Irons in the Fire (6 page)

While he waited, he watched the priest from the shrine to Dastennin lead a nervous gang of townsmen to pick up the dead. Once it was clear the mercenaries weren't going to retaliate, more men hurried to help drag the hurdles with their grisly burdens back up the slope. Women waited, sobbing piteously. Not such a fair festival for them, Karn thought distantly.

No mercenary came to retrieve their fallen comrade. The sentries on the tower didn't react when two townsmen, bolder than the rest, spat on the corpse and kicked it into the ditch. A man who'd had no true friends, Karn concluded, not even among the handful who'd shared a tent with him when they'd been tallied together on the muster roll. More fool him for riding with them.

The morning wore on. Karn ate some bread and leathery ham that he'd tucked in his cloak's pocket and began to contemplate other routes into Parnilesse. The ford at Reddock was half a day's walk upstream, but it would only take him to the high road running east. That was no good if he wanted to get back to Triolle as fast as possible.

Wheels rumbled on the cobbles. Karn turned his head. Was the dried-up woman so desperate to continue her journey that she'd ordered her downtrodden escort to face the mercenaries? No. The elegant carriage approaching was newly built in the latest Tormalin fashion and drawn by horses that would have cost more than the duke's reeve hereabouts took in dues every quarter day.

The coachman drew up and leaned down to talk to someone by the town gate. Karn watched him jump from his seat to explain the situation to whoever was travelling inside. Then the coachman climbed back up to his perch and reclaimed the reins from the lackey sitting with him. The throng withdrew respectfully. Instead of turning the carriage around, though, the coachman carefully directed his horses down the slope towards the bridge.

Seeing the coach forging ahead, a few men and women straggled after it. The bravest of those needing to cross the bridge, Karn guessed. Rising from his grassy seat, he tagged along, scuffing suitably reluctant feet.

Dawdling meant he got a good look at the fallen mercenary in the ditch. The dead man wore sturdy boots and buff breeches beneath a dull steel hauberk over a padded black jerkin. These mercenaries could afford to let valuable armour rust in a sodden drain.

Karn walked on towards the gate tower. The blue Draximal banner with its flaming fire-basket in red and gold had been hauled down. A creamy pennant replaced it, bearing a black wyvern hovering with clawed feet extended. The Wyvern Hunters. Karn hadn't heard the name before the captain's message had been repeated to the reeve.

They were a free company; that was the important thing. The screaming wyvern wasn't hovering above the Draximal brazier. Why would Duke Secaris send men to seize a bridge in his own territory, after all? But Karn wouldn't have been surprised to see the winged beast clutching the halberd or the long sword that crossed on Parnilesse's badge, or the oak garland that ringed them. Any one of those elements would have indicated that these mercenaries bent their necks to accept Duke Orlin's leash for the sake of the coin he paid to retain their services.

So this was nothing to do with Parnilesse. Karn unobtrusively quickened his pace as the elegant coach drew up to the gate tower.

"What toll do you propose to pay?" A solidly built mercenary stepped forward to talk to the coachman.

Karn didn't hear the man's reply. The mercenary frowned, snapping his fingers to summon someone else from inside the half-open gate. Along with everyone else, Karn watched with interest. Two yellow-headed men of less than common height emerged and he gasped with the rest. Such blond hair meant they were Mountain-born.

Uncommon, though not unheard of among mercenaries, he thought privately. Mountain Men were generally notable fighters and these two in particular carried themselves like practiced swordsmen. Anyone hoping to join this warband and choosing to prove their mettle against the shortest members would soon rue their mistake.

The two blond men approached the door of the coach. A neatly dressed maid opened it and the heavy-set mercenary gallantly offered his arm. She accepted it calmly and stepped down. There was someone else in the coach. The maid turned to say something and one of the Mountain Men laughed. Frustrated, Karn couldn't get close enough to hear.

The maidservant folded her hands demurely and placed a chaste kiss on the tallest Mountain Man's cheek. She almost had to stoop; he was barely her height.

The second Mountain Man stepped up smartly. Before the woman could object, he swept her into a close embrace, kissing her full on the lips.

"Trimon's teeth!" Outraged, the coachman rose to his feet and the carriage swayed alarmingly.

"Don't be a fool." The heavy-set mercenary half-drew his sword as a warning.

"Toll's paid." The first Mountain Man cuffed the second around the back of the head. "Drive on, with our compliments."

The second blond man released the girl, grinning widely. As soon as her hands were free, she slapped him as hard as she could. He just carried on smiling, despite the mark of her hand on his fair skin burning as red as her outraged blushes. Shaking his head, the heavy-set mercenary helped the girl back into the carriage. As soon as the gates to the bridge opened, the coachman whipped up the horses and drove on. Karn noted how perilously close the lash came to the shorter Mountain Man's head.

"They'd better not want kisses from me," a labourer beside him growled.

"Don't think you've got the looks for it," Karn commented.

These men might take a few liberties with pretty girls but everyone else would be paying with solid coin. If all they had was lead-weighted Lescari marks, they'd pay with whatever else they were carrying.

He had enough Tormalin silver in his everyday purse to satisfy them so that they wouldn't go looking for the gold hidden inside his shirt. As soon as he was safely in Parnilesse, he'd steal a swift horse and ride for home. Master Hamare would want to know all about this day's happenings.

Chapter Four

Tathrin

Master Wyess's Counting-House, in the City of Vanam,

Spring Equinox Festival, Fourth Day, Morning

"Master Wyess punched Master Kierst?"

"In the Furriers' Hall last night?"

All the younger clerks in the airy ledger room abandoned their sloping desks to crowd around Tathrin.

"Yes, he hit him," Tathrin said shortly.

"Saedrin's stones!"

Tathrin clipped the excited boy round the ear. "Dishonour his name like that again and I'll wash your mouth out with vinegar."

"What happened after that?"

"Master Kierst went home and so did Master Gruit and everyone else ate their dinner."

Kierst had said nothing further, possibly because he feared his loosened teeth would fall out if he opened his mouth.

Tathrin looked sternly at the boys until they abandoned hope of learning more and returned to their desks.

"Conversation over the nuts and brandy must have been awkward." One of the older clerks leaned against the doorpost.

Tathrin took a moment to place him. Eclan, who'd warned him that Master Wyess would question him when he least expected it. "It was mostly speculation over which troupes of players have the prettiest dancing girls this festival." He couldn't help grinning at the recollection.

"Nothing of consequence, then." Eclan clapped his hands briskly. "If you lads want to stuff yourselves sick with cakes this afternoon, you had better see to your morning duties. If there's a set of sack-weights or corn-measures in this counting-house left uncertified by noon, I'll flog the lot of you!"

A few voices rose in protest, but the younger boys hurried towards the stairs regardless.

Tathrin thought Eclan was joking. Although he had seen the clerk wield the birch that hung by the door when one lad had stumbled into work stale-drunk on the first morning of the festival.

"Master Wyess said you're wanting to get your father's coin-weights certified?" Eclan crossed the room to unlock one of the cabinets. "I'm to take the counting-house sets. Give me a hand and the magistrate can assess yours at the same time."

"Thanks." Tathrin was relieved. He hadn't been sure of the correct procedure.

"No need to thank me." Eclan hauled out a heavy casket. "Let's just get there before the queue stretches all around the Excise Hall."

"Right."

Tathrin fetched the polished cherrywood case that he'd locked in his own desk over in a favoured spot lit by both the tall windows and the room's broad skylights. Tucking his father's weights securely under one arm, he took one of the chest's handles.

Eclan took the other. "So what were people really saying after Wyess flattened Kierst?"

"The next bells came and went before anyone did more than ask for the pickles." Tathrin grimaced as the weight of his burden pulled at his shoulders. "As soon as the libations to Raeponin were done, people started leaving."

"I wonder how he's feeling this morning." Eclan shifted his grip. Carrying the chest between them was awkward given that he was a head shorter than Tathrin. "Did you have to carry him home?"

"No," Tathrin said shortly.

Though Wyess had drunk a prodigious quantity of wine, silently seething, ignoring the sumptuous banquet, he had leaned heavily on Tathrin's arm all the way back to his own doorstep. At first Tathrin had worried that some footpad might mark them down as a pair of drunks ripe for rolling. Then he'd been more concerned that Master Wyess might welcome such a fight.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and went out into the counting-house yard. Tathrin helped Eclan lift the chest into a pony cart that a groom held ready.

"They must have discussed what Master Gruit had said." Eclan settled himself on the seat and gathered up the reins.

"Mostly they were reassuring each other that they already do all they can for Lescar." Tathrin couldn't help a heavy sigh as he climbed up. "Convincing themselves they cannot be held to account for such suffering." He'd made sure he remembered those for whom such consolation didn't seem to suffice. Now he just had to find out their names and businesses.

Eclan slapped the reins on the pony's dappled rump. "I've never really understood Lescar."

Tathrin looked ahead as they drove through the gate. If the streets were half-empty compared to the night before, they were still twice as busy as on any normal market day.

"Why is that man wearing four hats and three cloaks?" The breeze from the lake was refreshing, but it wasn't that cold in the bright sunlight.

"He's a second-hand clothes seller too miserly or too dishonest to pay half a mark for a stall in the cloth-market. If his customers are lucky, they won't feel the Watch's hand on their shoulder," Eclan added blithely, "because some festival visitor was robbed of that selfsame cloak and hat while they were busy between some whore's dimpled knees."

"I see." Tathrin couldn't help a grin.

"So why are you Lescari always fighting each other?" Eclan curbed the pony with deft hands as the beast threatened to shy at a street sweeper. "You want to be a trader, don't you? I'll swap you answers for whatever you want to know about Vanam."

Tathrin chewed his lip as the cart carried them down to the wide road that skirted the lakeshore wharves and warehouses to link the city's myriad marketplaces.

"Ask me anything you want to know." Eclan wasn't about to give up. "I've lived here all my life."

So he probably knew where Master Gruit lived. Tathrin slid a glance sideways. Eclan could have been any of the boys he had grown up with: middling in height, well enough muscled, neither handsome nor ugly, until some misfortune left its mark. Though few of Tathrin's friends had had the blue eyes that were so common in Vanam, or the coppery glint that the sunshine found in Eclan's brown hair.

He drew a breath. "The days of antiquity saw the Tormalin Empire to the east and the Kingdom of Solura to the west divided by that region known as the land of many races, where neither king nor emperor's writ ran. In the old tongue, it was called Einar Sain Emin--"

Eclan interrupted. "Now known as Ensaimin, a region of independent demesnes and proud cities, the most prosperous and noble of which is Vanam. I learned that in dame-school. Why did the fall of the Old Empire leave the Lescari fighting like cats in a sack? The Caladhrians don't, nor yet the Dalasorians."

"Tormalin Emperors ruled over Dalasor in name only," Tathrin said tersely. "Those folk carried on tending their horses and cattle and moving their camps as they saw fit. There's little to quarrel over when five days' hard riding separates one herd and the next.

"When the Tormalin Emperor invaded Caladhria, the fighting was over in half a season. They're farmers. The Emperor granted local lords title to their traditional fiefdoms. As long as they paid tributes, they saw no more soldiers. Caladhria's a fertile land, so securing their peace by filling Tormalin bellies with grain was no great hardship." Tathrin paused to swallow the bitterness rising in his throat. "When the Empire fell, the wealthiest lords agreed they'd hold a parliament every Solstice and Equinox where new laws would be debated and agreed by all those attending."