Irons in the Fire (Chronicles of the Lescari Revolution)

by Juliet E. McKenna

  "Always good to have townsfolk on your side," Gren said happily.

  Tathrin saw that a chain had been thrown from an upper window to the one facing it across the street. Pulled up taut, it had swept the men off their horses. One lay deathly still as the other two struggled up.

  The door of the opposite house slammed open and two men and a boy attacked the stunned mercenaries with sledgehammers and a cudgel. Their women-folk screeched high-pitched encouragement from the windows above.

  "This is the fountain court. Where now?" demanded Sorgrad.

  There was at least as much wrestling as swordplay going on around the broad basins fed by the town's main conduit. Bodies floated in two of them, tainting the water with blood and ordure.

  Tathrin saw the open arches and angled roofs of the covered markets and pointed with his sword. "This way."

  His sword had blood on it. How had that happened?

  He had no time to wonder as he ran across the flagstoned expanse, the brothers on either side of him. One man made a half-hearted attack on Sorgrad, only to stumble backwards as the Mountain Man deftly sidestepped to hack at his legs.

  Once they were in the street running alongside the market halls, there was no one to be seen. Sweat running down his forehead stung Tathrin's eyes, so he shoved his helmet back to wipe his brow. He could hear the sounds of battle behind them, by the gate. Here all was stony silence.

  "Where now?" Gren was circling around, his back to Sorgrad. Both were alert for any sign of movement, never mind some hint of attack.

  "To the horse fair." But as Tathrin spoke, he saw two brewhouses just ahead, on either side of a narrow entry. What had Aremil said? Take the street leading to the horse fair. Had he meant that the brewhouses were on the horse fair or on the way to it?

  "This way." He ran down the alley regardless. If he was wrong, it would be easy enough to retrace their steps.

  It was a dead end. An iron-studded gate wide enough for a wagon blocked their way. It was set deep into a solid wall, the mossy tiles of an old roof just visible behind it.

  "Tathrin?" Gren looked at him.

  "Gren," Sorgrad warned. He was still facing the other way, watching the street.

  Tathrin turned around to see armoured men advancing on them. Five abreast, they blocked the windowless alley. None wore any sign of a yellow rag. He pulled his helmet back down. With Sorgrad and Gren on either side, he could only hope they'd be able to fight clear of this trap he'd inadvertently led them into.

  Or had he? He looked at the gate again. There was a griffin carved into the pitch-stained wood. "This is it." He threw his head back and yelled. "Aremil!" It had to be worth a try. "Tell Kerith we're here!"

  The advancing mercenaries shared a bemused look but didn't waste their breath talking.

  Tathrin gripped his sword with both hands. If he could account for one of them, surely Sorgrad and Gren could bring down two each? His hands felt slippery with sweat inside his leather gloves.

  "Cut them down, quick as you like." Sorgrad made a throwing gesture with his empty hand.

  Fiery specks swirled through the air, bright as sap spat from an unseasoned log in a hearth. The sparks flew straight at the mercenaries' eyes. Cursing, the men flinched and dodged but the magical embers followed them, burning through leather gloves to sting their hands, searing their bearded faces.

  Sorgrad and Gren were attacking before the mercenaries could recover. Gren hacked one man's head nearly from his shoulders before smashing the pointed pommel of his sword into the next man's face. As he fell with blood gushing from his smashed nose, Gren buried his blade in the man's throat.

  Sorgrad brought his first opponent down with a sidestep and a slice to the man's hamstrings. As he collapsed, Sorgrad kicked him into the second mercenary on that side. As the second man stumbled, incautiously raising his arm, Sorgrad thrust his sword through the aperture in the armpit of his hauberk.

  The last one was still attacking Tathrin. He slashed at the man's arms, the blade sliding harmlessly along the mail rings. At least his hacking strokes forced the mercenary back half a pace. Before Tathrin could congratulate himself, the mercenary recovered with another smashing blow. Tathrin could only parry with a desperate effort. Their swords locked at the hilts. Feeling the wooden gate pressing into his back, he pushed against it, using all his height and strength to throw the man backwards. The mercenary slipped and Tathrin wrenched his sword free. Before the man could attack, Tathrin ripped his blade across his throat. Blood sprayed all over his face and stung his eyes. He choked on the metallic smell of it as the dead man collapsed at his feet.

  "Well done." Sorgrad was cleaning the dagger he'd just used to cut the throat of the man he'd crippled.

  "Finally got you blooded." Gren nodded with approval.

  Shaking, Tathrin stepped away from the body and wondered if he was going to be sick. He looked at Sorgrad. "I thought you weren't going to use magic."

  "Only where someone might see." The mageborn Mountain Man shrugged. "It's only a few sparks. Anyone wondering at the marks will just think they got a faceful of some housewife's ash pan."

  "Fighting fair's for fools and nobles." Gren clapped Tathrin on the shoulder and went to hammer on the gate. "All safe now. Open up."

  "What's the word?" a voice shouted on the other side.

  "Talagrin's bow."

  Tathrin was about to ask how they knew to request the field word when he realised Aremil must have told them.

  The small porter's door in the gate opened to reveal Kerith, holding a venerable pole arm with incongruous proficiency.

  "Master Scholar." All courtesy, Sorgrad extended a bloody gauntlet.

  "Are you all safe?" Tathrin stepped forward. "Is Failla here?"

  "She is," Kerith said guardedly. "You had better come in."

  Tathrin hurried past him towards the open door on the far side of the stable yard. Two ostlers stood irresolute, hayforks in their hands. One retreated at the sight of Tathrin and his bloody sword. The other stepped forward, ready to try skewering him.

  "They're friends!" Nath appeared in the doorway. "And very welcome," he added with profound relief.

  "You put that down before you get hurt, pal," Gren advised the courageous ostler. The hayfork clattered to the ground.

  "We're upstairs." Nath retreated a pace and indicated the steps.

  Tathrin caught a glimpse of a frightened huddle in the taproom, men and boys all wide-eyed with apprehension. He took the stairs two and three at a time. On the landing above, a linen-capped woman, her face as pale as her apron, hurriedly slammed a door.

  "Failla?" Tathrin didn't want to try the bedchambers at random.

  "In here." Her voice was tremulous.

  The others were coming up the stairs behind him. "I take it we wait here, till Aremil tells us everything's safe?" Nath asked.

  Kerith was less sanguine. "Unless we have to get ourselves safely out, if Evord's men lose the day."

  "Not likely," Gren scoffed.

  Tathrin opened the door to see Failla sitting with her back to him, in a chair by the window. "Are you all right?"

  "I am." Her voice broke as she turned around.

  Tathrin saw she was cradling a little girl. Against all the odds, the child slept peacefully on. There could be no doubt this was Failla's daughter, her dark hair curling across her bodice.

  "Someone's got some explaining to do," Gren observed with lively interest.

  Words failed Tathrin completely. He had never guessed. Had anyone?

  "We've got a good deal to tell you all," Kerith said grimly.

  "A tale always goes better with food and drink," Sorgrad said practically. "What's this inn got to offer?"

  "My lady?" Gren offered Failla his arm, as if he were about to escort her into a banquet.

  "No." She looked at the floor, shamefaced. "You'll have things to tell Nath and Kerith that I shouldn't hear."

  "What?" Tathrin was bemused.

  "Failla was for
ced into some indiscretion by a Triolle spy," Kerith said coldly. "We've yet to decide if we still trust her."

  "I was trying to keep my daughter safe." Failla raised her shadowed eyes to Tathrin with desperate appeal. "I only told lies to the spy."

  "So she says." Nath scowled. "Half the Carluse guildsmen have been seized regardless. And she lied to us, time and again."

  Tathrin had feared he might see the map-maker looking at Failla with desire the next time they met. Or worse, with proprietorial content. He hadn't imagined he'd see such contempt in Nath's eyes.

  First things first. That's what his father always advised when he couldn't decide what to do. Tathrin looked down at his stained gloves and felt the drying blood stiff on his cheek. "Is there anywhere I can wash?"

  "My room's next door." Kerith nodded towards the back of the inn. "Come downstairs when you're done and we'll find you some food."

  They all filed out of the room, leaving Failla still sitting by the window hugging her sleeping child.

  Tathrin found half a ewer of cold water on Kerith's washstand and a chunk of pale soap. He scrubbed the gore from his face. Aremil had turned angry and evasive when Failla had come up in their aetheric conversation. He must know what she had done, or rather, what she was accused of. Why hadn't he said anything? Tathrin dried his face slowly. Not so long ago, Aremil wouldn't have been able to hide something like this. What other secrets was his friend keeping from him now?

  He walked quietly back to the room where Failla sat looking blindly out of the window.

  "What's her name?"

  She would have jumped, startled, but care for her child stilled her. "Anilt," she said softly.

  Tathrin knelt by the chair and stroked the little girl's cheek with a gentle finger. "She's beautiful."

  "The woman from Triolle, the spy, she said she'd tell Duke Garnot I'd borne her." Failla's whisper cracked with anguish. "He'd have taken her, used her, disposed of her as he saw fit."

  "I know." Tathrin knew the fates of the duke's other bastards. Everyone in Carluse did.

  "I only told her lies," Failla insisted. "She already knew about the Guilds' conspiracies. I never betrayed them."

  Tathrin scowled. "I'm sure we'll soon prove that."

  "Kerith knows, even if Nath won't believe it." A tear spilled from Failla's lashes. "They both rode through the night with me, to make sure Anilt was safe. The Triolle woman hadn't betrayed her. I don't know why."

  "If this spy baulked at such vileness, surely there's hope for all of Lescar." Tathrin brushed the glistening tear from Failla's face.

  "Tathrin!" Gren bellowed up the stairs from the taproom. "Hurry up!"

  "What happens now?" she asked tentatively.

  "We wait for Evord to win this battle." He hesitated. "There can't be much more fighting before winter comes. As soon as it's safe, I want to send my family to Vanam." He'd been thinking about that all the way from Sharlac. Once Sorgrad had explained the importance of taking Losand, he was convinced. Everyone he loved must be as far away as possible before this war resumed in the spring. "You can go with them."

  Faint amusement lightened Failla's weary face. "Do you think your mother would welcome Duke Garnot's whore and her bastard?"

  "That's just what you were, not who you are now," Tathrin said firmly. He rose to his feet. "I'll look after you," he promised. "Both of you."

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Aremil

  Losand, in the Lescari Dukedom of Carluse,

  48th and Last Day of For-Autumn

  "I promised I'd have you here before festival." Charoleia pointed out of the carriage window.

  Aremil craned his neck to see the walls of Losand indistinct ahead. "You're a woman of your word." He spoke as courteously as he could with the cramps tormenting him.

  She challenged him with a smile. "You had your doubts."

  "Losand was barely under attack when we set out from Abray," he protested.

  "Any number of things could have delayed Captain-General Evord's victory here." Sitting opposite, Master Gruit supported him. A slow smile spread over his wrinkled face. "But we've done it, haven't we, lad? And I don't just mean getting here in time to eat sausage and apples. Lescar can finally look forward to peace!"

  "There's no going back now, is there?" Aremil allowed himself a crooked grin. "Did you ever think it would come to this, when you berated Vanam's furriers last spring?"

  "I had no notion." The old wine merchant chuckled. "But here we are, with Sharlac fallen already!"

  "I told you to be patient and you'd see our plans come to fruition with the harvest," Charoleia reminded him. "But Sharlac is merely one dukedom and, in many ways, the most vulnerable. We have a long way still to go."

  Jolted, Aremil winced. Charoleia's associates and Gruit's coin had procured a luxurious coach but they could do nothing about the uneven road. He tried to make light of it. "His Grace of Carluse hasn't been insisting his vassals keep up the highway lately."

  "Are you very uncomfortable?" Gruit looked concerned.

  "I'll be glad to stop travelling for more than a night's rest." Aremil managed a half-smile.

  "This apothecary, Welgren, he's here?" Gruit looked at Charoleia. "I'll welcome some nostrum to ease my aches and pains." He shifted with a rueful expression. "I'm not as young as I was."

  "I'll settle for hot wine with a shot of white brandy," Aremil said with feeling.

  "Shall I close the window?" Master Gruit reached for the leather strap that would lift the glass back up to close the narrow gap.

  "No, thank you." While Aremil was uncomfortably cold, the fresh air helped stave off nausea provoked by the motion of the coach.

  The horses slowed for the third time that morning. Aremil heard voices as their escorts exchanged passwords with the horsemen patrolling the highway on Evord's orders.

  If he didn't have Master Gruit's coin or Charoleia's mysterious connections, at least he could speed their travel by learning the passwords from Branca and making sure the captain-general's men were expecting them.

  Charoleia folded gloved hands inside her fur-lined cloak. "When were you last in Lescar, Master Gruit?"

  "I left Marlier to try my luck in Peorle thirty-some years ago." The old merchant gazed out of the coach window with a distant expression. "I travelled back and forth for a few seasons but every time I came home, I only heard tales of woe. After I moved to Vanam I left the journeying to my apprentices."

  "Did you know Losand?" wondered Aremil.

  Gruit shook his grizzled head. "In those days Marlier and Carluse were at each other's throats. The only way to pick up the highway going west was to cross the Rel into Caladhria and go north on that side of the river. If you wanted to go east, you had to travel all through Triolle and Draximal paying tolls at every turn. I lived near Cotebridge, so heading west was easier and cheaper, with just the fee for the bridge." He smiled reflectively. "If I'd been born further east or nearer the sea, I might just have taken a ship to Tormalin and never seen Vanam."

  "I've found little profit in looking backwards, Master Gruit," Charoleia remarked serenely, "and none at all in regrets."

  Aremil coughed as smoke slipped through the gap at the top of the window.

  Gruit pulled on the leather strap to raise the glass, securing the loop on its brass hook. "The pyres are still burning."

  "Were there so many dead?" Aremil wondered with misgiving. Charoleia might disdain regret but he still felt a share of responsibility for those who had fallen here.

  "It's Mountain Men boiling something." Gruit peered out, mystified.

  "Their fallen," Charoleia said with a mischievous glint in her eye. "They don't believe in burning the dead. According to their customs, bones should rest underground, since all mankind and the land were made by Misaen. In the Mountains, they lay their dead in stone tombs." She held a fold of her cloak over her nose as they passed fires ringing steaming vats. "On some long journey, they can hardly ship a corpse home. They dism
ember the bodies, strip the flesh by boiling them and pack up the bones until they return."

  "Poldrion save us," Gruit said faintly.

  "Hence those ghastly rumours spread before the battle," Aremil realised.

  "Quite so." Charoleia smiled.

  Aremil tried to ignore the insidious smell. Hopefully Branca had heeded his urging to stay safely inside the town while everything beyond the walls was still so uncertain.

  They travelled onwards in silence through the significantly reduced ruins surrounding the town. Aremil noted that brick and building stone had already been salvaged and stacked in neat piles.

  "I see Evord's had all this ground cleared," Charoleia remarked.

  "Did he do that?" As they reached Losand's walls, Gruit pointed at the broken-necked bodies dangling from the battlements.

  Aremil was thankful that his indifferent eyesight spared him the repellent details. "I thought most of the mercenaries surrendered?" He looked at Charoleia.

  She shrugged, quite composed. "I'm sure Evord can explain."

  "I'm sorry I have found it so difficult to work sufficient Artifice to keep you fully informed of late," Aremil said stiffly.

  Pain and weariness provoked by the rigours of the journey had severely limited his recent aetheric communications. Though Aremil couldn't be wholly sorry. Seeing the distress of Sharlac and Carluse through everyone else's eyes had taxed him sorely.

  Leaving all the gruesome sights behind, the carriage rattled through the archway of Losand's great gate tower.

  "Some people are planning on celebrating the start of the festival tomorrow." Gruit looked more hopeful as they saw doors decorated with garlands of red and golden leaves.

  "What do you suppose they're thankful for?" Aremil wondered.

  He caught sight of a flag in Carluse black and white trampled in a gutter, just as Tathrin's recollections had shown him Sharlac's russet and green cast down in the filth.

  An importunate hand hammered on the door as the carriage slowed once again. It opened to reveal Reniack's weather-beaten face.