Hamare reached for a dog-eared missive, a narrow slip of paper curled around the fragment of its seal. "The same treachery is surfacing in Carluse. Guildmasters are no longer content merely to help the common folk send their sons and daughters away in secret. Now they're saying no duke can be trusted. That Duke Garnot would have been the first to use magic if he thought he could get away with it. They're saying so in the very same words that this man Reniack is using in Parnilesse. The selfsame contagion is spreading in Marlier and Sharlac."
"What did you say?" Iruvain stared at him. "About the guildmasters of Carluse?"
Hamare set his jaw. "There have been rumours, for some years now, of disaffection within Carluse. You've heard the tales of these mysterious Woodsmen."
"I've heard Duke Garnot laugh at them," Iruvain asserted.
"I suspect these tales are deliberately spread to cover the truth." Litasse saw that Hamare's calm tone was costing him visible effort. "The truth being a conspiracy among Carluse's priests and guildsmen to send youths and maidens away to family and friends beyond Lescar's borders. They tell the duke's reeves they have died or married away. I also suspect some priests hide coin in their shrines when Duke Garnot sends his mercenaries collecting levies."
"You knew such treachery was undermining one of Triolle's allies and you said nothing?" Iruvain said slowly.
"I cannot burden you with every rumour, Your Grace, not until I have satisfied myself as to the truth of them." Hamare's attempt at humility was unconvincing.
"Satisfied yourself?" Iruvain's voice was cold. "You take too much on yourself, Master Hamare."
Litasse shifted in her chair. "Carluse is no friend to Triolle."
"I say who our friends are!" Iruvain rounded on her. "And you are Triolle's duchess. I'll thank you to remember that!"
"Duke Garnot's missing whore is niece to a priest deeply implicated in these plots, Your Grace," Hamare said loudly. "She fled to Vanam where she had dealings with this agitator Reniack. Where rumours persist that a band of exiles is preparing to raise arms against Lescar."
"Rumour?" Furious, Iruvain threw an inkwell at Hamare. "Is rumour burning the far banks of the Anock? If you continue to waste my time with this nonsense of Vanam, I'll have you whipped to your senses!"
"My lord!" Litasse sprang to her feet.
He glared at her. "What are you doing here, my lady wife?"
She stiffened as she saw his anger cool to be replaced with sharp curiosity.
"I'm looking for some truth amid all this frenzy, just like you," Litasse said with asperity. She kept her eyes fixed on Iruvain, not daring to look at Hamare. "I have had as many hysterical letters from our vassals' ladies as you've had from their lords, my husband."
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Hamare, black ink splashed across his face and the white collar of his shirt.
"It's a shame our vaunted intelligencer has lost his way so completely amid this blizzard of paper." Iruvain's scowl dared Hamare to speak. "But his failings are my concern, not yours." He gestured towards the door, his face hard. "Calm your servants, my lady, and forbid all foolish gossip until we really know what's going on in Draximal!"
What did he expect her to do? Stand over every scullion up to his elbows in greasy water? Follow every chambermaid around the castle to make sure they didn't speculate over their dusting? But Litasse had never seen Iruvain so furious. She nodded a prudent farewell. "Of course, my lord husband. Master Hamare, good day to you."
A bruise was darkening his cheek where the inkwell had struck him. He didn't smile but his eyes warmed to her. "My lady."
Iruvain didn't even do her the courtesy of opening the door before he turned on Hamare again. "Show me everything you have had from Draximal and Parnilesse in the past three days."
Litasse opened the door for herself and went out. She would have stopped on the far side, stooping to listen at the keyhole if need be--could Iruvain have been serious when he'd threatened Hamare with flogging? But two men from Iruvain's personal guard stood outside, imperfectly concealing their curiosity. What had they overheard?
"Your Grace." One of them bowed.
Was she imagining the insolence in his face? "Good morning."
"My lady." Valesti was waiting by the stairs, keeping her distance from Iruvain's attendants. Litasse could see she was as keen as the swordsmen to know what Hamare had said.
"We have letters to write." Litasse hurried down the stairs. "Send word to the stables to have couriers ready."
If Iruvain wouldn't listen to Hamare, she would at least do the spymaster the courtesy of taking his arguments seriously. Whatever was afoot, he had convinced her that this strife in Draximal was only part of some wider threat. Was there something going on in Vanam? She was inclined to think so now. If Iruvain wanted proof, she would do all she could to obtain it. She knew vassals whose ladies had cross-border ties that strained their loyalties. She knew which ones quietly traded with the furthest-reaching merchants. If they couldn't tell her what she needed to know, they might well know who else to ask.
It was only a pity that Duke Garnot of Carluse seemed to be as much a victim in all this as Duke Secaris of Draximal or Duke Orlin of Parnilesse. But that still didn't mean Duke Garnot wasn't the villain she knew him to be.
"What did Master Hamare say, Your Grace?" Valesti followed so close that she trod on Litasse's silken hem.
"Nothing of consequence." Litasse didn't dare look at her, in case the maidservant read the lie in her eyes.
She would tell her later. Whatever there had been between Karn and Valesti was done, wasn't it? She couldn't afford the delay the foolish woman's tears might cost her. It would be best to get her letters on the road before Iruvain finished berating the spymaster. What His Grace her husband didn't know about need not concern him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Aremil
Beacon Lane, in Vanam's Upper Town,
4th of For-Autumn
How soon would early risers find the mornings starting to darken? For-Autumn would quickly see night's bells encroaching on servants' duties. Though at least it was a long half-season this year--forty-eight days.
Aremil carefully unlatched the shutters. The waning Greater Moon and the last shaving of the Lesser Moon were still visible in the pearlescent sky. He smiled as he recalled Tathrin's frustration with the vagaries of the calendar. Given that the Solstices and the Equinoxes marked fixed points in the year, why couldn't the intervals between them be divided equally as well? Why did the turn from winter to spring or summer to autumn have to be decided by the erratic phases of the two inconveniently synchronised moons?
Aremil's face turned solemn again. What could they possibly achieve in forty-eight days? Did Captain-General Evord plan on fighting right through the Equinox and the Autumn Festival? How long would the weather stay fine into Aft-Autumn? Fine enough for warfare? It was almost enough to persuade him to nail a prayer to the door of Dastennin's shrine. Or should he beseech Talagrin's favour? Why bother, when he had scant faith in any god or goddess?
He folded the wooden panels into the sides of the window embrasure and looked at the silent street. Those who could sleep would still be in their beds as the echoes of the darkness's final hour floated over the rooftops. Those who weren't setting out on a journey so urgent that every daylight hour must be spent on the road today.
He heard cautious footsteps on the stairs.
"I'm in here," he said quietly. It wouldn't do to wake Lyrlen.
"You're awake?" Branca entered the sitting room. She wore a plain green gown and a grey travelling cloak hung over one arm.
Aremil smiled crookedly. "I wanted to say goodbye."
"You couldn't sleep?" Branca looked at him.
He hesitated. "That too."
Every time he'd closed his eyes, he'd pictured the bodies Tathrin had tripped over on his nightmarish flight through the panicked town. He'd felt Tathrin's disgust at the jovial unconcern of Sorgrad and Gren when they'd
caught up with Arest. Regrouping, making only a perfunctory count of the men who had died, the mercenaries had laughed as they'd drunk themselves foolish on purloined spirits, all the while mocking the peasants they'd so easily terrified. Only Tathrin and the newcomer, Reher, had stood silently apart, seeing no cause for celebration.
More disquieting still, Aremil knew he had only seen that chaotic night through Tathrin's subdued recollections. How much worse had it really been? How far had mage-kindled fires spread through the parched trees and fields? As Tathrin and Sorgrad had waited for Gren and Reher to rejoin them, the skies on the far side of the river had been black with smoke.
Branca pursed her lips. "I'll make us both a tisane."
"That would be welcome," Aremil admitted. Getting himself out of his bed in the back room was one thing. Dressing himself was quite another. With the hottest summer nights now past, the dawn was none too warm.
As he tucked his chilled feet under the hem of his chamber robe, he heard Branca stealthily filling the kettle. The scrape of the grate told him she was rousing the slumbering fire with a scatter of fresh coal. Aremil tensed. Thankfully, there was no sound of Lyrlen rousing.
Branca came back, pushing the door closed. "Being able to share Tathrin's thoughts over so many hundreds of leagues is all very well until he encounters something we'd rather not know about."
"I may not wish to know about such slaughter but I need to," Aremil said sombrely. "If I'm to answer for what we're starting."
"Answer to whom?" Branca cocked her head. "Saedrin?"
Aremil had learned that she had less faith in gods or goddesses than he did. "To the folk of Lescar. There'll be an accounting, some day."
"True enough." She sighed. "These deaths in Draximal, are they the first stones heralding the landslide?"
"That all depends on this Soluran captain-general." Aremil didn't hide his frustration. "And how soon he can raise this army that Sorgrad keeps promising us."
"Charoleia is still confident," Branca said thoughtfully. "Failla and Lady Derenna have prepared the ground to good effect if their letters are to be believed. Duke Garnot of Carluse and Duke Moncan of Sharlac will find it hard to rouse their militias to oppose Evord and his men."
"Difficult, but not impossible." Aremil felt his throat tighten. "You must be careful, you and Lady Derenna. Failla says Duke Garnot has his mercenaries beating the bushes to flush out these mysterious Woodsmen."
"Sharlac will be a safer place than Carluse or Parnilesse," Branca said firmly. "Duke Moncan is still closeted inside his castle walls while Duke Orlin is chasing rumours of Draximal invasions here, there and everywhere."
"I wish we knew what Reniack was up to," Aremil said with feeling.
"You'll find out as soon as Jettin catches up with him--" Branca broke off as if to listen for something again. She shook her head. "Besides, his broadsheets turn up here soon enough. You've read them. Why do you suspect he's doing anything more than convincing folk it was Duke Orlin of Parnilesse who sent some renegade mage against Draximal and vice versa?" She sprang to her feet. "The kettle!"
As she hurried to the kitchen to stifle the rising note, Aremil looked at the brightening sky. He had no reason to mistrust Reniack, nothing that he could put his finger on, anyway. Perhaps it was just because the man was someone he didn't know, so far away, his letters so infrequent. Still, Branca was right. They'd know what the rabble-rouser was up to once Jettin joined him.
There was no denying that Reniack's lies were convincing. Judging by the gossip among the wagoners that Gruit reported and the rumours Charoleia was hearing, all the eastern Lescari, from dukes to dung-shovellers, feared that their foes had wizardry to call on.
So it shouldn't occur to anyone that aetheric magic was at work in their lands. Branca should stay all the safer, her and the other Artificers, and all the other conspirators. As long as Branca stayed well away from any fighting. He looked down at his hands, so weak and useless.
"You'll find you fare better with aetheric enchantments if you can set certain things aside."
Aremil looked up as Branca re-entered the room carrying two tisane glasses. "What do you mean?"
"Your father," she said with uncharacteristic hesitation as she set the glasses down on the table. "He's Duke Secaris of Draximal."
Aremil swallowed hard. "Lyrlen told you?"
"Hardly." Sitting on the brocaded settle, Branca's scorn was momentary. "I saw him in your memories," she explained apologetically.
"I see." Aremil immediately regretted the coldness in his tone.
"I didn't go looking," Branca retorted with more of her customary spirit. "I can't help feeling what's colouring your thoughts. Especially when it's stifling your Artifice."
Aremil reminded himself fiercely that Tathrin had been feeling echoes of his emotions, and his friend hadn't had the least training in Artifice.
"Forgive me," he said stiffly. "I know you'd never deliberately intrude."
But what exactly had Branca learned from his unguarded thoughts? When he didn't know himself where his feelings for her were leading, beyond the admiration and affection he could no longer deny.
More to the point, was she right about what was limiting his Artifice? When he was going to be the only link between Vanam and those braving the dangers in Lescar? He couldn't bear the prospect of proving unequal to playing his part.
"What exactly must I set aside?" he asked curtly.
"You're worried that your birth will somehow be betrayed. You're afraid that people will think you're raising a revolt just to get revenge on your father." Branca's face was sympathetic. "You're worried that they might be right, because you do resent him and all the decisions he has made that have governed your life for so long. On the other hand, you know full well you should be grateful for comfort that so few people with your afflictions will ever know. Few of those sound in mind and limb are granted a life of such privilege, come to that. And you should be grateful," she said frankly.
He waited a moment until he could be certain he had control of his voice. "I am."
Branca shrugged. "So acknowledge there's no reconciling your gratitude and your resentment and stop struggling with such an impossible task. I've told you that the best practitioners of aetheric magic are the most dispassionate. You've already shown your talent for rising above petty distractions, so I know you can do it."
"I'll do my best." Aremil cleared his throat. "I keep sensing what Tathrin feels when I reach through the aether to him and I know he hears some echo of my thoughts. But I never know what you're thinking. Why is that?"
"Practice." She sipped her tisane and winced at the heat. "The ability to guard your thoughts will come the more you hone your skills. You should be grateful that you feel things so passionately," she continued reflectively.
Aremil was puzzled. "Even though you say the best Artificers can deny their emotions?"
"At one and the same time, the best Artificers are those for whom commitment to their craft becomes an all-consuming desire." She smiled ruefully. "Another conflict that pulls us this way and that until we can find the balance point and thus improve our skills."
Aremil shook his head. "I can't be grateful for emotions that are holding me back at the worst possible time."
"Well, I wouldn't be going to Lescar at all if you didn't believe in your cause so fervently." Branca blew on her tisane to cool the cloudy red liquid. "I've no doubt some people will misunderstand your motives when everything's out in the open. Some will accuse you out of spite or just to secure their own advantage. But you know the truth and so do I."
Aremil swallowed. "Since when?"
"Since that day in the physic garden." The faint spark of mischief in her eyes warmed him.
"I've been wondering about that," he said with a crooked smile. "Since you told me that tale of ancient kings locking Artificers away, to lie in cold dungeons surrounded by their own filth so that discomfort crippled their ability to work enchantments. Presumably ta
king a cripple out into the hot sun and making him struggle along on his crutches made it all the easier for you to see my motives?"
"I did tell you I wanted to know your intentions." She was unabashed. "I didn't go looking for secrets, though. I just read what was there to be seen most clearly. Be thankful that I did."
"I'm thankful for more than that," Aremil said unguardedly.
"As am I." Branca finished her tisane with a swift gulp and took up the other glass. "This is cool enough for you now."
"Thank you." Aremil was past worrying that Branca would spill food or drink on him. As she held the glass to his lips, he sipped the steaming water. The welcome warmth of steeping ginger and honey-soaked spice-berries eased some of the tension wracking him.
"When do you think Master Gruit's coach will be here?" he wondered aloud.
Whenever it came would be too soon for him. He didn't want to see Branca leave.
"Jettin's no early bird," Branca commented, "but Kerith was staying at his lodgings last night and he's always a prompt riser."
"Indeed?" Aremil couldn't help wondering how Branca came to know so much about either man's demeanour first thing in the morning.
He'd better put that aside, lest it hamper his Artifice or betray his small-mindedness to Branca. Petty jealousy of men who'd known her before he had, who'd shared in the rediscovery of aetheric magic, was pointless. It was ungrateful, too, when Jettin and Kerith were about to risk Talagrin only knew what dangers for the sake of their common Lescari blood.
"Enough?" As Aremil nodded, Branca took the glass away. "Can you sell some books for me while I'm away?"
Irons in the Fire (Chronicles of the Lescari Revolution) Page 33
