"My lord." Lyrlen hesitated in the doorway. "Shall I bring some refreshment?"
Which would doubtless include a cup that she'd insist on holding while he drank. To demonstrate how devoted she was to his interests.
"No, thank you." Aremil gestured towards the tray of sweetcakes and almond and elderflower cordial. "I see you've already provided for our guests."
"I'll make myself a tisane." Branca smiled cheerfully at Lyrlen. "Is there water boiling?"
It would help if Branca made some effort to win Lyrlen over, Aremil reflected. And if each woman's interpretation of his best interests didn't differ so sharply.
"Cakes and tisanes can wait!" Over by the window, Gruit threw up his hands. He glared at Charoleia. "Will you kindly explain yourself now?"
She smiled tautly before turning to Lyrlen. "A tisane would be welcome. Do you have linden leaves and camomile?"
"Please," Aremil interrupted before Gruit had apoplexy. The merchant's face was as red as the poppies embroidered on his linen doublet. "What is so urgent?"
Charoleia sat, twitching the hem of her pale-blue muslin away from Gruit's impatient boots. "I had a visitor last night. A young man called Karn. He's an enquiry agent for Master Hamare, the Duke of Triolle's intelligencer."
"What did he want with you?" Branca sat down beside Charoleia. Dumpy in her dun gown, she looked like the slender beauty's maidservant.
One might have expected Branca to resent Charoleia's poise and beauty, Aremil reflected, while Charoleia could have dismissed Branca as plain, frumpy and bookish. Yet the two women had been at ease with each other from their first meeting.
"He was calling on Lady Alaric, who's long had dealings with Master Hamare," Charoleia explained.
Aremil wondered idly what this fabled noblewoman looked like. Presumably most unlike Charoleia today, in her high-necked gown devoid of jewellery, her glorious hair modestly braided.
"I hear Hamare's a shrewd man." Leaning against the windowsill, Gruit's temper faded now that they were finally getting down to business.
"Master Hamare is the reason why the dukes of Triolle are still fishing their lakes and hunting their deer," Charoleia said crisply, "rather than bowing their heads as vassals of Marlier or Parnilesse. Iruvain doesn't value Hamare a tenth as much as he should, as the old duke did. He's shrewd and tenacious and his web of informants reaches all the way from Selerima to Bremilayne. He hears nearly as much as I do and he's sharp enough to know that what he isn't hearing can be just as significant. When he finds a gap in his knowledge, he'll often send a man to Lady Alaric, to trade some piece of information he's uncovered in return for her answers to plug the hole that interests him."
"What does he want to know at present?" Branca helped herself to a pale saffron cake.
Charoleia took one. "Where Duke Garnot of Carluse's whore has run to."
"Failla?" Aremil was puzzled as well as concerned. "Why?"
"To see what she knows of Duke Garnot's plans for war this summer. Hamare knows she's been in Vanam." Charoleia bit and caught cake crumbs in her cupped hand. "I told you he was good. No one else has the slightest notion she came here."
"What did you tell him?" Gruit looked worried.
"That she's in Relshaz." Charoleia finished her cake. "I set that rumour loose in Peorle before Solstice, so he'll hear it from other sources."
"You set that rumour loose?" Aremil felt some fraction of Gruit's exasperation.
Leaning on the windowsill, the merchant frowned. "We should have been told."
"Is that so?" Charoleia raised her neat brows.
Lyrlen's knock interrupted Gruit's retort. The servant woman entered with a tray bearing two silver-mounted glasses of steaming water. She made a careful curtsey to Charoleia. "My lady."
At least she had brought Branca her tisane as well, Aremil reflected.
Charoleia took the glass of straw-coloured liquid. "Thank you."
"So is this Karn going to look for Failla in Relshaz?" Branca took her glass. Dark-red threads floated out of the pierced silver ball at the bottom to tint the water. Aremil could smell blackcurrants blended with Aldabreshin speckle-spice.
"He'll go sniffing through the mercenary camps along the banks of the Rel first." Charoleia cradled her glass in her white hands. "Thanks to Gruit's folly."
"What?" Gruit demanded, indignant.
"Do you know why he's interested in those rats' nests?" Charoleia glared at the wine merchant. "Because, as Karn told me in return for news of Failla, Master Hamare believes someone from Vanam is recruiting hired swords. There's talk of a troop of Lescari exiles riding into battle. Karn's here to find out what lies behind that."
Aremil was dismayed to see Gruit's colour rise not from anger but embarrassment. "What have you done?"
"You said Tathrin told you your mercenary friends will soon reach the mountains east of Wrede." Gruit folded his arms. "Then they'll move south into the hills above Sharlac. This captain-general, Evord, he'll send scouts into Marlier to recruit experienced men. I've just been hinting at the chance of a rich contract from Vanam to make sure the best mercenary bands aren't already embroiled in some other quarrel. It's not as if there's any truth in it, so where's the harm?"
"Sorgrad has been writing to those mercenary captains he particularly wants to retain since before Summer Solstice," Charoleia said acidly. "Now there's the danger that Karn will pick up some trace of Sorgrad's letters while he's following this false scent you've so clumsily laid."
"We began talking about curing Lescar's ills at Spring Festival." Gruit pushed himself away from the window and began pacing. "Summer Solstice has come and gone and still we sit and talk in endless circles. If we're to see anything change, someone has to take action."
"Making ready for successful action takes time," Charoleia said with icy contempt. "All too often, undue haste makes for wasted effort. Captain-General Evord has to bring an army through the mountains and across the White River unnoticed. You have just made that a good deal harder."
"Excuse me." Branca broke into the argument with a raised hand. "If you don't want Hamare hearing some rumour that Sorgrad is recruiting men, why did you send this man Karn to Relshaz in search of Failla?"
"His journey will take him through all the mercenary camps in Marlier," Gruit seized on this argument. "Why not send him off to Selerima if you're so concerned?"
"He'd be going to Relshaz by way of Marlier regardless and it will be a great deal easier to have him killed while he's in the mercenary camps." Charoleia sipped her tisane. "In such a way that convinces Hamare his man was merely unlucky. I may even be able to arrange for ciphered letters to be found on his body, to persuade Hamare that Failla truly is in Relshaz."
"He has to die?" Aremil swallowed hard.
"This will merely be the first death of this enterprise," Charoleia said calmly. "There'll be more dead than you can count once we see the progress Master Gruit's so eager for."
"Someone will count them and grieve for each and every one."
Aremil saw his own revulsion mirrored in Branca's brown eyes.
"Can he not be bought off, this man Karn?"
"No." Charoleia looked steadily at him. "He's utterly loyal to Hamare and besides, he's as hard as hobnails for all he plays the wide-eyed youth so convincingly."
"So we really must do this?" Aremil felt hollow inside.
"We must." Regret coloured Charoleia's words. "I would rather not, believe me. Who knows who Master Hamare will replace him with? Someone better? I doubt it. But someone it will take me some while to identify, that much is certain. I know a good many of Hamare's people and where the threads of his webs run, but getting the measure of whoever steps into Karn's shoes will take time I have better uses for. And I will have to pay handsomely to be sure Karn's corpse can't be laid at my door. Master Hamare is an excellent source of information and I'd just as soon not lose his goodwill."
"Then we'll all answer to Saedrin for our part in the man's death." Gruit look
ed troubled. "If this is all we have to discuss, I'll get back to my casks of wine."
"We have more business to attend to." Charoleia drank her cooling tisane. "Please, Master Gruit, have some cordial. You are correct, you know, when you say we must make swifter progress or abandon this whole enterprise."
The wine merchant cleared his throat. "I suppose it's been a while since breakfast." He came over to take a glass and a cake from the tray.
Did this strained politeness mean the two of them saw the folly of holding a grudge? Aremil hoped so.
"When Captain-General Evord's army comes down from the mountains, they're going to need feeding. We must get unthreshed wheat and beef and mutton still on the hoof to Verlayne. We need men ready to take it on into the hills and asking no questions." Charoleia looked expectantly at Gruit.
"You can leave that to me," he said. "My men are well used to keeping trade matters confidential and much else besides."
It took Aremil a moment to recall exactly where Verlayne was. Ah yes, it was one of the towns on the White River, the first sizeable settlement after Hanchet, if one were travelling from Vanam. Travellers not wishing to follow the river all the way to Peorle could take the road southbound out of Verlayne and skirt the western flank of the Lescari uplands. By heading straight for Duryea and the Great West Road, they could cut a lengthy dogleg out of their journey towards Tormalin.
"They will need weapons and amour," Charoleia continued. "Arrows, spearheads and swords. Chain mail and loose links besides, together with plenty of leather thong. I've never met a captain of mercenaries yet who didn't complain he was always running short of it."
"All to be bought discreetly and carried to Lescar without anyone getting wind of it." Gruit's faded eyes grew distant as he contemplated this challenge. "I know people who can get any amount of barrels and casks to Abray for me without raising questions. But we don't want the merchants who trade down the Rel getting curious about goods arriving in their town and going no further. It would be better to carry such supplies to Duryea and leave the high road there."
"What about Duke Ferdain of Marlier?" Aremil frowned. "He must keep a weather eye on mercenary affairs with so many camps within his borders."
"He does," Charoleia confirmed. "So we will keep Duke Ferdain more interested in the gold piling up in his counting-house." She set her empty tisane glass down. "Master Gruit, please convince as many of your fellow merchants as possible that it would be arrant folly to send their goods to Tormalin by way of the Great West Road this season. We want every barge sailing down the Rel so full that they're all but sinking."
Gruit smiled for the first time. "I should be able to persuade some influential guildsmen to ship their goods out of Relshaz on galleys cutting straight across the Gulf to Solland and Toremal. A good few will follow where such bellwethers lead."
"Duke Ferdain of Marlier can amuse himself counting the coin he levies from every cargo on the river." Branca looked thoughtful. "But less trade on the high road means fewer tariff payments filling Duke Garnot of Carluse's coffers."
"Making it all the easier for us to convince Duke Garnot that Duke Ferdain of Marlier is stirring up these fears besetting the merchantry to improve his own revenues at Carluse's expense." Charoleia searched inside her ribbon-tied reticule until she found a small silver square. It looked like a cased mirror to Aremil. "That should stop him looking northwards to the hills beyond Sharlac." The little silver case opened up like a book.
"A memorandum?" Branca leaned over to see Charoleia writing with a fine metal rod. "Without paper?"
"I've always favoured wax for note-making." She made a show of throwing it into the hearth where a vase of scarlet flowers blazed. "As soon as it's melted, whatever I've written is gone for good. You'd be surprised how long paper or parchment can take to catch properly alight."
Gruit munched another cake, brow furrowed. "I can talk up the hazards along the Great West Road, but plenty of merchants still prefer to keep their goods on dry ground. It's not as if there is any actual fighting at the moment."
"We will start some fighting to persuade them," Charoleia said serenely, "and to keep Master Hamare of Triolle looking in quite the wrong direction as well." She gestured towards Aremil's white raven board. "If Hamare gets wind of this enterprise of ours, we may as well forfeit the game."
"Where will this fighting start?" Aremil asked with misgiving.
"Between Draximal and Parnilesse." Charoleia's face was implacable. "As soon as may be arranged."
Gruit narrowed his eyes. "You said neither duke was prepared to attack the other for fear of the Tormalin Emperor's displeasure."
"We can leave the details to Sorgrad and Gren. They'll have Draximal and Parnilesse at each other's throats before the end of Aft-Summer." Charoleia turned to Branca. "We need to speak to Tathrin as soon as possible."
"We need to be able to contact everyone with Artifice," Gruit growled, frustrated. "If there's going to be war in the eastern provinces, we need to warn Failla and Lady Derenna, Reniack most of all. We need them to be able to contact us without having to find a wagoner heading west who's willing to carry a letter!"
"We have two adepts willing to help us," Aremil assured him. "We only need find one more."
Though that was easier said than done. They'd had no luck on their quest that morning. He had only needed to exchange a look with Branca to see she agreed that particular scholar was better left safely studying ancient histories and newly recovered lore, for all her Lescari blood. Not for the first time, they hadn't even broached the subject of Lescar's ills, merely buying some books as their excuse for the visit and coming away again.
Aremil was glad he and Branca were being so wary. He shuddered to think what scathing rebuke Charoleia might have had for them if she'd heard whispers of something they had incautiously let slip. Such whispers could have betrayed them all to this man Karn. A shiver ran down his spine.
"I can get a warning to Reniack." Charoleia made another note on her wax memorandum tablet. "That woman of his who picks rags for the papermakers keeps courier pigeons, though I don't know where they fly to."
Aremil assumed she was trying to find out.
"What about the others?" Gruit was still dissatisfied. "Aremil, you promised we would have these enchantments to help us. Aft-Summer's already half over."
"You do need to find this third adept as soon as possible." Charoleia looked at Branca. "Time is going to become increasingly pressing, especially once fighting breaks out between Draximal and Parnilesse."
Branca looked at her, eyes bright. "If we cannot find a third adept in the next five days, I will go to Lescar myself."
"How does that help us?" Gruit protested. "Aetheric magic or elemental, it takes two to speak over any distance. We still need an aetheric adept here in Vanam."
"I don't know that any mentor would call him an adept, but Aremil's learning." Branca's confident smile challenged him.
"I have a great deal still to learn," Aremil said hastily.
If both halves of summer had dragged for Master Gruit, even these longest days of the year were too short for Aremil. He seemed to spend every waking moment when he wasn't looking for Lescari exiles studying and attempting enchantments and discussing the possible reasons for his modest successes and all too frequent failures with Branca.
"Can you use whatever you've learned thus far to reach Tathrin?" Charoleia asked. "So he can tell Sorgrad to set about causing trouble between Draximal and Parnilesse?"
"He can," Branca said confidently.
"Then please do so, Master Aremil, as soon as possible." Charoleia stood up. "I'll have a warning sent to Reniack before nightfall. He should get it inside six or seven days. In the meantime, Master Gruit, kindly set about making those arrangements for supplying our troops as soon as they reach the lowlands."
"Don't you want to hear what young Tathrin has to say?" Gruit looked uncertainly at Aremil.
"Not particularly. I don't need to know wh
at Sorgrad has in mind either." Charoleia smiled. "Shall we go, Master Gruit? There's nothing to see when Artifice is worked. It has none of wizardry's thrills and magelight."
She had seen it in his face, Aremil realised: his horror of trying to work Artifice with an audience.
"Very well, then." Gruit looked disappointed all the same. "I'll bid you good day and be on my way." He favoured Charoleia and Branca with a half-bow and, nodding to Aremil, he left the sitting room.
"I should have remembered how readily Poldrion's demons fill idle hands with mischief. Still, seeing to Evord's supplies will keep him busy enough for the moment." Charoleia looped the ribbon of her reticule around her wrist. "Let me know how you get on contacting Tathrin." Her glance went from Aremil to Branca.
"We will." Branca escorted her to the door.
"Goodbye." Aremil drew a deep breath.
Branca closed the door and leaned against it. "Do you want some time to prepare yourself?"
He was tempted to say yes, to ask for all the books he had been reading, for the erratic notes he had so painstakingly scrawled. Branca hadn't cared about his penmanship, merely insisting that the best way of committing such things to memory was writing them down.
"No." He shifted in his chair as cramp threatened his weary limbs. "If this is to work, I need to be able to summon up the concentration at a moment's notice, don't I?" He folded his limp hands in his lap and closed his eyes.
"That's true enough." The rustle of linen told him Branca was sitting down.
If he failed, she could always reach out to Tathrin. Sorgrad would still get his orders from Charoleia.
If he failed, Branca would have to stay here in Vanam. Safe. He'd be sacrificing his own pride, of course. As far as everyone else was concerned, he'd remain the cripple confined to his sitting room. They'd still admire his intellect and accept that his connections were of some use, but they'd be free to despise him for never taking the risks they chose to face. Was that so great a loss? No one had ever thought him anything more than a cripple.
"You can do it, you know," Branca said conversationally. "You've reached through the aether to me a handful of times now."
Irons in the Fire (Chronicles of the Lescari Revolution) Page 27
