Irons in the Fire (27 page)

"Sorgrad." A grey-haired man half a head shorter than Tathrin and slightly built turned away from a fiercely fought wrestling match. Like everyone else, he wore sturdy boots and buckskin breeches, with a chainmail hauberk over his homespun tunic.

Whatever he said next was presumably in the Soluran language. Sorgrad replied, as fluent as the old man. Tathrin reflected that whatever entrenched evils the Old Tormalin Empire had bequeathed to Lescar, at least all the countries that had fallen within its reach still shared the benefits of a common tongue.

"Gren." The old man nodded cordially.

"Captain-General." A wicked smile teased Sorgrad's lips as he continued in smoothly accented Tormalin. "This is Tathrin Sayron, scholar of Ensaimin's finest university and son of Carluse's finest ale-seller."

"You studied at Col?" The man, who Tathrin now saw was not so much old as prematurely grey, extended a courteous hand. He might be slightly built but Tathrin was willing to bet he was as tough as whipcord and leather.

"I studied at Vanam, my lord." He refused to look at Sorgrad.

"I won't hold that against you." Evord turned his hand to show Tathrin the silver seal ring on his own middle finger.

Well worn, the engraving was still clearly the shield and blazon of the city of Col. Evord's tone was as cultured and his formal Tormalin as fluent as any of the senior mentors who governed Vanam's university. So Tathrin bowed as he would to any master scholar.

As he straightened, he saw a smile crack Evord's solemnity. "I gather you three have an interesting proposal for me. While Sorgrad makes his case, Gren, take the lad to meet Ludrys."

"Captain." Gren snapped his head up and down in the briefest of bows. He led Tathrin over to some men armed with a miscellany of swords, long knives and small studded shields. "Got that pretty dagger on you, long lad?"

"Yes," Tathrin said apprehensively.

"Best have a sword." Gren offered his own.

"I don't know how to fight with that," Tathrin protested.

"No," agreed Gren.

Before Tathrin could argue any further, a leanly muscled man with ragged hair and whiskers that weren't so much a beard as a dislike of shaving came towards them. He spoke in Soluran and whatever Gren said in reply made him laugh out loud as he studied Tathrin.

"What's going on?" Tathrin took Gren's sword. It was that or let the blade fall to the dry earth.

"You want to start a war, you'll need to fight." Gren was backing away. "Ludrys is going to see how much you've got to learn. Take your doublet off."

Tathrin jumped, startled, as the bearded man threw a dagger at him. Just as he realised it wasn't aimed at him, it fell into the dust an arm's span away. The onlookers laughed.

"Pick it up," Gren advised. "Two blades against his one and you'll be the one attacking. You'll have all the advantage."

Tathrin very much doubted that. "I don't know what to do."

Ludrys said something and someone tossed him a small round shield. He picked it out of the air.

"Try not to die." Gren wasn't smiling any more. "Ludrys isn't out to kill you, just to test you. Start by proving that Lescari men aren't the cowards everyone says they are."

Tathrin reluctantly unbuttoned his doublet and handed the garment to Gren. Ludrys said something. Tathrin hoped the bearded man's smile was supposed to be encouraging.

He bent and picked up the long dagger, keeping his eyes on Ludrys all the while. The Soluran stood with his weight on his back foot, the little shield defending his midriff while he held his own sword out wide.

"Do the same," Gren instructed.

As he took the same stance, still unwilling, Tathrin didn't need the Mountain Man to translate the shouts from the other men. They wanted him to attack. Ludrys stood patiently waiting.

There was no point attacking the man's sword. Tathrin swung his own blade at Ludrys's head, vainly hoping his greater height and reach might carry the strike over the small shield. But what would happen if he did hit the warrior? That sudden thought robbed his blow of any real strength.

Ludrys stepped inwards, easily deflecting Tathrin's sword with a swing of his shield. In the same movement, he brought his own blade down to rest on Tathrin's cuff.

Tathrin looked down. He could all too easily visualise the bleeding stump of his forearm, his severed hand on the ground clutching uselessly at Gren's sword hilt.

"Try again." Gren didn't sound amused.

Tathrin licked his dry lips as he copied Ludrys's ready stance a second time. So the Soluran's shield was as much a weapon as a defence. This time he stepped in himself and tried to cut at the bearded man's sword-arm with his own long blade. Ludrys swept his shield across to block the stroke, his body turning. Tathrin was half-expecting that, so as soon as his blade was knocked down, he dropped his sword's point to thrust at Ludrys's knee.

Fluid as quicksilver, the warrior angled his own weapon downwards to bar Tathrin's blade. Inside a breath, he twisted the point back up to prod his belt buckle. Tathrin looked down and imagined his innards spilling out like unruly sausages on a butcher's slab.

What was the point of this? As Ludrys took up his ready stance again, Tathrin just stood still, weapons hanging loose by his sides. Ludrys grinned and looked away as if to speak to Gren.

As Tathrin relaxed, Ludrys suddenly attacked, driving the shield straight at his face. All Tathrin could do was flinch and close his eyes. He felt the studs press lightly against his cheek as Ludrys said something.

"He says you must remember it only takes one man to make a fight."

Tathrin opened his eyes to see Gren looking exasperatedly at him.

"I might remind you that you have two blades, Misaen curse you."

Ludrys stepped back, briefly holding sword and shield in one hand so he could raise a single finger at Tathrin.

"One more time," Gren told him. "Even if he already has won the best of three."

Tathrin took a breath, adopted the stance and thought rapidly. If he attacked Ludrys's shield side, the blow would be turned aside. So he'd be ready for that. He moved, and as soon as his sword was knocked away, he stepped closer in still. Bringing his dagger up, he tried to stab at Ludrys's sword-hand. He was so close that the Soluran's heavy blade was swinging round behind Tathrin, useless.

Ludrys laughed and let his sword-arm fall back, as if he had indeed been wounded. Then he drove the metal rim of his shield uncomfortably hard into the angle between Tathrin's neck and shoulder. He felt a shiver of numbness run down his whole arm. Ludrys stepped away, nodding with approval all the same.

"That last try wasn't so bad," Gren allowed as he reclaimed his sword.

"Thank you." Tathrin realised he was sweating. His hands shaking slightly, he offered the dagger back to Ludrys with a polite bow.

"Water? Ale?" One of the onlookers offered him a choice of two horn cups.

"Ale?" Tathrin took the one with the foaming top. "You speak Tormalin."

The man's grin stretched an old pale scar on one cheek. "Enough for eat, drink and whore."

"All a man really needs." Gren had already secured a cup of ale. He was watching Sorgrad's conversation with the captain-general. "Evord's not the only one here who's spent time fighting in Lescar."

As Tathrin quenched his thirst, the older man cut Sorgrad off with a curt hand and walked over to join them.

"I see you're no mercenary masquerading as an honest Lescari potboy," he commented. "Come, walk with me. Tell me what you people really want me to do."

"Didn't Sorgrad say?" Tathrin looked at the Mountain Man, who just shrugged.

"I want to hear it from you." Evord spared the brothers a minatory glance. "Amuse yourselves without injuring anyone who doesn't deserve it while I talk to my guest." He began walking towards the lofty tower.

Gren tossed Tathrin his doublet. "Go on."

"There are a great many of us who long for peace." Tathrin hurried to catch up with the older man. He shrugged himself into his doublet, swapping the horn cup awkwardly from hand to hand.

Evord took it off him. "So you want to start a war to get it. Don't they teach logic in Vanam's halls any more? Have you any idea of the costs of war? Are you prepared to commit innocent men and women to all that pain and misery without even giving them a choice in the matter?"

They stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up to the tower's formidable door and Evord fixed him with a pale stare, his eyes more grey than blue.

"Are you willing to risk your own life? Because on that showing against Ludrys, you'll soon be dead if you go into battle. Are you willing to stand before your gods and explain where you got the authority to put countless strangers to the torment of fire and sword and pillage?"

"Sorgrad and Gren said--"

Evord silenced him with a curt hand. "Gren says some fortune-teller back in the mountains swore he was born to be hanged, so he doesn't think a blade can ever kill him. I don't know why Sorgrad left the mountains but he gets by with a quick tongue, faster reflexes and a talent for breaking heads when all else fails. They won't suffer, even if all of Lescar goes up in flames from the River Rel to the Tormalin border."

Tathrin found his voice. "Honest men and women suffer regardless, year in, year out. We want to bring an end to their trials, once and for all."

Evord pursed his lips. "What will you do, lad, when your duke gets to hear you're working against him? What if he sends his men to burn your home and rape your mother and sisters? Do you think he'll drown your brothers to poison your family's well before or after your father's been hanged from his own doorpost?"

Tathrin stood for a moment, paralysed with dread at such a prospect. "I can't think like that," he said slowly. "This isn't just about me. It's about everyone in Carluse, everyone in Lescar. As long as I think like a scholar, I can tell you why this undertaking is our best hope of peace."

"Then come and do so." Evord began walking up the stone stairs. "Then I'll tell you exactly what your proposal will cost in lives and deaths and destruction. Believe me, that bill will be a steep one. Then you can tell me if this particular dance is worth the price of the candles."

Tathrin followed. Why, he wondered bleakly, did everything rest on his inadequate shoulders?

"Then you can explain this business of using some magic dredged up from the collapse of the Old Empire. Sorgrad seems to think that's going to keep everyone in step." Amused, Evord opened the door.

"I can assure you that Artifice is quite real." Tathrin felt momentarily on surer ground. As long as Aremil could make good on his promises.

"I hope so." Evord went into the gloom, his tone severe again. "Because at the moment, that's the only thing I can think of that could save this campaign from being arrant folly."

Chapter Seventeen

Aremil

Beacon Lane, in Vanam's Upper Town,

22
^nd
of For-Summer

"Master Aremil." Lyrlen entered the sitting room with a dour expression. "You have a visitor. Another one." She handed him an unsealed fold of paper.

May I introduce Branca Flavisse. I believe she can assist you most ably with this new project.

With all good wishes,

The signature was an illegible scrawl, but Aremil recognised Mentor Tonin's handwriting with profound relief. Finally, the scholar was back from his travels. Without him, Aremil found it impossible to trace rumour and conjecture to someone who was actually studying ancient aetheric magic.

"Please, show her in."

Aremil tucked the note beneath the latest of Master Gruit's daily queries. How soon would they have some magical means to contact Tathrin? If this Soluran captain-general was refusing to help, did Charoleia know someone who could contact Failla, Lady Derenna and Reniack? They would have to recall them, to make new plans. Master Gruit had never seen the sense in sending them off on the road to Carluse and beyond when everything was still so uncertain. Had Charoleia learned anything more of Duke Garnot of Carluse's plans?

Aremil set such anxieties aside. He was more concerned to know if this girl could truly reveal the mysteries of speaking to someone so far away. She looked like a milkmaid in her brown linen gown, a plain cotton wrap around her shoulders.

"Master Aremil? Good day to you." She extended a broad hand with roughened knuckles. Milkmaid or scullery maid?

He shook it as best he could and saw her silver seal ring. "Good day, Madam Scholar. Can I offer you refreshment?"

It was a bright sunny day outside his window and he could see sweat moistening the band of her linen cap. A tendril of mousy hair stuck damply to her plump cheek. She was a well-fed milkmaid, somewhere between Tathrin's age and his own. Still, she had her scholar's ring and she hadn't won that in a tavern game of runes.

"Thank you." She took a seat, quite composed.