breeches and tunics.
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