Irons in the Fire (Chronicles of the Lescari Revolution)

by Juliet E. McKenna

  "I'm going to the mews," Iruvain decided. "Perhaps we can go hawking tomorrow, my lady, if the wind drops."

  "That would be lovely, my lord." Litasse let him see how much the prospect of a morning on horseback delighted her.

  "What will you be doing with your day?" he asked politely.

  "I must beg some of Master Hamare's time. I'm still having difficulty with the cipher in my mother's letters." Litasse could feel a blush colouring her cheeks and cursed inwardly.

  Iruvain smiled with faint derision. "I'm sure you'll get the hang of it eventually. Until dinner, my lady."

  "Your Grace." Hamare opened the door and bowed as the duke departed.

  "The man outside?" Litasse asked as soon as the door closed.

  "Mine," he confirmed. "Utterly loyal."

  Crossing the room in a few swift strides, he took Litasse in his arms.

  She breathed in the lavender scenting the shirt beneath his black doublet. "He doesn't mean you, when he talks of cowardly exiles. He knows you're as loyal to him as you were to his father."

  "I only wish he'd listen half as intently as his late Grace did." Hamare pressed a forceful kiss against her hair. "He cannot ignore everything and everyone beyond Lescar's borders."

  Litasse sighed. "He promised me, before we wed, that we'd travel to Tormalin and to Relshaz. But my dressmakers have journeyed further than I have."

  "His father was determined he should travel before he inherited the title." Now Hamare sighed. "But it wasn't to be."

  "He'll be asking me to fill his nursery soon, as a good duchess should." Litasse grimaced. "I'll be wracked with childbed fever and hemmed in by cradles. Drianon save me."

  "He's no more eager than you." Hamare's arms tightened around her. "As soon as he's a father, not even escaping to his hawks and his hounds will let him make-believe he's still neither duke nor husband."

  Litasse hoped he was right. Iruvain hadn't spoken of children yet and besides they'd only been married a little more than a year. Everyone knew children came later in a marriage between cousins. During the festival, no one had been looking to see if her waist was thickening, whispering behind their hands that it wasn't.

  "Do you miss Col?" she asked suddenly. "Are you never tempted to go back?"

  "I'm grateful my father sent me there to study but I could never make a life there, no matter how much he might have wished me to." Hamare held her shoulders so he could look her in the eye. "I am Triolle-born and this is where all my loyalties lie."

  "Just your loyalties?" she asked coquettishly.

  "Where all my passions are irrevocably committed." He ducked his head to kiss her neck.

  Why didn't the touch of Iruvain's lips arouse such heat in her? She shivered with delicious anticipation. She fought the urge to kiss Hamare back as hard as she could, to smear her rouged lips, to redden her cheeks with the scrape of his bristles. But she couldn't leave this room looking fresh from a tumbling for all to see.

  As he nuzzled the hollow of her collarbone, she felt him loosening the laces of her gown with practised fingers. She let the merest suggestion of a moan escape her. So unlike the nights when Iruvain came to her bed. She made sure to delight him with ecstatic cries and loud encouragement. No maid or manservant within earshot could doubt their connubial bliss. No servant passing a door closed on her private conversations with Hamare would suspect their duchess was deceiving her husband so quietly.

  "Do you love me?" She closed her eyes the better to concentrate on the exquisite sensations teasing her.

  "With every beat of my heart." He eased the red velvet off her milky shoulders. "With every breath I take." His kisses followed as he slid her lace-frilled shift down to expose her breasts. "Can we?"

  "Valesti found a festival peddler to replenish my store of raspberry leaves and maidsgirdle. She agrees it's only sensible for a bride of my youth to regulate her monthly courses before thinking of childbearing." She opened her eyes. "I wish Pelletria was still my lady-in-waiting. We could both trust her."

  "Forgive me, my love. I needed Pelletria on other business." Hamare lifted Litasse to sit her on the edge of the table.

  "Did Iruvain know?" Litasse pushed him away for a moment. "That she was your spy? Did he ask you to find out if I could be trusted?"

  "No." Hamare twisted around to kiss her pale shoulder. "That was the old duke's last order."

  "Can we trust Valesti?" Litasse glanced involuntarily at the door. "She was one of the old duchess's women."

  "She barely knew Her Grace." Hamare began sliding Litasse's skirts up over her knees. "According to Karn, she's no more than she seems: a maidservant with a sour disposition."

  Karn, that was the spy who'd been talking to Hamare when she arrived, Litasse recalled. One of his most trusted enquiry agents, along with Pelletria whom she still missed. Quite apart from anything else, the old woman had been an excellent personal maid. "What has Karn to do with Valesti?"

  "He's a good-looking boy." Hamare's searching fingers traced the line of Litasse's garters. "He has a winning way with women whatever their mood. He tells me she's lusty enough under all that starched linen. If Valesti ever thinks she can let your secrets slip, you should inform her that her reputation will suffer so badly that few will believe anything she says."

  Litasse stiffened. "Don't play the puppet-master. Just the lover." She gasped as his deft touch melted her indignation.

  "As you command, Your Grace." Hamare ducked his head to kiss her breast as he began unbuttoning his breeches.

  Chapter Eight

  Aremil

  Beacon Lane, in Vanam's Upper Town,

  3rd of Aft-Spring

  "Can I help?" Tathrin hovered anxiously.

  "You can bring these people here," snapped Lyrlen, "to suit my lord's convenience."

  "You can both be quiet, please." Aremil concentrated on placing his crutches securely and sharing the burden of his weight as best he could between his legs and hands. His feet twisted awkwardly and he struggled to grip the crutches. But letting them dig into his armpits hurt even worse and caused worrying numbness in his hands.

  Lyrlen plucked at her apron. "Master Tathrin--"

  "No." Aremil would crawl across the flagstones before he'd let anyone carry him to the waiting carriage.

  "You'd best sit with your back to the horses, to make the downhill stretches easier." Tathrin was opening the door, unfolding the coach's step, doubtless a duty he'd performed countless times at his father's inn.

  Aremil nodded. "Very well. Lyrlen, if you please?"

  She took his crutches as he rested one hand on the arm Tathrin was offering and gripped the doorframe with the other. Unasked, the taller youth lifted him bodily up into the coach. Aremil's balance deserted him and he fell backwards onto the padded seat. He stifled his annoyance. At least it was a relief to be sitting down again.

  "We must remember to thank Master Gruit." Aremil managed a half-smile for Tathrin. "For the use of his carriage."

  Tathrin took the crutches from Lyrlen and tossed them onto the floor of the coach. "I am sorry to put you to this trouble." He folded up the step and pulled the door closed as he sat opposite. "But it's best if this man Reniack doesn't know where you live."

  "If he's half the man you say, I imagine he'll find out soon enough," Aremil observed.

  At the snap of the coachman's whip, the carriage moved off.

  "Perhaps." Tathrin didn't look too pleased at the prospect.

  "You think he'd use my parentage against me?" Aremil wedged himself into the cushions as the coach rumbled over an uneven patch of road.

  "You've read his broadsheets. He'd use anything he discovered for his own purposes." Tathrin frowned out of the window.

  "He sounds like a perilous ally, but he could be useful," Aremil said cautiously.

  "Master Gruit seems to think so," Tathrin agreed. "And if Reniack has no love for nobles in general, he's honest enough to judge individuals on their merits. Otherwise he wouldn't be wo
rking with Lady Derenna."

  "I have learned more about her husband." Since Tathrin had told him about Master Gruit's unexpected introductions, Aremil had been making his own enquiries.

  "Oh?" Tathrin looked torn between curiosity and his stubborn dislike for the woman.

  "Lord Rousharn was the second son and so his father agreed he could study in Col." Aremil allowed himself a wry grin at Tathrin's grimace. "Don't hold his choice of university against him. He studied alchemy and became fascinated by the properties of rare minerals. Soon he discovered that volatile airs could be released by heating them or mixing them with vitriol and such." He swallowed. "The mentors of Col have archived several of his studies."

  Tathrin was impressed despite himself. "And then?"

  "Once he had won his seal ring, he travelled to Vanam and throughout Tormalin. He made a great many friends among the more intellectually inclined princes. He also met various Lescari lords with a taste for scholarship who were making similar visits." Aremil broke off as the coach rounded a corner with a rattle that sent a spasm up his leg.

  "Gruit was right. There's a sizeable web of correspondence linking like-minded lords across all the dukedoms. They exchange books and opinions and recommend further reading to each other. A good many favour Rationalist philosophies, notably the writings of Niamen of Meche." He stopped to catch his breath.

  Tathrin looked thoughtful. "Niamen argues that demonstrable merit is the most important measure of a man."

  "He has also written extensively on the responsibilities of the high-born to use their wealth and position to improve the lot of the less fortunate." Aremil tried to ignore the strain the coach ride was putting on his back. "Just as those with practical expertise are morally obliged to build things like better drains and roads for the good of all."

  "Has his lordship put any of these theories into practice?" Tathrin asked sardonically.

  "He's spent time and coin making all manner of improvements to his estates." Aremil saw that surprised Tathrin. "He's held in high regard by all his people, down to the swineherds and road-menders."

  "How did he come to inherit?" asked Tathrin.

  Aremil took a breath. He didn't relish repeating this tale.

  "Twelve years ago, his elder brother was killed in a border skirmish with Draximal troops. My uncle Lord Dacoun, my father's second brother, was hunting brigands who'd raided a merchant's mule-train on the Great West Road. He followed the trail into Sharlac." He shook his head awkwardly. "According to Dacoun's account, Lord Rousharn's elder brother was hand in glove with the raiders. He was caught with some share of the spoils and strung up from the nearest tree."

  Tathrin wrinkled his nose. "I doubt Lady Derenna has heard the story quite like that."

  "Let's not put her principles to the test by announcing my parentage," Aremil agreed.

  Tathrin nodded. "How did they come to marry?"

  "Lyrlen tells me she was born third child and eldest daughter to Lord Raitlen of Kerowth. Her tastes were always for study rather than embroidery, so her mother despaired of seeing her wed. Especially after she concocted some volatile mixture that exploded and scarred her arms so badly."

  Tathrin grinned. "I wondered about that."

  "It seems Derenna happened upon Lord Rousharn reading an alchemical tome when they were both guests at some Winter Solstice celebration. Her lady mother had Rousharn's signature on a betrothal contract before the day was out. They live together quite happily, boiling up concoctions that seldom explode. Scarred arms or not, she has done her duty and borne him five children--" Aremil broke off, hearing incautious bitterness in his own words.

  Tathrin looked out of the window as the rumble of the coach's wheels deepened and the shadows of the upper town's gate cloaked them. Aremil slipped awkwardly on the seat as the slope of the road grew steeper. Tathrin took hold of a leather strap nailed by the door.

  "Where are we going?" Aremil managed to force himself upright.

  "Master Gruit owns property all across the city." Tathrin kicked Aremil's sliding crutches aside. "He's letting Reniack use an unlet house."

  They heard the coachman shouting as they left the comparative quiet of the upper town. The lower streets were far busier and noisier. As their progress slowed to erratic fits and starts, Tathrin kept watch out of the window. Aremil was relieved not to have to talk any more. It was tiring and he felt ominous cramps threatening his legs. Finally, at long last, the coachman reined in the horses.

  "Where are we?" Relieved, Aremil looked out through the window.

  "On the northern slope of the Pazarel Hill." Tathrin threw open the door and jumped down.

  Aremil used the doorframe to haul himself upright and tried to work out how to exit the carriage. He didn't trust his chances of negotiating the folding step safely.

  A rough-haired mongrel ran up barking, startling the horses.

  "Saedrin's stones!" the coachman swore, and cracked his whip at the dog.

  Aremil fell through the open door when the unsettled horses jerked the coach forward. Tathrin's strong hands saved him, setting him down safely on the flagstones.

  "This is a harness-makers' district." Tathrin remarked as he tucked Aremil's crutches securely under his arms.

  "Indeed." Aremil surveyed the workshops and storehouses interspersed with rooming houses and narrow-fronted dwellings. He felt the flush of humiliation fading from his cheeks. If Tathrin saw no need to refer to his near-mishap, he need not embarrass either of them by thanking his friend.

  "Good day to you." Gruit appeared from a doorway. "Thank you, Draig." He nodded to the coachman. "Back here at the seventh hour, if you please."

  "As you wish." The coachman whipped up the horses and departed.

  "This way." Gruit held the door open.

  Aremil looked carefully for slippery filth that might betray his crutches. "Who's here?"

  Gruit coughed. "Let me introduce you."

  He opened the single door and ushered Aremil through the narrow hallway into a sparsely furnished sitting room. "Lady Derenna, may I introduce Aremil, a scholar of Vanam."

  That was nicely done. Assuming Derenna was a stickler for etiquette, she wouldn't suspect Aremil was a duke's son. Those of higher rank were always addressed first when formal introductions were made.

  She didn't look to be a perfectionist where her appearance was concerned. Sitting straight-backed in an upright chair beside a scuffed table, her dusty black gown was frayed around the hem and her lace wrap yellowed from careless storage. The silver combs securing her hair were polished but mismatched.

  "A scholar." She frowned at his ringless hands. "Unsealed?"

  "My infirmities..." Much as he hated to, Aremil let the excuse hang in the air, limp as his body between his crutches.

  "Please, sit here." Tathrin ushered him to a cushioned settle by the empty fireplace.

  Tathrin often argued that Aremil should present himself to the mentors and satisfy them that he was worthy of their accolade. But that would mean registering his name and parentage with the University Archivists. Aremil wasn't prepared to lie, and telling the truth was no option.

  "Wine?" Master Gruit busied himself with a crystal ewer and glasses. "Kalavere white, all the way from Tormalin." He handed a glassful to Tathrin.

  "I'm Reniack." The burly man who'd been lounging against the back wall stepped forward to take one of the fluted goblets. He looked at Aremil with frank curiosity.

  Aremil met him stare for stare. "What happened to your ears?"

  Reniack laughed, startlingly loud in the confined space. "I was pilloried, before the shrine of Drianon in the centre of Parnilesse town on the middle day of the last Winter Solstice." He tucked his ragged grey hair behind his ears to show everyone their tattered lobes. "To make sure I stayed put to suffer my punishment, Duke Orlin's man nailed me to the wood."

  "You tore your own ears to free yourself?" Aremil was willing to provide the man with the audience he so obviously craved. Then he wouldn't
be the centre of attention himself. "To escape the sticks and stones?"

  "The mob brought mistletoe, ivy and smooth-leaved holly to throw, till I was up to my ankles in berries." Reniack smiled broadly. "I still fought to free myself. Freedom is the natural condition all men are born to, whatever might befall them after they've taken their first breath."

  Aremil suspected the man couldn't call for a refill in an alehouse without indulging in such rhetoric. "Are you a Rationalist, sir?"

  "Of the radical persuasion." Derenna looked severely at Reniack as she sipped her wine.

  "What had you done to outrage Orlin of Parnilesse?" Tathrin asked.

  "A broadsheet circulated details of his father's last banquet." Reniack shrugged. "We listed who was there, what food was served and precisely who partook of which dishes. As I recall, we wondered whether his late Grace's face most closely matched the green or the black of his servants' liveries when he was taken ill, since that would give some indication of what might have made him so unwell." He shook his head with mocking concern.

  A knock at the door interrupted him.

  "Excuse me." Gruit slipped out into the hallway.

  Aremil looked at the glasses still on the table. Gruit had half-emptied his own, and there was the one that the wine merchant had belatedly remembered not to offer to him. And one other.

  Gruit came back into the room, bright-eyed. "I have the honour to introduce Mistress Larch."

  Tathrin straightened and then bowed low. Aremil found himself wishing he was able-bodied and could do the same.

  The woman was a true beauty. Every feature was a painter's dream, from her oval face, broad, high forehead and elegant nose to her irresistibly sensuous lips. Her skin was flawless, her coiled hair burnished chestnut. The silk shawl draped around her shoulders was the exact same shade of violet as her wide, wise eyes.

  "Mistress Larch?" Reniack looked askance at her. "When Orlin of Parnilesse was entertaining the Tormalin Emperor's cousin, I'll swear to Saedrin you were Lady Alaric."

  "Doubtless I was." She took an empty chair by the table with fluid grace. "You may have heard of Lady Rochiel?" She favoured Lady Derenna with a charming smile.