Ridianne shook her head. "They won't fight. Both their valiant Graces are too scared of Emperor Tadriol."
"That's not what I'm hearing in Vanam." Karn was careful to make it clear he doubted himself, not her.
"What do they know in Vanam?" Ridianne grinned.
"What indeed?" Karn pretended to take a sip of his own wine. "They say, in Vanam, that someone's looking for mercenaries to lead their bold youths in a campaign to force peace on Lescar."
"The news drew off half the scaff and raff hiding in the woods." Ridianne chuckled with amusement. "I wish whatever fool's planning such folly the best of luck with those scum."
All the other men in the hall laughed. Not for the first time, Karn wondered which of Ridianne's numerous sons were Duke Ferdain's bastards. If she hadn't been able to reclaim her lost home, she'd certainly proved that her Caladhrian lord hadn't been ploughing a barren field when he left her childless.
Had her stepson, born to her dead husband's first wife, ever wondered about his own mother's fidelity? Or did he just appreciate his mother's resourcefulness in presenting her lord with his sole heir, irrespective of who might have begotten him?
Karn swirled the dark wine around in his yellow-glazed goblet as he waited for the merriment to fade. "So who's recruiting the dusty dogs and mucky pups? I see fewer troops than usual camped between here and the river."
"They're in Caladhria, eating themselves fat and lazy. Coastal lords are shitting their breeches in case corsairs from the Southern Seas come raiding again this year." Ridianne waved a dismissive hand. "Or they're in Tormalin, begging for a berth on a ship heading to this new land across the Eastern Ocean." She narrowed her eyes. "No one ships out without Arkady the Red's say-so. He and Markasir and Lerris the Mason have all the gold there sewn up tight in their own pockets." Her grievance rang true to Karn's ears.
He frowned. "You don't think some of the loose dogs are sniffing around Carluse? I hear Duke Garnot begrudges Marlier's revenues from the river trade. That he's planning on taking a share."
"Duke Garnot of Carluse is only hiring proven war bands." Ridianne looked past him as the main door opened. "We'll whip them and send them crawling back with their tails between their legs, never fear."
Karn could believe that. However much gold Ridianne had seized from her erstwhile stepson and paid to Duke Ferdain of Marlier for the right to reclaim and rebuild this long-derelict holding, she had earned it back twenty- or fortyfold in his service since.
He turned to see a covey of youths carrying platters of meat and bread, bowls of pease and spiced vegetable pottage.
"You're in our place." The two men who'd yielded to him stepped forward.
"I beg your pardon." Karn stood up. "May I beg your protection overnight, my lady?"
"Stay in the outer camp." Ridianne took out her jewelled eating knife and polished it with a linen kerchief.
He remembered one last thing as he bent to recover his bundle. "My lady, have you any news of Duke Garnot's whore? There was talk of her hiding out in Relshaz."
"Not that I've heard, and I would hear." Ridianne reached for a partridge dripping with fat and began dismembering it. "If she has the sense Saedrin gave a ewe-lamb she's on the far side of Ensaimin and still running."
"Of course. Thank you." Karn bowed again and left, thoughtful.
Of all the mercenaries Duke Ferdain could use to guard a prisoner like Duke Garnot's doxy, Ridianne would be his first choice. She had more women in her pay than most captains-general, and no man under her command would lay a finger on the girl and risk her displeasure. Was the brindled bitch lying? Why would she?
So should he believe Ridianne or Lady Alaric? The old vixen knew every dog sniffing under another's tail or pissing on a tree in her territory but not much of what went on beyond it. The cold beauty had informants everywhere, according to Master Hamare, second only to his own. But the more Karn travelled, the more he was hearing that weighed against Lady Alaric's words.
Had she been fooled or had she deliberately lied to him? Irritated, Karn couldn't decide. Regardless, he was hungry. Coming down the steps from the great hall, he looked around the courtyard for someone who could offer him food as well as useful conversation. Someone who'd be camped beyond the ditch. Ridianne would see him flogged if he disobeyed her and found a bed within the boundary circle.
"Ulick!" He raised a hand as he saw a familiar face and, better yet, a dusty dog blazon.
A rotund mercenary broke off his conversation with a woman whose badge showed Marlier's three swords braided together with cords. He came to the bottom of the stone stair. "What can I do for you, friend?"
"I'll take a bowlful of whatever's in your pot this evening," Karn replied hopefully.
Ulick nodded. "How's Master Hamare?"
"He's well." Karn knew Ulick's main concern wasn't Hamare's health. "As generous as ever to his friends."
"Good," Ulick said with feeling.
"You're quartermastering for Beresin Steelhand?" Karn nodded at the brooch pinned on Ulick's worn grey jerkin.
"Fetching and carrying for his supply sergeants." Ulick looked gloomily at the miniature gauntlet curled into an aggressive fist. "You heard Shoddy Nair died?"
"I did, and I'm sorry for it," Karn said with every appearance of sincerity.
No wonder Ulick was unhappy. He'd fought long enough to earn the right to the safer life of a quartermaster. Karn knew the older man had been saving up his coin for the day when he couldn't keep up with the marching pace. With Shoddy Nair dead, he'd fallen a good few rungs down the ladder and the chances for skimming off private profits were less on every step.
"I expected you to be in Tormalin with Markasir," Karn remarked as they walked out through the gate.
Ulick looked at him, surprised. "Markasir isn't in Tormalin."
Karn jerked his head back towards the manor. "Herself seems to think so. Him and Lerris the Mason."
"Lerris is there but not Markasir." Ulick was quite certain.
So Lady Alaric might know more than Ridianne.
"He's in Carluse, then?" Karn queried.
"No." Ulick was just as certain of this.
"Where is he, then?" Karn reached for the purse on his belt.
"I wish I knew." Aggrieved, Ulick ran a hand over his stubbled jowls. "Find out and I'll do more than fill your belly from our stew pot. Markasir might just as well have run off through a rainbow to live with the Eldritch Kin. I can't get word of him anywhere."
"You don't think he's part of this plan to raise a force from the Lescari living in Vanam?" Karn ventured.
Ulick scorned the idea. "If he is, that knock on the head he took fighting for Draximal cracked his skull and let his wits leak out."
"You don't reckon there's anything to that?" So was Lady Alaric right? Karn was growing irritated.
As they walked over the earthen bridge to pass beyond the ditch to the outer camp, Ulick surprised him again. "There's something to it, no question. Some fool's wasting his coin and more fools will be losing blood. But Markasir's no more part of it than Glaive Tibbat. I could get a decent place on his muster," he said with feeling, "if I could only find the lanky bastard."
No one knew where Glaive Tibbat was either? Or rather, Ulick didn't know. The captain of the Steelhands might.
"Is Beresin dining with herself?" Karn didn't recall seeing the scarred mercenary in Ridianne's gloomy hall.
"Not tonight." They reached the Steelhand encampment and Ulick gestured towards a low tent whose sides were secured with iron hoops hammered into the hard ground. Two muscular men stood guard.
"Anyone I know?" asked Karn, mildly curious.
"No." Ulick waved a hand to the hard-faced woman tending a blackened cauldron on the fire. "This is Karn, a friend of mine."
Shrugging, the redhead plucked a wooden bowl from a basket and slopped cabbage and broth into it. "Bread's over there."
"Thank you." Karn took a torn hunk from the next basket.
Ulick accepted his own meal and led the way to an empty patch of grass, fishing a horn spoon out of a pocket.
Before Karn could frame his next question, Beresin, captain of the Steelhands, came striding through the tents.
"Bring out the prisoner!"
Always a good time to administer discipline, when every swordsman would be coming back for his food. Karn chewed on the bread, dense with the oats used to bulk out the wheat flour at this season.
The muscular guards unlaced the black tent's flaps and one thrust an arm inside.
"I'm coming." A shock-headed youth scrambled out of the low doorway, breeches grass-stained, shirt filthy.
Standing by the fire, Beresin's long black hair was drawn into a tail, emphasising his beak of a nose. A blow that had nearly cost him an eye left a dark scar down his forehead, cutting through his eyebrow and carving a deep notch into his cheekbone. Despite the heat of the season, he wore plate mail over black trews and padded jerkin. The last of the sunlight gilded the metal.
"Do you admit your offence?" he barked.
The youth was still flushed and sweating from his airless confinement. "I didn't know!"
He flinched as one of his captors ripped his shirt clean off.
"Dearie me." Karn took another spoonful. There was a good measure of bacon shredded among the cabbage.
Ulick leaned close, his voice low. "Save some of your bread. I've got cheese in my tent."
"You're showing a Steelhand tattoo." Beresin drove a plated finger into the lad's upper arm. "Has he earned it?" he roared.
"No!" The mercenaries' condemnation was unequivocal.
Beresin held out a blacksmith's rasp and plucked a knife from his own belt. "You can scour it off or cut it out."
At least the lad had the sense not to refuse to do either. Karn's spoon hovered over his bowl as he waited to see which torment the boy chose.
"It's a shame," Ulick remarked as the boy took the blacksmith's rasp in a shaking hand. "He's just overeager."
"You're sure Markasir isn't in Caladhria?" Karn ate another mouthful of bread. "Or the Glaive and his men?"
"Not that I've heard." Ulick raised his voice over a yelp of pain. The boy had tried a tentative swipe with the rasp.
"Let me know if you do hear anything." Karn saw the youth decide resolute action was the only way to be rid of his unsanctioned tattoo.
"As long as it's worth coin in my purse." Ulick winced.
The boy was scraping at his arm hard and fast. He kept his clenched fist raised, blood soon dripping off his elbow. More blood trickled down his beardless chin as he bit his lip to stop himself crying out.
Karn counted thirty strokes of the rasp before Beresin stepped forward with a clashing clap of his armoured hands. "Enough!"
If he said anything more, it was drowned out by cheers and whistles from the rest of the troop.
"Will that have taken the tattoo off?" Karn wondered.
"It will by the time I've tended it," Ulick promised. He stuck his spoon in his pocket and slurped the last of his broth. "Take this back to Shash or I'll never hear the last of it."
"Gladly." Karn set Ulick's bowl on the grass as he scraped up his own last mouthful.
As the fat man hurried towards the bleeding youth, Beresin intercepted him to exchange a few words. Karn guessed the ashen-faced lad would be boasting the gauntlet tattoo on his other arm one day, with Beresin's full approval. As long as Ulick kept the wound from festering and killing him.
What could he usefully do while Ulick was tending the fool boy? After taking both bowls back to the cook, Karn left the tents and walked towards the gliding waters of the Rel. With the sun now sunk below the horizon, only the afterglow reflected from the river. The water was well below the banks where the flourishing vegetation was showing no sign of the long dry spell. He could smell meadowsweet.
The assault from behind was so unexpected that Karn was knocked sprawling. He raised his arms to protect his face as he fell forward, ready to roll away from whatever second blow his assailant had ready. But he couldn't bend or roll. Even the attempt sent a shock of searing pain through him. He could barely catch his breath for the agony.
Lying face down, unable to move, Karn realised he'd been stabbed. Wet trickled into the hollow of his spine, warm and then, oddly, quickly cold. He was bleeding. Was the knife still in him? He reached clumsily round, trying to find a hilt.
Someone grabbed his flailing hand. Another someone seized his other arm. They were dragging him, hanging limp, face down and helpless. They were running, his feet trailing uselessly on the ground.
Who were they? The boys from the track through the woods? Karn choked on a stink of horse dung. Coughing was impossible, his lungs paralysed by the torment wracking him.
His captors dropped him. He couldn't do anything. They grabbed him again, one taking his hands, the other his ankles. They lifted him up and swung him sideways, doubling and redoubling his agonies. Karn tried to scream as he was flung out to land in the river with a noisy splash.
The cold shock momentarily revived him and he rolled to get his face out of the water. He tried to spread his arms and legs to stop himself sinking. Hadn't anyone heard the splash? He couldn't hear any shouts on the riverbank.
Was this how he was going to die? As his senses floated away, the dark waters closing over his face, he felt curiously relieved.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tathrin
Upstream from Emirle Bridge, in the Dukedom of Draximal,
37th of Aft-Summer
"Another hand of runes?" Gren tossed the three-sided bones from one hand to the other.
"Can't we run through some sword-work?" Tathrin would far rather be seeing if he could finally prod Gren with his sword-point. After daily practice bouts through nearly both halves of summer, he was starting to think he might manage it sooner rather than later.
Gren shook his head. "Someone wandering where they shouldn't might hear us."
"This is a ducal hunting forest." Tathrin looked around the clearing where they'd camped overnight. "I've seen no sign that anyone ever comes here."
"Only because you don't know what to look for." Gren threw a pair of rune bones, one hand against the other. Water landed upright, stronger than the Fire opposite. "I've seen snares. Fear of Duke Secaris or his rangers won't stop a man needing meat to feed his family. If some poor bastard does stumble across us, we'll just have to kill him. Then we'll have ten more beating the underbrush when he doesn't come home. Sorgrad won't be pleased to find us knee-deep in peasants."
Another thing Tathrin had learned through the summer was that Sorgrad's displeasure settled any argument as far as Gren was concerned.
The Mountain Man picked one of the nine bones out of his palm and studied the symbols on its three faces: the Salmon, the Reed and the Sea. "You don't like playing runes, do you?"
Tathrin had also learned that while Gren was as straightforward as a knife to the heart, he wasn't stupid. "I prefer the challenge of white raven."
"I like more excitement. You never know which way the runes are going to fall." Gren shook his head. "Playing raven's never going to change your life. If the runes are running your way, an evening's play could see you taking everyone else's coin home."
"Which could see someone cracking your skull on the way there so they can steal it back," Tathrin retorted. He hitched at his shirt. Thanks to the swordplay, it was uncomfortably tight across the shoulders now, whereas his breeches were markedly looser and he'd had to make a new hole in his belt with his knife.
"True enough," Gren acknowledged, idly examining the rune bearing the Eagle, the Broom and the Plains. "That's why our friend Livak used to travel with Halice. Now, she--"
"Won all the long lad's coin?" Sorgrad appeared, filthy and picking dead leaves out of his yellow hair.
Tathrin had initially wondered if he was using his unsanctioned magic to vanish as he scouted ahead on their journey. He'd finally concluded Sorgrad was merely very
stealthy and perfectly willing to sacrifice his usual spruceness for the sake of going unseen.
"Not yet." Gren grinned.
"Well, put your runes away. It's time you learned how not to get killed in a knife fight," Sorgrad told Tathrin.
Gren's blue eyes brightened to rival the cloudless sky. "It's tonight?"
"I said we'd start this war before the end of Aft-Summer," Sorgrad confirmed.
"Are we here to begin recruiting a proper army?" Tathrin asked, apprehensive. "With Arest and his mercenaries?"
Twenty men sharing seven tents. A fifth of a company. That's how many men were up in the hills with Captain-General Evord: the handful of Solurans who'd come with him, and a scattering of Mountain Men who'd joined them on their long journey through the uplands. Granted, a good few weather-beaten men and a few daunting women had come and gone, promising to bring their warbands to join Evord's muster, but Tathrin would believe that when he saw it. How were they ever going to achieve anything worthwhile before the end of For-Autumn and the Equinox Festival drew the fighting season to a close?
"Arest and the lads are still holding the bridge?" Gren asked. "You got close enough to be sure?"
Sorgrad nodded. "Breaking them out of there will make for a nice distraction to set all the dukes fretting, just like Charoleia wants."
"As long as you keep your mouth shut," Gren warned Tathrin.
"Accidents happen in the best-regulated companies." Sorgrad's smile was cold enough to chill him despite the afternoon sun. "Besides, we'll be meeting more mercenaries soon enough and a long lad like you with no blazon to protect him could catch the eye of someone wanting to make their name with an easy kill."
"Especially short-arses. They're always troublemakers." Gren shook his head, oblivious to any irony.
"No one needs to know I can work wizardry," Sorgrad continued, "so keep your mouth shut about that as well."
"What--?" Tathrin blinked and tried not to swallow.
Irons in the Fire (Chronicles of the Lescari Revolution) Page 29
