Blood in the Water (27 page)

“It wasn’t, truly.” Reher’s support was as welcome as it was unexpected.

“What are you doing here?” Milar brushed hair out of his eyes with the back of his other hand. It was useless for more than that, the bones crushed, broken fingers knitted all awry.

“We need to see Ernout.” Reher looked at the stairs leading out of the cellars. “Do the duke’s men patrol the streets all night?”

Milar was still looking at Failla. “Serafia wept for days, as stricken as when she lost Elpin.”

“I’m sorry.” Tears pricked Failla’s own eyes. “Uncle Ernout knew—”

She couldn’t go on. Her cousin had known enough grief, her betrothed lost in the same battle that had crippled Milar’s hand. Elpin’s body had never been found, leaving Serafia to raise a fatherless son when she should have been a joyous bride.

“If the priest didn’t tell her, he had good reason,” Reher said firmly. “Milar, we’re sorry to rouse you but we’ve no time to waste. How hard will it be to get to the shrine unseen? Or can you get Ernout to come here without the duke’s men sniffing around?”

“He’s not at the shrine,” Milar said reluctantly. “They took him to the castle two days since.”

Reher grimaced. “We’d better talk to Master Findrin.”

Milar cut him short with his ruined hand. “The duchess’s men beat him senseless, when he tried to stop them taking Ernout.”

Failla was too shocked to speak. What could they do now?

“Come on. I need a drink.” Milar led them up to the tavern’s kitchen.

Reher managed to smile. “You’ve kept some bottles safe from the castle guards?”

“Behind the plinth of the dresser. I can’t rouse the fire,” Milar apologised. “We’ve little enough fuel to cook on, never mind warm the room.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Failla wrapped her cloak close and sat on a stool by the table.

No wonder the guardsmen hadn’t found the wine. Even Reher had to stretch on tiptoe to reach the hidden bottles.

Watching Reher drawing a cork, Failla gathered her wits. “What happened to Uncle Ernout?”

“He went up to the castle to ask after young Vrist.” Milar looked helplessly at her. “Your Aunty Derou, she’s frantic with worry.”

Reher sloshed wine into three goblets. “We never thought Tadira would lay hands on the priest.”

“Nor did we.” Milar gulped wine as he sat. “But why are you here? When you could be safe anywhere!”

“We came to tell Ernout that the townsfolk must open the gates.” Failla fought to stop her voice trembling. She didn’t dare lift a glass. “We can tell everyone the truth of what’s happened at Losand, what’s happened at Ashgil. That will surely convince them.”

“The guardsmen say both towns have been sacked and burned. Hundreds put to the sword.” Milar looked from her to Reher.

“That’s all lies,” the smith assured him, leaning against the chimney breast beside the empty hearth. “The commander keeps his companies on a tight leash. The Guilds are managing each town’s affairs now, sworn to keep the peace. All the militiamen who sued for mercy when Duke Garnot was beaten in the woods, they’ve all been allowed to go home once they laid down their arms.”

“Duke Garnot’s been beaten?”

Failla saw hope, or possibly the wine, stirring colour in Milar’s drawn cheeks. “His Grace fled to Triolle,” she told him. “Those few men with him are falling away.”

“That’s not what Her Grace says,” Milar assured them.

Failla reached for her goblet. “Seeing me alive should prove she doesn’t know all she claims.”

“She still holds the castle. Her men hold the town gates.” The spark in Milar’s eyes died. “With Ernout gone, and Findrin senseless, there’s no one to rouse men to defy her. She had Master Settan hanged.” He drained his drink. “Whatever you might say, folk are afraid. Duke Garnot may be gone today but if he ever comes back, anyone standing against Tadira will be flogged till their bones break. Then their bodies will be tossed to the dogs.”

“If the gates don’t open by noon tomorrow, the army outside will attack,” Reher countered.

“Whatever orders the captain-general gives about sparing innocent folk, some will surely die,” Failla said urgently.

Milar shook his head, despairing. “I think folk would still rather answer to Saedrin instead of Duchess Tadira.”

“We must make them see sense.” The blacksmith slammed his goblet perilously hard on the table. “How soon can we bring the remaining guildmasters together?”

“About half a chime before you’re dragged off in chains and hanged,” retorted Milar.

Failla gazed into the candle flame. Milar was no coward, nor a fool. Uncle Ernout would never have drawn him into the Guilds’ conspiracies if he had been. If he said the townsfolk were too cowed to act, he was right. Reher could loom and glower and nothing would change.

“Who’s commanding the castle guard?”

“Why do you ask?” Milar looked at her with misgiving.

“If we won’t persuade the townsfolk to open the gates, we must make Tadira’s guards see sense.” Failla concentrated on the candle flame. “She’s only one woman. If the garrison won’t back her, what can she do?”

Reher nodded slowly. “I’ll bet my anvil they want to live to see the turn of the year just like anyone else.”

“Half of them, maybe.” Milar shook his head. “The rest will sit tight and count on Duke Garnot rescuing them before they’ve eaten the food they stole from the town.”

Reher was undeterred. “If only half decide to surrender, they can beat sense into the rest.”

“How are they to know who else feels the same?” Milar demanded. “Do you think any man will stand up to be counted just because you bang on the castle gates and demand they lay down their arms?”

Failla closed her eyes. The candle’s lingering image glowed against the darkness of her vision.

“I know which men we would need to persuade, to turn the rest against the duchess. I can get inside the castle if you two will help.”

She had come too far to give up now.

Chapter Nineteen

Tathrin

The Silk Scarf, Relshaz,

13th of Aft-Autumn

“So who else knows about this?” he demanded.

“Will you let it drop?” Sorgrad stared at him, exasperated. “I’ve told you all I know.”

“All you know, or all you think I need to know?” Tathrin challenged.

Sorgrad’s grin taunted him. “Who knows?”

“Enough!” An older woman with milky skin and dyed scarlet hair clapped her hands. Concealing more than it displayed, her rose-silk gown was at least as seductive as the younger girls’ dresses. “You two have been bickering all evening. Either shut up or go outside and settle this quarrel with your fists. Or I’ll have one of my boys shut your mouths for you.”

The girls, who’d been coming and going all evening, halted in their various tasks to exchange wide-eyed glances. That was clearly no idle threat.

Sorgrad’s smiled widened as he glanced at Tathrin. “Want to see what you can beat out of me?”

“No.” He wasn’t fool enough to imagine he’d even land a blow on the Mountain Man.

Why by all that was sacred and profane were they wasting their time in a whorehouse? Did Aremil know what was happening in Carluse? Tathrin couldn’t decide what made him feel more betrayed—that Failla would do this without him, or that Aremil could let him travel to Relshaz in ignorance of the plan.

He folded his arms, shoulders hunched, brooding on the bench by the brothel’s kitchen door.

“So who’s guarding your doors?” Sorgrad rose and went to the table, taking a seat beside the scarlet-haired woman. “Anyone I might know?”

She looked at him, unsmiling. “Where’s your brother?”

“Up to his ears in ribbons, probably.” Sorgrad shrugged.

Before the woman could reply, one of the doors on the far side of the kitchen opened. A heavyset man with an oddly twisted face looked in. “She’ll see them now.”

“Finally.” Sorgrad was instantly on his feet. “Come on.”

Tathrin followed. What else could he do? Steal a horse? Stow away on a barge sailing up the Rel? He couldn’t get back to Carluse inside a double handful of days without Sorgrad’s magic. He went mutinously up a plain wooden staircase.

“Gren!” In the hall above, Sorgrad shouted. “Sheathed your favourite sword yet?”

A door opened to reveal Gren, stripped to the waist, a glass of wine in his hand. “Say hello to Semila,” he invited.

Tathrin caught a glimpse of the brunette girl reclining naked on a bed, content as a well-stroked cat.

Sorgrad spared her an appreciative grin before snapping his fingers at his brother. “Get your shirt and your sword. She’s ready to see us.”

As Gren ducked back into the room, Tathrin followed Sorgrad to the door at the far end of the hall. He was taut with apprehension. The Mountain mage hadn’t answered any of his questions about this place or who they’d be meeting.

The door opened into an elegant boudoir, the air heavy with perfume. A handsome woman took her ease on a daybed. Her hair was beautifully dressed but no dye hid the white amid the chestnut, while cosmetics enhanced her beauty without seeking to conceal her wrinkles. Her sea-green gown was expertly cut to accommodate her generous curves, though clearly she had not always been so stout. Amid the lace of her petticoats, her feet were dainty in satin slippers.

Sorgrad swept a courtly bow. “Mellitha Esterlin, may I present—”

“Tathrin Sayron, I know.” She greeted him with a smile. “Please don’t think too badly of Relshaz. These two have a lamentable taste for the gutters.”

“I—” Tathrin settled for a bow. “Madam.”

Appearing behind him, Gren chuckled. “She’s not the draper in this button-shop.”

“I mean no offence.” Tathrin’s bruised eye throbbed as he blushed.

“No, dear, I’m one of the city’s tax-gatherers,” the woman said calmly. “Since I assess this house’s earnings, the owner accommodates my private meetings. Now, ‘Grad, explain yourself.”

Sorgrad satisfied himself that the door was closed. “We’re seeing which mercenary companies are leaving the city and where they’re headed.”

Tathrin didn’t know which he found more unnerving: the woman’s air of authority or Sorgrad’s ready acquiescence. He sat on a cushioned loveseat and just hoped he wasn’t making it too dirty.

“You’re working with Mistress Charoleia? In this Lescari scheme?”

There was enough of a question in Mellitha’s tone to deepen Sorgrad’s frown.

“I’d like to know why you might think different.”

Mellitha wasn’t impressed. “Did you kill Downy Scardin?”

“No,” Sorgrad said flatly.

That was true but would this woman believe it? Tathrin had seen both brothers tell outrageous lies without turning a hair. If she knew them, presumably she had too.

Mellitha turned a motherly smile on him. “Tell me, where’ve you been today?”

Tathrin didn’t have a hope of explaining where they’d been in the city, so he settled for telling her what they’d done.

“We’ve been trying to trace the Quicksilver Men. A man called Egil said they were going upriver but it seems they went by sea.”

“As you know full well, Mellitha.” Sorgrad gestured to a shallow silver bowl on a side table. “How long have you been scrying after us?”

Gren paused in buttoning his shirt. “So that’s how the Watch knew to come and stop us getting our heads kicked in. I’m obliged to you, madam mage.”

“My pleasure.” Mellitha’s smile was as pert as a schoolgirl’s.

Tathrin would rather have faced those brutal men again if this woman had been scrying, using elemental magic to follow them through the city. What could that mean?

Sorgrad had other concerns. “What’s Downy Scardin’s death to you?”

“We’ll get to that in good time.” Mellitha pursed her full lips. “Now that Master Hamare is dead, who do you suppose gives Triolle’s enquiry agents their orders?”

Did this magewoman know Sorgrad had killed Hamare? Blood pulsed in Tathrin’s temples.

“Duke Iruvain.” Sorgrad saw no mystery. “We keep tripping over his men’s tracks.”

“All the way to Egil the Toad’s door,” confirmed Gren. “Iruvain’s calling up mercenaries and we want to know where they’re mustering.”

Mellitha raised a manicured finger. “I mean Master Hamare’s personal agents, not the folk gathering gossip on street corners for Triolle.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Sorgrad’s eyes glinted, hard as sapphires.

“Would it surprise you to learn that Duchess Litasse directs them now?” Mellitha’s dark eyes were impenetrable. “I don’t believe her husband has any notion that she’s doing so.”

“I wouldn’t have imagined it before I met the lady.” Sorgrad’s gaze was opaque with recollection. “Now I could be persuaded.”

Whatever had happened, after Sorgrad’s magic had carried himself and Gren right into the heart of Triolle Castle and safely out again, Sorgrad had withdrawn into his own thoughts for days. Tathrin hadn’t dared ask for any details.