Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (16 page)

'Where are you headed?' the sentry demanded.

Tathrin didn't know what authority the man had to ask that, but guessed he had a crossbow ready if he didn't like the answers.

'The Hollow Yew,' Sorgrad obligingly called back.

'Any feuding we should know about?' Gren shouted up.

'Just the usual smouldering.' With a wave, the watchman retreated into his turret.

'On we go, long lad.' Gren picked up the pace.

'With your name going ahead of us,' Sorgrad said with satisfaction.

As they passed the squat tower, Tathrin saw two youths already running inland. 'Why did you ask about feuds?' he asked Gren.

'Quarrels always fester in winter camps.' Sorgrad shrugged. 'There'll be some willing to trade the risks of a winter campaign against staying amid the dogfights.'

Further on, Tathrin saw the running boys disappear into a sprawling building as different from his own father's inn as he could imagine. There was no yard for wagons or stabling for horses. As roughly built as the local cottages, it was just bigger, enclosing three sides of a square with doors on all sides ajar, even in this cold and rain.

'The Hollow Yew.' Sorgrad indicated a long-dead tree in the drinking den's courtyard. It bristled with the hilts of daggers driven deep into the wood.

'Ale or white brandy?' Gren pushed at a half-open door.

'Small beer.' Tathrin wasn't about to cloud his wits.

Sorgrad scanned the long room, half-filled with men and women. 'White brandy and ale for Ekarre Amber-Eyes.' He glanced at Tathrin. 'We're off to a good start already.'

A few inquisitive faces looked up. Men and women were dressed alike in dun breeches and sturdy boots, long-sleeved tunics buttoned tight against the chill. Cloaks draped on benches and chair backs ranged from good broadcloth in muted hues to heavy furs and a few gaudy silk capes offering more bombast than protection from winter weather.

Tathrin was relieved to see the tavern's customers return to their conversations. Most were cherishing a half-empty tankard rather than drinking hard. The rattle of bones beyond the tavern-keeper's long counter elicited cries of success or chagrin. Smaller tables around the hearth were given over to silent games of white raven.

Gren rubbed his hands. 'I should try a few throws of the runes.'

'White brandy,' Sorgrad repeated, 'and ale.'

He led Tathrin towards a man sitting beneath a leaded window, his back against the whitewashed wall. Round-faced, he looked more like a merchant travelling the Great West Road than some leader of swords for hire. Though his eyes were indeed striking: a hazel so pale they were almost golden.

The three with him looked like the mercenaries Tathrin was used to - two men and a woman as muscular as both, her hair cropped brutally short. All four wore the same badge, a pine marten's mask.

'Maspin.' The woman nodded, her eyes hard. 'Where's your pain in the arse of a brother?'

'Buying you all a drink.' Sorgrad gestured towards the counter. 'I hear you need friends to help drown your sorrows.'

'We didn't have friends to get us a hire with that Soluran,' the woman said resentfully. 'Not like you, from what I hear. Slick as oiled silk like always, you bastard half-measure.'

Unperturbed, Sorgrad looked at Ekarre. 'So just how bad was your summer?'

'We were set to spend the season chasing Dalasorian horse thieves back over the River Drax for three lords holding lands around Maerden.' One of the other men spoke, a noteworthy scar on his neck half-hidden by a rusty beard. 'Only by Midsummer Solstice, we'd barely seen two heaps of horseshit.'

Because those Dalasorians who so enjoyed plundering Sharlac's borders were enlisting with Sia Kersain's troops. Tathrin quietly took a seat.

'We were paid off early.' The last man scowled, sweeping back shoulder-length hair with a scarred hand. 'Still left all wrong-footed, when Sharlac Castle went up in flames.'

'No sniff of Jackal Moncan facing such a threat.' The woman took that as a personal affront.

Gren appeared with a tray carrying a blue glass bottle, pottery goblets and five tankards of ale. He set his burden down and filled the goblets, the sharp scent of strong liquor rising. Tathrin hid his face in a tankard of ale in case anyone saw his satisfaction at their conspiracy's success.

'Before we could catch Lord Cassat and get his seal on a contract, he was dead as mutton outside Tyrle. Then this Soluran threw down Triolle's duke and Lord Geferin with him.' Ekarre was torn between exasperation and admiration. 'With Duke Orlin killed and Parnilesse and Draximal both like to go up in flames, coming home seemed the safest bet.'

Sorgrad cupped untasted brandy in his hands. 'A truly unfortunate year.'

'Not for you.' The bearded man made a show of looking them up and down.

Indeed, Sorgrad was as dapper as ever and he had advised Tathrin to make every effort to match him. Even Gren was tidier than usual and wearing silver and gold rings, not at all his usual custom.

'So what are you doing here?' Ekarre's long-haired companion asked sourly.

'As you say, Parnilesse is going up in flames.' Sorgrad lifted the goblet to his lips. 'We want to know who this man Reniack's got throwing oil on the fires. If they're really looking to set Draximal ablaze. We want to know who got washed down the River Anock after the battle at Pannal, and we'll take whatever news you have to sell about comings and goings between Parnilesse Town and Marlier or Relshaz.'

Ekarre nodded slowly. 'Lord Roreth of Triolle washed up dead and stinking downstream, a few days after the battle.'

'They say his head sold for its own weight in gold in Parnilesse Town.' The woman jerked her head inland.

'What's that news worth?' the long-haired man sneered. 'You don't seem burdened with heavy purses.'

'Heavier than yours,' Gren assured him.

'There'll be fighting enough to mend our fortunes if Emperor Tadriol ships his legions over the Asilor.' Ekarre tipped a goblet of white brandy into one of the tankards.

'I wouldn't wager on that happening,' Sorgrad said.

'What have you heard?' The woman glared.

'This and that, from Lady Rochiel.' Sorgrad was still looking at Ekarre. 'She's in Solland for the winter.'

Tathrin recalled that was one of Charoleia's many different names, each one with a convincing history behind it. That news certainly dampened Ekarre's hopes.

'Never mind,' Gren said cheerfully. 'This Reniack wouldn't be paying you to fight anyway, not when he can whip guttersnipes into battle for free.'

'That's what you reckon?' The woman looked suspiciously at him as she fortified her own ale.

'Don't you?' Gren retorted.

The two other men exchanged a mordant look before drowning their disgust in their tankards.

'You could look for honest work elsewhere in Lescar.' Sorgrad smiled. 'For more reward than just paying your way over winter till merchants come hiring along the high road next spring.'

'That'll be the best you can hope for.' Gren nodded. 'There won't be another fighting season in Lescar.'

'So you say.' But the woman's retort lacked conviction.

'What sort of work?' Now Ekarre looked like a merchant intent on negotiation.

Sorgrad set his goblet on the table, barely tasted. 'Did you hear some of the companies mustered for Duke Secaris turned renegade after his death?'

'Bonebreakers, Swallowtails, Reskin's Prowlers, Boot Snakes and the Triple Knot.' Gren ticked them off on his fingers. 'They've overrun Wyril--'

'We know that,' the woman interrupted. 'Haven't you heard? They're setting up their own dukedom.'

Tathrin wasn't sure who she was mocking - the renegades or the two Mountain Men.

Ekarre cut off her reply with a gesture. 'The Soluran's recruiting to crush the renegades?'

'No.' For the first time in the conversation, Sorgrad turned to Tathrin. 'But my friend here is. Those renegades will be put to the sword for their crimes just as soon as the assizes sit at Winter Solstice. Then we'll see to it that Ferdain of Marlier and Secaris of Draximal pack their bags. After that we'll be coming for Reniack so ordinary Parnilesse can have a voice in their own future without him shouting them down or worse.'

'So you say,' the woman scoffed again.

'When did you last bet against my brother and win?' Gren asked with interest.

Tathrin cleared his throat and reminded himself of the speech he'd rehearsed, and delivered in the five taverns Sorgrad had led him into yesterday.

'Lescar will be free of the dukes before next summer,' he assured Ekarre. 'But there's no freedom without the strength to defend yourself. Anyone looking at the Carifate sees that. Only what's to become of the Carifate without the dukes to hire the companies and lavish gold and silver on their squabbles?'

He held Ekarre's pale gaze and saw the same veiled uncertainty that the captains he'd already talked to had betrayed.

'The Soluran's going home.' He gestured vaguely westwards. 'Those mercenaries with ties to Ensaimin or Dalasor will do the same, along with any who can claim Relshazri blood. But what about those of you born and bred in Lescar, two and three generations back?'

'Three out of four of your men,' murmured Sorgrad.

'You've fought for the dukes because that was the best you could make of your situation. You had no other choice.' Tathrin looked earnestly at Ekarre. 'You're still as much Lescari as the rest of us. Don't you deserve some share in the coming peace?'

'Served on a silver platter?' the woman asked sarcastically. 'Ringed with steaming sausage?'

Tathrin ignored her, still addressing Ekarre. 'Every Lescari town will need a Watch to keep the peace and its own company of militia to give greedy Caladhrian barons or arrogant Tormalin legions pause for thought. I want to enlist experienced men as their sergeants-at-arms. I want to enlist Lescari men and women. You know how to fight, how to train men to fight--'

Ekarre interrupted. 'What do we get out of it?'

'Gear and food while you're serving, and whatever stipend these towns can afford.' Tathrin looked steadily at him. 'Don't expect to get rich.' He spoke over a mutter of disgust from the crop-headed woman. 'But you can expect a grant of land, a smallholding or a shop maybe, once you've served ten years. A settled future, for whatever family you might have.'

'Better than starving in a ditch when you're too old and blind to hold a sword,' Gren observed.

'Ask around till you find someone who saw the autumn's funeral pyres,' Sorgrad suggested. 'Who can say how many of the dukes' militias won't be going home?'

'Rewards will be waiting for those who prove worthy,' Tathrin promised.

Ekarre didn't look convinced but he was clearly interested. 'Proving that how?'

'Help drive these renegade curs out of Wyril,' Tathrin said bluntly.

'Take your share of that loot and welcome,' Gren added.

'Is this an open invitation?' the scarred and bearded man asked suspiciously.

'No.' Tathrin held his gaze. 'Only to men and women born on Lescari soil, who've served in companies that get the nod from my friends here.'

'And Lady Rochiel.' Sorgrad smiled. 'You can spread that word, as far as you like.'

The long-haired man cracked bony knuckles. 'There's plenty won't like it.'

'We'll convince them otherwise,' Gren said with happy malice.

Sorgrad shrugged. 'I don't imagine they'll rally a full company to argue the point, not when they see that picking a quarrel with one Lescari town means picking a quarrel with them all. The days of the dukes stabbing each other in the back are gone.'

'We've already enlisted men and sergeants from the Wyvern Hunters,' Tathrin continued, 'also from the Gallowsfruit, the Tallymen and the Shearlings.'

'The Sundowners,' Gren added, 'and the Wheelwrights.'

'Who else are you talking to hereabouts?' Ekarre asked slowly.

'You don't need to worry about that,' Sorgrad assured him. 'Just consider what's best for your own future.'

'We march north from the northern entry in the rampart, the morning after tomorrow.' Gren looked around. 'So, who's for a few hands of runes?'

No one answered.

'You don't think you'll be waiting with your thumb up your arse?' the crop-haired woman challenged Tathrin.

He pretended to consider the question before answering. 'No, I don't.'

Hopefully that confident reply would satisfy Sorgrad. Tathrin had been practising. The Mountain Man had said time and again on their journey that this scheme would be stillborn if he ever betrayed doubts.

So Tathrin refused to contemplate the possibility of no one answering this call. He had also balanced that likelihood against the chances of disgruntled mercenaries turning up at the rendezvous to rob and fight those willing to enlist. If the worst came to the worst, they'd just have to rely on Sorgrad's magic to escape and argue later with the Archmage's spy Jilseth.

The scarred and bearded man looked at Ekarre. 'It's interesting, but maybe we should see if Reniack makes us a better offer.'