Blood in the Water (30 page)

“Seize her!”

Failla looked up to the balcony where Duke Garnot’s guests were wont to enjoy wine and sweetmeats. Lord Ricart, Carluse’s heir, looked down. His face, finer featured than his father’s but with that same strong jaw, twisted with hatred.

He jabbed a finger at the closest groom. “Tell my mother we have a spy in our midst!”

The youth looked desperately at Corrad. The horsemaster visibly hesitated.

“You take your orders from me,” Ricart spat, “or I’ll take a whip to you!”

He turned to come down from the balcony. The panicked boy slid from his saddle and fled through the riding school’s entrance.

“Master Corrad. Duke Garnot is defeated. He’s been driven out of the dukedom. His mercenaries have deserted and he’s begging for shelter in Triolle.” Failla seized the man’s unresisting hand. “All the militiamen who surrendered have been sent back to their homes and farms. This army doesn’t attack the innocent. They’ve spared Losand and Ashgil. Whatever Duchess Tadira has told you is lies!”

Lord Ricart threw open the door at the bottom of the balcony stairs. “We expect my father’s army any day!”

Failla saw Corrad’s expression harden. The horsemaster had spent enough years dealing with youthful grooms to know a frantic lie when he heard one.

She lowered her voice. “I have gold hidden in the town, three hundred Tormalin crowns. Promise whatever you need to open the town gates and all that’s left is yours.”

Corrad was honest, respected and he hoarded every copper cut-piece he could.

He searched her face for falsehood. “Where is it?”

“Saedrin’s shrine.” There was no point in holding back. “In the urn with my grandfather’s ashes.”

Lord Ricart strode towards them, incensed. “I told you to seize that lying whore!”

Failla saw a flash of the lust she had always discouraged, then Ricart’s realisation that she was now at his mercy.

“She’s going nowhere, my lord.”

As Corrad grasped Failla’s upper arm, she allowed herself some hope. His grip was firm yet gentle, as he was with his horses.

“She’s going to be flogged till her bones break!” Lord Ricart’s knuckles smashed into her cheekbone, knocking her off her feet. “Traitorous whore!”

With a heart-rending scream, Failla sprawled on the sand and sawdust. The unnerved horses jostled and stamped.

“Get them back to the stables!” Whatever else, Corrad wouldn’t risk injury to his charges.

Satisfied, Failla lay limp and tried to ignore the dizzying ache in her face. Lord Ricart was a strong young man, even if he lacked his father’s breadth of shoulder.

“Get Sergeant Haddow! Now!”

She cried out as he wound his hand in her hair and hauled her upwards. He didn’t let her stand, her feet slipping on the sawdust as he dragged her towards the door. His excruciating hold meant tears blurred her vision. She had no notion where Corrad had gone. Once outside, she shivered in the shadow that the riding school cast across the outer ward.

“Scared, bitch?” Viciously satisfied, Lord Ricart twisted his hand still tighter.

“Help me! Help me!” Failla wasn’t feigning terror. Haddow was loathed and feared in equal measure by the garrison’s men. “Save yourselves! Surrender! Garnot is beaten!” She fought against Lord Ricart’s hold, screaming at the top of her voice. “The duchess is lying! She’ll see you all dead if you let her! Open the town gates and save yourselves!”

Lord Ricart tried to beat her into silence. She fended off his blows as best she could. Through her tears she saw consternation spread through the gathering crowd and heard breathless gasps of recognition, of her name.

“Silence!”

Duchess Tadira’s voice cut through the noise like a whipcrack.

Lord Ricart let Failla fall. “This whore bids us surrender!”

“I said
silence
.”

The duchess’s cold fury stilled every voice inside the castle. Outside the gates, Failla could hear Reher still leading insistent demands for the priest. She lay still, her breast pressed to the cobbles, her hands braced, covertly looking around.

Duchess Tadira descended the Great Hall’s steps. Had Ricart’s messenger reached her or had she been on her way to confront the townsfolk at the gate?

“Sergeant, cut that slut’s throat.” The duchess indicated Failla with a contemptuous gesture. “Then go about your duties.” She raised her voice with implicit threat. “All of you.”

In the half-year since Failla had last seen her, the slender duchess hadn’t altered. Her silver-blonde hair was perfectly restrained by a gold crescent set with moonstones. The breeze barely stirred the gossamer veil hanging to her shoulders, a shade lighter than her grey velvet gown. Her eyes were paler still, cold as winter ice. She could pass for ten years younger than Duke Garnot, unless one were close enough to see the fine wrinkles where her skin had dried against her sharp features.

At the bottom of the steps, a garrison sergeant whom Failla didn’t know reluctantly drew his sword. “Your Grace—”

“Cut her throat,” Duchess Tadira ordered with slow precision.

Failla found she felt oddly calm. At least it would be quick. At least Anilt was safe and Lathi would love her. Her death might even be enough to provoke the townsfolk into open defiance. Would that save Uncle Ernout, young Vrist and the rest?

The garrison sergeant still didn’t move. “If she’s guilty—”

“Guilty?” Lord Ricart’s brutal kick numbed Failla’s thigh. “Of course she’s guilty!”

“What of?”

An unseen voice prompted an uneasy stir among the swelling crowd of servants.

“Who said that?” Furious, Lord Ricard rounded on them.

No one identified the dissenter.

“She is guilty of treason against our duke.” The duchess calmly surveyed the gathering. “As is anyone who doesn’t return to their duties at once.”

No one moved and Failla realised the hubbub beyond the gates had subsided.

“Where’s Haddow?” raged Lord Ricart.

“Here, my lord.”

Failla saw the bully striding from the gatehouse. The dislike of servants and castle guards alike was palpable.

“Cut that bitch’s throat and then cut his!” Lord Ricart jabbed a trembling hand at the disobedient sergeant. “Let that be a lesson to you all!”

“Your Grace?” Loathsome, not stupid, Haddow looked for the duchess’s affirmation.

Tadira nodded. Haddow drew his sword.

“No.” The troubled sergeant moved between Haddow and Failla.

“No?” Incredulous, Lord Ricart drew the ornamental sword at his hip. “No?”

“This isn’t right,” the sergeant protested desperately, his blade held low in defence.

“Let Master Ernout judge her!” someone yelled, a different voice from the first.

There was a stir of agreement.

“In Duke Garnot’s absence, I hold all power of life and death.” Tadira walked briskly down the steps.

Lord Ricart didn’t understand until she took the slender sword from his unresisting hand. The courageous sergeant tried to block her path. Haddow seized his chance and the man had to meet his slashing stroke or lose his leg. Their swords locked. Neither could move without freeing the other to slay him.

“She wants to murder me but she can’t kill the truth.” Failla tried to stand as Duchess Tadira advanced. Her leg wouldn’t support her. Had Ricart’s kick crippled her? “Duke Garnot has abandoned you. Carluse Town will fall before sunset. Open the gates and you save yourselves.” Her words rang through silence inside the castle and beyond.

She held Tadira’s gaze with her own. “Killing me won’t change that.”

The duchess spat in her face as she drew the sword back. Failla closed her eyes. If Anilt never remembered her, perhaps that was all for the best.

The thrust through her throat never came. Tadira gasped. Failla opened her eyes to see the duchess fall backwards.

“Mama!” Ricart shrieked.

Tadira raised herself on one elbow and stared incredulously at her grey velvet midriff. A crossbow bolt pierced her breastbone. She choked, blood trickling from her mouth. Ricart reached her as her bubbling breath faded and she slumped back onto the cobbles.

“You!” Maddened with hate, his eyes fastened on Failla.

He stooped to the unsullied sword. Before he could snatch it up, an arrow struck his shoulder, spinning him around. As he fell, the shaft snapped beneath him, driving the head deep into his body. He screamed as blood pooled beneath him.

In the next instant Haddow collapsed to the ground, bloody hands clutching his belly as he yelped. The sergeant’s swift sword had disembowelled him.

Failla was still looking at Ricart. An arrow had felled him, not a second crossbow bolt. At least two of the castle’s defenders had abandoned their fealty to mother and son. She looked up at the battlements to see men fighting, the sun striking fire from their swords and daggers.

Maids and lackeys fled. The gatehouse was in chaos as half the garrison turned on the rest. Daylight flooded into the outer ward as the great gates opened. The combined wrath of the townsfolk and the defiant garrison was overwhelming those loyal to Duke Garnot’s badge.

“Please, let me help you.” The sergeant offered his hand.

Failla took it, struggling to her feet. Despite the agony in her thigh, she exulted. The exiles had taken Carluse. Nothing could stop Captain-General Evord now.

Chapter Twenty-One

Litasse

Triolle Castle,

16th of Aft-Autumn

“Can you smell rain?” Atop the Duchess’s Tower, Litasse contemplated the overcast sky.

“I don’t believe so, my lady.” Pelletria glanced at the southern horizon. No thicker clouds there presaged a downpour.

“How long will the wells hold out?” Litasse looked at the mere between the castle and Triolle Town’s walls. Weeds flourished on the cracked mud ringing the dull water.

“Longer if His Grace orders the town gates barred to mercenaries, so the brewers need only supply our own folk,” the old woman answered tartly.

“He can hardly do that with Marlier’s whore and her bastards taking over the best tavern.” Though at least Duke Ferdain’s brindled bitch kept her companies on a tight leash. Litasse wrapped her shawl around her shoulders as she turned to survey the tents and pennants beyond the White Tower and the Oriel Tower. “Iruvain says we have three thousand paid men following Triolle’s flag now?”

Was he deluding himself, just as he fondly believed he was still in command?

“Nine companies of cavalry turned their coats from Carluse colours to Triolle’s, and eight of foot.” Pelletria contemplated the dust stirred by hooves and boots. “However, all the mercenary muster rolls are under strength following their losses in Carluse. Even with the guards in Duke Garnot’s retinue, and Duke Iruvain’s personal troop, the tally isn’t quite that.”

“Fewer mouths to feed and horses to water.” Litasse frowned. “Are the militia bringing their own supplies? How many have obeyed Iruvain’s summons?”

“Over a thousand men, and they’re bringing corn for bread and ale and animals for slaughter,” Pelletria reassured her. “Eighteen mercenary companies have come upriver from Relshaz. Though Karn says not to expect any more, not yet awhile.”

Litasse was caught between hope and dread. “He’s back?”

“A courier dove,” Pelletria said apologetically.

“What has he learned in Relshaz?” Litasse steeled herself.

“The Soluran is promising handsome rewards to the mercenary companies, while he sits out this siege of Carluse.” Pelletria folded her wrinkled hands at her waist. “Many prefer the more solid offers that Duke Iruvain and Duke Garnot can make but Karn doesn’t like to see so many waiting to take the highest bid. We don’t know how much coin these exiles have.”

“Hamare would have found some way to undermine the Soluran’s hold on his hirelings.” Grief, frustration and fear provoked Litasse. “They would have been turning their coats from these rebels’ colours to serve Triolle.”

“Maybe so, Your Grace.” Pelletria paused, contemplative. “Regardless, it’s clear it will take every resource we can muster to stop this Soluran and save Triolle, and to reclaim Sharlac.”

Meaning they had no choice but to enlist a wizard. Litasse looked towards the Chatelaine’s Tower and the Steward’s Tower flanking the gatehouse. “What news of Lord Cassat and Lord Geferin this morning?”

Like Ridianne of Marlier, Draximal’s heir and Parnilesse’s brother had responded promptly to Iruvain’s invitation to this council of war, riding on ahead of their armies with only a swiftly mounted detachment of personal guards.

“Both their lordships have breakfasted,” Pelletria assured her.

The gusting wind brought a snatch of distant horn calls.

Pelletria stiffened. “An alarm?”

Litasse pointed at urgent colours waving from the town gate. “A summons for all the captains.” She’d insisted the old woman teach her to read battlefield signals.