Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (15 page)

'I am at your disposal, my lord.' As the nobleman walked slowly after his departing guests, Aremil wondered how he might seed further doubts in Cullough's mind.

The tapestry hanging behind the high table flapped as Failla slipped through the door concealed behind it, pulling it closed after her.

Aremil reached for the schoolroom slate and pencil that Serafia had found for him before he left Carluse. He had to admit it was a good idea, even if the squeak of the pencil set his teeth on edge. 'How much of that did you hear?'

'Enough.' Failla jabbed the poker viciously at one of the logs smouldering in the hearth. 'You notice she didn't ask about Litasse?'

Aremil contemplated the door closing behind Aphanie and her retinue. 'Nor did Rousharn or Derenna.'

'When they've been insisting that we know where she is ever since the Battle of Pannal.' Failla shook her head. 'Or hinting we've foully done them to death, concealing our guilt along with their bodies.'

'So they've found out where she is,' Aremil concluded. 'Can we assume Duke Iruvain is with her?'

Failla shrugged. 'Until we know for certain he isn't.'

'What do you suppose they're planning?' Aremil mused. 'We're still reading all Aphanie's letters?'

'The ones that we know she's sending,' Failla pointed out.

'Should we start intercepting Rousharn's correspondence?' Aremil wondered distastefully. 'And Derenna's?'

'Their household is very loyal.' Failla frowned. 'Any newcomer sent to join them at our bidding will be very closely watched, out of natural curiosity if not outright suspicion.'

'Charoleia might devise some useful scheme,' Aremil mused.

'If Rousharn and Derenna discover a spy, we risk them breaking with us completely,' Failla warned.

'I fear that's inevitable, and sooner rather than later.' Aremil coughed and winced. 'But so be it. It's time we began setting the pace,' he said decisively. 'Captain-General Evord wielded the whip hand all through his campaign. We need to do the same to forge a lasting peace. We must send someone to Caladhria, to find out exactly where those absent Sharlac and Carlusian lords have washed up, as well as Duchess Litasse. Once we know that, we can decide how best to stick a spoke in their wheels, before Duke Iruvain or anyone else can stir up the Caladhrians to interfere.'

'Charoleia will know who to watch most closely,' Failla commented.

'She would be invaluable in Relshaz or Abray.' Aremil sighed, provoking another tiresome cough. 'But if she leaves Tormalin, we won't know who's whispering in the Emperor's ear. She must convince Tadriol to keep his legions east of the Asilor.'

Failla nodded reluctantly. 'Then Kerith will be best placed to advise on Caladhria.'

Aremil's pencil scraped the slate. 'You and I will write to your Uncle Ernout. He must enlist every influential Carluse guildsman to convince the guildmasters of Sharlac to shout down Aphanie's plan.'

'That will only happen if we offer something better.' Failla betrayed a hint of uncertainty. 'If we convince everyone that a better future lies ahead, not simply a return to the same old follies.'

'Then we must offer something more than vague hopes.' Aremil tapped the slate pensively. 'I don't imagine the guildsmen will accept a parliament of nobles like the Caladhrians, any more than the lords will yield to a magistracy governed by merchants such as they have in Relshaz.'

Failla nodded. 'And after all Reniack did for our cause, the commonalty won't stand for being trampled underfoot.'

Aremil scrawled another erratic note. 'I must consult Lord Cullough's library for histories and political philosophies.'

'I'm sure Branca could offer some suggestions,' Failla ventured artlessly.

'No doubt, if she weren't helping Charoleia.' Refusing to meet Failla's eyes, Aremil continued writing. 'While Tathrin's most urgent task is crushing those renegades in Wyril.'

'He knows that full well.' Failla's gaze slid to the south-facing windows. 'The sooner there's an end to bloodshed on Lescari soil, the sooner folk will believe we truly offer peace.'

'There'll be more pyres lit before we see calm in Parnilesse,' Aremil predicted grimly. 'Tathrin will have a fight on his hands with Reniack.'

But he couldn't resist a mercenary's vulgarity. 'Still, I imagine Sorgrad and Gren will have a few notions on how to piss in our erstwhile friend's ale.'

Chapter Ten

Tathrin

Carif,

in the Dukedom of Parnilesse,

29th of For-Winter

He had been told this rocky coast was exposed to the severest weather surging up from the Southern Sea. The reality was worse than he'd imagined. As they followed the narrow path along the cliff edge, he couldn't stop shivering. The incessant cold and damp seemed to have penetrated the marrow of his bones.

Glancing down towards the roiling grey waves, he saw a small harbour with a rocky breakwater making the best of a scant natural inlet. A few masts rocked at anchor and Tathrin's stomach gurgled queasily.

At least they wouldn't be returning by sea, risking the wild surf along Parnilesse's rocky coast before a sail barge retraced their more sedate journey along the River Dyal, bringing them back to Triolle.

'We could find some breakfast down there.' Gren pointed at the weather-beaten black-tarred roofs. 'There must be a dockside tavern.'

Sorgrad shook his head. 'We'll just be delayed.' He spared Tathrin a thin smile. 'You're no ale-draper's lad barely worth a second glance now. You're the hero who saved Ashgil from brigands. By the time we've got clear of the gossip in these taverns, we'll have missed our quarry.'

'I know.' Tathrin contemplated the little harbour. He'd always heard Carif called a port but the reality was nothing like he had imagined. Relshaz, the only other seaport he'd ever seen, was an estuary city of low-lying brick, houses white with plaster cut through with canals connecting the sprawling streams of the Rel.

Here in the Carifate, as they called it, steep hills ran down to the sea. These little anchorages were dotted along the coast, wherever some break in the cliffs offered salvation to hapless vessels. Between the warehouses and the abrupt dark rock of the quayside, Tathrin saw a shingled strip barely wide enough for two wagons to pass without their wheels scraping.

He gestured towards a leaping-fish flag flying from the closest masthead. 'Are we enlisting any of these brethren?'

Sorgrad shook his head. 'We won't persuade a shipmaster to risk his vessel in the winter storms. Besides, they'll be keeping a weather eye out for Duke Orlin's mariners on the horizon.'

Tathrin had noted the square tower on the cliff beyond the harbour. Surrounded by a high wall, it had three rows of windows visible and a watchman's turret jutting from the roof. No ship could anchor here without someone seeing it coming.

He recalled the speculation in the tavern where they'd spent the previous evening. He'd learned that the mercenary sailors whose ships defended the Carifate claimed all this broad rocky bay between Parnilesse's southernmost cape and the promontory to the north, which in turn sheltered the broad inlet that the dukes had long since claimed for their own. It seemed the shipmasters of Maubere were still doggedly patrolling the Gulf of Lescar, for their own profit if not their dead liege lord's.

'Perhaps we should come back this way,' he said thoughtfully, 'to see if Reniack's made any headway recruiting ships for his cause.'

'Not unless he's handing over a good share of Duke Orlin's treasury.' Gren shot Tathrin a grin. 'Even in fair weather, sailors only whistle for a wind when you give them a fistful of gold.'

'Let Reniack waste his coin.' Sorgrad strode onwards. 'Ships will be no more use to him than they would be to us.'

Tathrin hoped the Mountain Man was right. He knew Aremil was concerned that the Emperor would see Reniack as an even graver threat if he learned that the rabble-rouser could summon up ships to carry his call to arms to Solland and the Tormalin shores beyond.

Regardless, they had no coin to spare for greedy sailors. They had little enough to offer the warriors they really needed, at least until they could refill their war chests by reclaiming whatever plunder the renegades had piled up in Wyril.

If they couldn't do that? Then everything they had worked so hard for, all the blood that had been shed, would have been for nothing. Tathrin set his jaw. Such an outcome could not be allowed.

How long would the journey to Wyril take? Ten days? At best, if they could march straight up the highway to Deflin and then cut westward. As long as the weather favoured them and if they weren't delayed by having to fight their way through the chaos that Reniack had brought to Parnilesse.

The sooner they could leave here the better. Tathrin lengthened his stride along the steep cobbled path. 'Can't we find some horses to save on time and shoe leather?'

It had taken them half a day to walk back to the coast from Carif's heart, where they had headed after first making landfall at another little harbour. That had been more what Tathrin expected from this notorious city of mercenaries, with merchants and moneychangers and paved streets and, according to Gren, the very best brothels this side of Selerima.

Initially Tathrin had wondered at the lack of any apparent defences ringing the buildings, till he noticed that every inhabitant, man or woman, kept a sword to hand night and day. Then he'd realised the full extent of the enclave. It reached a full day's ride inland from the coast, as far as an ancient ditch and turf rampart dug by Saedrin only knew who. Tathrin calculated the whole district probably had twice as many inhabitants as any other Lescari town. That helped explain why no Duke of Parnilesse had sent his militiamen across the Carifate boundary inside ten generations.

'How about it, 'Grad?' Gren prompted when his brother didn't respond to Tathrin's question. 'Saddle sores instead of blisters?'

'You've the coin to spare?' Sorgrad glanced at Tathrin. 'Wouldn't you rather have more swords to help retake Wyril?'

He ground his teeth in frustration. 'All right. Where are we heading now?'

'The Hollow Yew, then we'll call in at the Eagle Crag,' Sorgrad said promptly. 'After that, we'll see who's trading at Redgull's Rookery.'

'The Yew's just beyond that ridge.' Gren pointed.

Tathrin shaded his eyes with his hand and gauged the distance. It left him wishing they could stop for a second heartier breakfast down on the dock, after their daybreak cheese and hard biscuit. But Sorgrad was right. They couldn't spare the time.

After the swift ferocity of the autumn's campaign, Tathrin burned with frustration at the slow pace of progress this For-Winter. It was like wading through mud. So much could happen in Wyril in the next ten days. So much could already have happened since he left Ashgil. Failla might be safely away with Aremil now but that was scant comfort.

He could already have attacked Wyril, if Captain-General Evord had agreed to march. But the Soluran was steadfast in his refusal. No company from the army that had thrown down the dukes would march again under his command.

Tathrin must lead an army newly recruited to bring peace to Lescar. The ordinary men of the different dukes' militias must be free to rally to the gold and cream standard with a clear conscience. Victory at Wyril would unite them still more.

That said, Evord had agreed they needed experienced swordsmen at this new army's core and acknowledged Tathrin had nowhere else to look for them but here.

He contemplated the prospect inland, as the narrow path zigzagged up to the ridge. Solitary towers dotted the landscape, similar to the one on the cliff but larger in scale. Haphazard hovels built from crudely shaped boulders squatted around them. Each knot of buildings was ringed with stone-walled fields and a few black cows browsed the tough pasture. One small enclosure held a lonely pig, its littermates gone for bacon and sausage.

Tathrin couldn't help voicing his doubts. 'Are you sure we'll find swords worth having all the way out here?' If not, they were wasting more precious time.

Sorgrad nodded. 'More to the point, you'll find men willing to march into the teeth of the winter. Mercenary companies big enough and rich enough to hold their ground in the heart of the enclave won't stir until next spring, no matter what you offer. We'll find companies in these outlying towers who've had a bad year through no fault of their own.'

'They'll still be worth their salt and silver,' Gren assured Tathrin. 'No captain can hold any tower in the Carifate without good men to back him.'

'Captains facing a lean winter should be interested in mending their fortunes,' Sorgrad added, 'before some lieutenant challenges for their command.'

Tathrin nodded. Walking on without further conversation, they finally crested the ridge, his calves aching. The turfed ground fell away to offer shelter from the storms. Rough tracks branched off a gravel road, straggling towards more towers. There was one unexpectedly close, only just in the lee of the land.

A harsh voice called down from the watchman's turret. 'Who goes there?'

'Silk Maspin, and his brother, Dirk.' Sorgrad waved a hand at Gren. 'And their good friend, Tathrin Sayron!'