Irons in the Fire (Chronicles of the Lescari Revolution)

by Juliet E. McKenna

  "Don't expect me to weep for Duke Ferdain's losses," Iruvain said coldly. "He's never been a friend to Triolle."

  "Never, Your Grace, but consider the hardship for Triolle when those fleeing the fighting in Marlier seek sanctuary here." Hamare visibly curbed his frustration. "To return to the question at hand. Neither Duke Secaris of Draximal nor Duke Orlin of Parnilesse has been able to raise the mercenary forces they would need to invade the other. I really don't believe they are ready to go to war. Come to that, Duke Garnot of Carluse hasn't been able to hire all the men he might want." Hamare let his frustration slip. "That, Your Grace, is only one of several puzzles we should be unravelling as a matter of urgency, instead of listening to the fearful imaginings of your vassal lords."

  "You're talking about Vanam again."

  Hamare ignored the warning note in Iruvain's voice. "There is trouble brewing among the exiles there."

  "I ordered you to ignore such nonsense," Iruvain said ominously.

  Hamare was standing with his hands laced behind his back. Litasse saw him clench his fists as he looked up at the duke.

  "Orlin of Parnilesse is no longer so hot for war because he's not being goaded by pestilential night letters nailed to shrine doors. I've discovered that the scoundrel behind that was a man called Reniack, who fled to Vanam. The woman I have searching for Duke Garnot's whore tells me she's certain that's where the doxy went, too. Now there are persistent rumours that merchants of Lescari blood are urging exiles' sons to form an armed brigade."

  "We hear this same prattle every handful of years and I've yet to see a single man set foot on Lescari soil. If exiles had any honour or courage they'd never have fled their homes and fealty in the first place." Contemptuous, Iruvain looked down at Hamare. "Don't waste my time. We must be fully prepared, because Draximal and Parnilesse will join battle as soon as they see an opening. We must be ready to do all we can to curb Marlier's aggression against Carluse. If you cannot, or will not, supply the intelligence I need, I'll find someone more willing and able to take your place."

  Litasse stood aghast. Was he truly threatening to dismiss Hamare? She managed a hasty smile as Iruvain turned to her.

  "You have a beautiful new horse, my love, and bear in mind, Duke Garnot could just have sent you a gelding, given how closely he guards his stock's bloodlines. I'm sure he's looking for an alliance with Triolle. Why else would he offer us the chance to put a Carluse mare to our own stallions?"

  "You want to breed her?" Litasse looked at the dainty mare. "I thought she was to be my saddle horse."

  "Until she comes into season." Iruvain nodded decisively. "Now, you should go and change your gown, my lady, before our guests arrive."

  The mare pricked her ears, her head questing forward. Litasse stroked her soft nose.

  So much for Duke Garnot of Carluse sending me a gift, she thought. You'll just take her away, my lord husband, to grow fat and ponderous dropping a foal a year to strengthen your bloodlines and those of whichever lords you favour. Disillusion dulled her day as surely as clouds covering the sun.

  "I want to ride her now."

  Iruvain shook his head. "I can't spare a groom to accompany you." He moved to lead the mare towards the stable-men waiting by the gate.

  Litasse took hold of the reins. "I will ride by myself, then."

  "That's hardly seemly, my lady." Iruvain stared at her, more surprised than angry.

  "My man Karn is over there," Hamare said quickly. "He could accompany Her Grace."

  Litasse held her ground. "Just for a short ride."

  "Make sure you're fit to be seen before our guests arrive." Iruvain yielded the reins to Litasse with ill grace and strode away.

  Hamare watched him go with hooded eyes.

  "Can't you ride with me?" Litasse asked in an undertone.

  She longed for the chance to indulge in a little spite about their Solstice guests, swapping wry observations on this vassal lord's loutish manners or that lady's unfortunate choice of gown.

  He shook his head. "I need to think how best to prove to my noble lord that Draximal and Parnilesse really aren't about to go to war."

  He waved and Litasse saw Karn detach himself from the men at the gate. The lean youth's long stride soon closed the distance between them. Litasse watched, but he didn't spare Valesti the briefest of glances. Were they still lovers?

  "Find yourself a horse and accompany Her Grace on her ride," Hamare ordered.

  "And then?" Karn looked keenly at him.

  "Then you ride for Vanam. Though as far as anyone else is concerned, you are taking Solstice greetings from Her Grace to her lady mother in Sharlac." Hamare spared Litasse an apologetic smile.

  "What am I looking for in Vanam?"

  Litasse found Karn's hungry expression unsettling.

  "I want to know what that shit-stirrer Reniack is doing." Savage frustration prompted Hamare's uncharacteristic coarseness. "If he's not sticking thorns in Orlin of Parnilesse's arse it's because he's found some riper mischief. The last rumour was that some Sharlac noblewoman whose husband's fallen foul of Duke Moncan was looking for him. See if you can pick up his scent trailing through the affairs of this Lord Rousharn. The wife is called Lady Derenna and she was definitely in Vanam for Spring Equinox. Then find out what lies behind these rumours of exiles making ready to fight."

  "I take it I'm asking the usual sources?" Karn narrowed his pale eyes.

  "They're cursed useless," Hamare growled. "Find out if that's because they know nothing or because they're choosing not to tell. If that's the case, find out who's buying their silence. Ask Lady Alaric."

  "If she's in Vanam, there's definitely something afoot." Karn had no doubt.

  "Perhaps, perhaps not, but she has her finger on the pulse of every rumour running from Toremal to Solura." The spymaster rubbed a hand over his bearded chin and looked at Litasse, embarrassment warring with the determination in his eyes. "This woman's information is always gold but she demands the highest price for it. His Grace is hardly about to give me a fat purse to spend on investigating something he considers nonsense."

  Litasse hesitated, but only for a moment. "I can give you some jewels that won't be missed."

  Iruvain seldom paid heed to her choices of rings and brooches. If he ever asks after a particular piece, she thought rebelliously, I'll tell him I sold it to pay for Duchess Tadira's precious gift.

  "Offer Lady Alaric every consideration you think appropriate." Hamare gave Karn a meaningful look.

  Did he mean for Karn to seduce the woman? Litasse felt a chill for the second time. Her lover was so very good at using people for his own ends. Was he just using her, too? Were his fervent whispers of devotion worth any more than his apparent loyalty to Iruvain, when he was going against Iruvain's express orders by sending Karn to Vanam?

  "I'll give you those jewels on one condition."

  Both men looked at her, astonished.

  "Your Grace?" Hamare recovered first.

  "Find out all you can about Duke Garnot of Carluse's plans to attack Duke Ferdain of Marlier. We'll send everything we learn to my father. He won't pass up an opportunity to threaten Carluse's northern border if all Duke Garnot's attention is focused to the south." Litasse spoke with more confidence than she felt. But surely this would be enough to draw her father out of his seclusion? He would have to answer a letter bringing such crucial news.

  Hamare nodded thoughtfully. "If Carluse feels threatened by Sharlac, he won't expose his flank by attacking Draximal. If Parnilesse cannot be sure of support from Carluse, he won't march north."

  Karn grinned. "On the other hand, Duke Secaris of Draximal won't march south as long as he fears Duke Garnot has mercenaries sitting idle who could be loosed against him."

  "Then we will have peace this summer and Iruvain need make alliances with no one, least of all Duke Garnot of Carluse," Litasse said bitterly.

  Who knew how the runes might roll after that? Sharlac forces harrying the border might get the
chance to make Carluse pay a fitting penalty for her brother Lord Jaras's death. Duke Garnot deserved to lose more than one of his bastards.

  Tears prickled her eyes and she turned to the mare's side to hide them, looping the reins around one hand. "I'm going to ride. Karn, find a mount and catch me up. I'm not waiting for you."

  "Your Grace." Karn offered his cupped hands to help her mount.

  "Thank you." She settled her skirts and belatedly found the stirrups too long.

  "Let me." A trace of concern creasing his brow, Hamare adjusted the leathers while Karn ran for the gate.

  The mare must have sensed Litasse's urgency to be gone for the horse sprang away at the first touch of her boots. The grooms by the gate raised a hearty cheer for their duchess as she galloped across the grass towards the illusion of freedom among the trees.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Faila

  Beacon Lane, in Vanam's Upper Town,

  9th of Aft-Summer

  Hearing the knock at the door, Aremil hastily set his book aside and reached for his crutches. "Is that the carrying chair?" He heard the door being answered and brief conversation on the step. "Lyrlen!"

  "You shouldn't be going out, my lord." Entering the sitting room, his nurse set her hands on her hips. "Let me send for Master Sempel."

  Aremil managed a rueful smile. "He's an excellent doctor, but he cannot cure what ails me."

  "He can make you more comfortable, my lord." Anxiety furrowed Lyrlen's brow. "Don't tell me you're not in pain. You're not eating and you're not sleeping."

  He shouldn't have tried getting out of bed in the night. He'd underestimated just how tired his limbs were and thus more than usually recalcitrant. Though Lyrlen must have been lying awake herself to hear the noise of him losing his grip on the bedpost and falling to the floor.

  "I ate my breakfast," he reminded her.

  "Little enough of it," she retorted.

  "Because I agreed to that dose of poppy tincture when you helped me back to bed," he said with some asperity. "You know it kills my appetite."

  "You need to rest, my lord." Lyrlen was twisting her apron between her hands, always a sign she was unhappy. "Gallivanting up and down to the lower town has left you at a standstill."

  Despite his irritation, Aremil had to laugh. "Lyrlen, I couldn't go gallivanting if I wished to."

  Lyrlen smoothed her apron with angry hands. "That girl has no notion what you can and cannot do without harming yourself."

  Aremil's smile vanished. "Branca has no more say over what I do than you have, Lyrlen. Please don't blame her. Now, I am already late, thanks to that cursed poppy tincture making me oversleep. Kindly pass me my crutches and help me out to the chair."

  "Very well, my lord." Lyrlen escorted him over the threshold, as anxious as a black-feathered hen cherishing one precious chick. "When shall I expect you back?"

  "No later than noon." He settled himself in the chair. None of the muslin drapes at his neighbours' windows twitched. The sight of his ungainly progress on his crutches was evidently no longer a novelty. "I'm only going to Mistress Charoleia's house."

  Lyrlen looked somewhat mollified. "Very good, my lord."

  The chair-men picked him up. This particular pair didn't need directions any longer, they were getting so used to carrying him the few streets to Charoleia's door.

  Aremil listened in vain for bells. What time was it now? How long had it taken him to get up and dressed and send Lyrlen to find some urchin to summon the carrying chair? He shifted uncomfortably. Last night's dose of poppy tincture had long since worn off.

  Lyrlen was right, not that he was about admit it to her. He was nowhere near recovered from his exertions over the Solstice Festival. His shoulders, back and legs all ached. Cramps had wracked him for at least a day after his visits to the lower town. But such visits were essential, if this undertaking was to prosper. It was the only way he could meet Lescari exiles without inviting them to the upper town, and that would attract unwelcome notice.

  Regardless, he wasn't going to take any more poppy wine than he absolutely had to. It did his precarious digestion no good at all. More than that, its lingering effects made it impossible for him to work even the simplest of the aetheric enchantments he'd persuaded Branca to show him. He was determined to master them. If that meant mastering his pain through sheer effort of will, so be it.

  "Here we are, my lord." The carriers set the chair down outside Charoleia's green door. "What time shall we call for you?"

  "Noon. Thank you." Aremil accepted the foremost chair-carrier's strong arm and struggled to his feet.

  The door opened as he settled himself on his crutches. Charoleia's maid was vigilant, as always.

  "Are they here?" he asked without preamble.

  "Madam Branca and the mistress are with them in the drawing room." As soon as she'd seen him manoeuvre safely though the entrance, she hurried to open the inner door. "Master Aremil, my lady."

  "Please forgive my tardiness." Aremil did his best to sound offhand. "Some business arose that I had to deal with this morning."

  "As it so often does." Charoleia smiled.

  Settling himself in a chair, Aremil stole a swift look at the other people already in the room. Did they believe him or were they pitying his pathetic excuses? He fancied he saw a measuring look in Branca's dark eyes. The two men in the room barely spared him a glance, both clearly deep in thought.

  "I take it you've explained our proposal to Master Kerith and Master Jettin?" Aremil propped his crutches at the side of his chair.

  "I have," Charoleia confirmed.

  Aremil nodded. He would find out from Branca exactly what had been said. He trusted Charoleia, more or less, but he wanted to know how she had shaded her words. What arguments had she used to persuade these two that their adeptness with aetheric enchantments would serve the cause of peace in Lescar?

  "It is certainly a remarkable notion." Kerith, the older man, looked as impassive as ever, forbidding in his long black scholarly tunic. Aremil was beginning to wonder if he ever showed any emotion.

  "It's a noble ambition," Jettin said fervently. Young, slightly built, he was the most intense of all the exiles whom Branca had introduced to Aremil, even if his accent showed no trace of his father's Triolle blood.

  "Most assuredly," Kerith agreed.

  If he wasn't as ready as Jettin to challenge taproom experts talking nonsense about Lescar, Aremil had seen the older scholar comprehensively demolish a mentor's ill-founded arguments at a university Solstice reception. The mentor had blithely favoured letting Lescar's warfare run its course until an undisputed High King emerged. What evidence could the man produce, Kerith had demanded, in the Carluse accents he made no effort to shed, that argued such an approach would ever yield results? It never had done in the past.

  "So, are you willing to help our unfortunate folk?" Charoleia asked, her accent just coloured with a Marlier intonation.

  Aremil admired her calmness. He and Branca had little enough to show for the hours they had spent mingling with exiles over those exhausting days of festival. There weren't many Lescari men and women studying the ancient enchantments of Artifice and still fewer were able to work enchantments with any degree of consistent success. They needed to find adepts sympathetic to their cause and bold enough to risk all the hazards of this clandestine undertaking. Most difficult of all, they had to find people they could trust to keep such a dangerous secret.

  Running a hand through his black curls, Jettin didn't hesitate. "Of course."

  Aremil was glad his impassive face would betray none of his misgivings about Jettin. The youth had broken off their first conversation to rush to defend a Lescari man accused of rolling weighted runes in the crowded tavern where Branca had found him. Jettin hadn't even known the man. But Charoleia had made her own enquiries and said the youth kept his father's spice-trading secrets as close as his own skin. Judging by Jettin's fine clothes, that spice business was certainly prospering.
And Aremil had convinced Jettin to play a game of white raven with him one evening. He had been favourably impressed by the young merchant's shrewd tactics.

  The scholar Kerith was still frowning. "I'll give you my answer in a day or so, if that's agreeable."

  "Of course," Charoleia assured him. "If you have any concerns, or any more questions, don't hesitate to call upon me."

  As she spoke, the elegant timepiece on the wall struck the third hour of the day.

  "If you'll excuse me, my lady, Madam Scholar, Master Aremil--" Kerith rose and favoured them all with a brief bow "--I am expected at the Mordaunt Hall."

  "And I'd better be about my father's errands." Jettin sprang to his feet.

  "Let me show you out." Charoleia favoured both men with her most charming smile.

  Aremil looked at Branca as the door closed behind them. "Are you sure Jettin can keep his mouth shut?"

  She nodded. "He's nowhere near the reveller he looks. He won his legal advocate's ring inside three years, still working for his father all the while."

  Aremil jerked one shoulder in a non-committal shrug. "Do you think Kerith will help us?"

  Branca smiled. "Before you arrived, Charoleia was telling him how extraordinary times have always led to extraordinary advances in natural philosophy and alchemy."

  "Warfare generally leads to progress." Aremil considered this. "Kerith is very keen to see how well Artifice works outside the halls and libraries, in more testing conditions."

  "And to try some of the enchantments that the mentors have no interest in," Branca pointed out. "Are you all right, Aremil? You don't look well."

  It was impossible to take offence at her matter-of-fact observation. "I'm tired."

  "Do you want to leave off trying your own Artifice till tomorrow?"

  From the outset, she'd been content for him to choose his own pace.