Irons in the Fire

by McKenna Juliet E.

  Some were drinking, others crouched around lively games of runes. There was a wide hearth on the upstream face of the tower and several men and women tended cooking pots wedged into the ruddy embers. A few were watching a game of white raven being played out in front of the portcullis rising up from the floor on the western side. Stepping into the room so the bearded man could follow him up the ladder, Tathrin tried to look as unthreatening as possible.

  "Sorgrad?" As he climbed up, the bearded man looked around.

  "Who wants me?" A man of no great height stood watching the white raven players. He looked at Tathrin and raised pale yellow brows. "Not who you were expecting?"

  Tathrin certainly hadn't been expecting a Mountain Man. He just wished his surprise hadn't shown on his face. "I have a letter for you, from Lady Alaric."

  "Have you, now?" A second Mountain Man stood up from a huddle throwing trios of runes.

  That must be Gren, Tathrin realised, Sorgrad's brother. Charoleia had said they looked remarkably alike.

  The whole room fell silent, everyone turning to look at him with unwelcome interest.

  "Where did you find him, Zeil?" Sorgrad asked the bearded man.

  He shrugged. "On the road heading for the town. So we snatched him and hooded him and brought him along."

  "Do you think he's a spy?" Gren looked at Tathrin with sharp suspicion. "Is that why you hooded him?"

  Zeil shrugged again. "I just thought we'd see what he's made of."

  "Was it brown?" Someone on the far side of the room chuckled.

  Sorgrad laughed with the rest before shaking his head. "You just thought you'd amuse yourselves at his expense, because you're a nasty bastard."

  "There's that, too," Zeil agreed easily, "and Jik was getting bored of sitting in a ditch."

  "Strip him." A massively built man sitting on an upturned half-barrel looked up from the game of white raven. "Check for tattoos. Zeil, any word from either duke? I'm getting bored eating pickled fish and biscuits."

  "No word yet," the bearded man replied.

  The heavily built man grunted, forearms as thick as Tathrin's thighs resting on legs like tree-trunks. "Let the millers in the town know that I want their best offer by the full of the Greater Moon or we'll cut the mills loose and they can pick up the wreckage downstream."

  That was what was anchored under the arches, Tathrin realised. Floating mills, protected by the bridge and easier to move than permanent ones when fighting threatened this border region. What would the people hereabouts do for bread if they lost the means to grind their flour?

  "You can strip yourself," Sorgrad offered, coming over, "or I'm sure Zeil will oblige."

  "I prefer my meat more tender." The bearded man grinned as the rest of the room laughed. "And willing." He glared pointedly at someone behind Tathrin.

  "No, that's all right. I've no tattoos." At least Charoleia had warned him about this. Tathrin let his bag fall to the floor and unbuttoned his doublet. "Your letter." He handed it to the golden-haired man and, refusing to cower, shrugged his doublet off and pulled his shirt over his head.

  "And your breeches." The enormous man was concentrating on his next move. "And your boots."

  "There's nothing in his breeches there shouldn't be," Zeil said easily. "You can keep those on, lad."

  That provoked another roar of laughter and ribald comments. Hoping he wasn't blushing, Tathrin sat down to unbuckle his boots. He began to feel more hopeful about escaping from this with a whole skin. Zeil wasn't giving him away even though he must have felt the solid lump of the purse hidden in his breeches when he was slung over his shoulder. He tried to convey his gratitude with a look as he handed his boots over for inspection.

  "No hidden blades." Impassive, Zeil tossed his footwear back.

  Sorgrad was studying the seals on the letter. "Can I take him up top, Arest?"

  The massively built man didn't look up from his game. "Just give anyone down below a shout if you're planning to throw him off."

  Tathrin realised he wasn't joking.

  "Get dressed." Slightly shorter and a little less stocky than Sorgrad, the second Mountain Man was already halfway up a flight of open steps running up one wall. He threw open a trapdoor, prompting protests as a draught followed the daylight and sent smoke from the hearth swirling around the room.

  Grabbing his clothes and boots, Tathrin followed, Sorgrad close behind him.

  "Slide off down below," Gren said cheerfully to the sentry on the roof of the tower. "You can shake hands with your best friend later."

  "Go piss up a rope," the swordsman said amiably as he went down the stairs. "We're not all panting for a whore."

  The raw cold on the exposed roof raised gooseflesh on Tathrin's arms and chest. He dressed hurriedly.

  Sorgrad was studying the letter. "Gren, shut the trap." He looked up as the wooden door crashed home. "Who did you say sent this?" His eyes were piercing sapphire blue.

  Tathrin met his stern gaze. "Charoleia."

  "Excellent." Gren's happy grin lit up his face. "What does she want us for?"

  His blue eyes were a little lighter than his brother's, Tathrin noted, and he wore his straw-blond hair longer, roughly tied with a scrap of leather thong. Sorgrad's hair was as neatly trimmed as if he'd just stepped out of a Vanam barber's.

  "A handful of Lescari-born in Vanam have come up with the cunning notion of paying mercenaries not to fight."

  "That's a heap of horseshit," Gren said with disgust.

  Tathrin realised Sorgrad had just read an intricately ciphered letter straight through without needing any recourse to paper or ink.

  "Charoleia says you reckon buying us all off will put an end to the warfare tormenting Lescar. Would you like me to point out the flaw in your reasoning?" Sorgrad asked mildly.

  "If you'd be so kind." Tathrin could see no scholar's ring on the Mountain Man's pale fingers, but he was clearly astute.

  "Most mercenaries do fight for the coin, that's true. Arest and his Wyvern Hunters, for instance." Sorgrad gestured towards the pale banner fluttering in the breeze and Tathrin saw the black wyvern on it. "As soon as either Draximal or Parnilesse comes up with a decent bid, they'll take their money and be on their way. But there's plenty who won't be bought so easily."

  "A lot just fight for the fun of it," Gren explained.

  Tathrin didn't like the keenness in his expression. "For fun?"

  Sorgrad looked grimmer. "There are always men with a taste for cruelty, and a few women, come to that. Stay at home and beat your wife to death or bugger your neighbour's son and you'll dangle from the nearest tall tree. If your mind's set on killing, you can dabble in guts up to your elbows in Lescar."

  Nauseated, Tathrin couldn't think what to say.

  "Or revenge." Gren was still musing on motives. "Half the men fighting with Arkady the Red just want another hack at Kairal's Minstrels, after the last time they got their arses kicked. Then there's the ones out for fame and fortune, and beardless boys running away from home who think killing for coin's easier than an honest trade."

  "They're generally dead by the end of their first season." Sorgrad looked down, as if he could see through the roof tiles into the room below. "Then there's the ones with nowhere else to go."

  "Men like Zeil. Even if you paid him off, he's no home to go back to," Gren explained.

  "Your grandfather fought to defend Carluse's borders, and your father, I'm guessing?" Sorgrad looked at Tathrin. "You'll find men with just as many generations of mercenary blood. They spend their whole lives going from fight to fight."

  "Didn't Charoleia say all this when you and your pals cooked up this porridge?" Gren chuckled.

  "No," Tathrin said with a spark of anger.

  "Did you ask her?" Sorgrad queried.

  Tathrin remembered. "She did say it wouldn't be simple, or easy."

  "So she sent you to ask our advice, which is the best thing you could have done." Sorgrad looked thoughtfully at the letter. "My advi
ce is, don't pay mercenaries not to fight."

  "You want them fighting for you, driving off the ones who can't be bought out." Gren smiled with happy anticipation.

  "Plenty of honest mercenaries would take your coin for that," Sorgrad assured him, "and prefer it to hacking down peasants."

  "There's no challenge killing someone who can't hardly find the pointy end of a pike." Gren shook his head.

  "Perhaps," Tathrin began cautiously. "But I would have to put all this to Master--" He remembered Charoleia's lecture on secrecy. "To my colleagues."

  "All of you scholars, are you?" Gren asked with interest.

  "Never mind that." Sorgrad walked over to the trapdoor and hauled it open. "Does anyone know where Arkady is these days?" he shouted down.

  "Kellarin," someone bellowed back.

  "Sheepshit," Sorgrad swore with economy. "Bald Juris?"

  "Dead," another voice called. "His wife slit his throat."

  That raised a cheer that made the tiles under Tathrin's feet tremble.

  "Kerroy?"

  "Dead of spotted fever over the winter. Him, Orlat and Shoddy Nair."

  Tathrin recognised the big man Arest's voice, harsh with scorn.

  That came as unwelcome news to more than Sorgrad, judging by the lamentation.

  "Do you think we could get Halice to come home for this?" Gren asked hopefully.

  Sorgrad shook his head briefly. "She's pregnant."

  "No?" Gren was enthralled. "Who--"

  "Does anyone know where Markasir is?" Sorgrad called as the noise below died down.

  There was uncertain conferring.

  "Carluse?" someone suggested, but several shouts instantly disagreed.

  Sorgrad's brow creased. "What about Lerris the Mason?"

  "Heading for Carluse," a gruff voice announced confidently.

  "Definitely," another seconded.

  Sorgrad let the trapdoor fall closed. "If you want someone to recruit mercenaries for you, Lerris or Markasir would be good men to talk to."

  "Duke Garnot already has mercenaries in his pay. They call themselves Wynald's Warband." Tathrin sat upright. "Is he thinking of war this summer? Is that why those mercenaries are heading for Carluse?"

  "Who knows?" Sorgrad folded Charoleia's letter carefully along its creases and tucked it inside his leather jerkin. "How much do you know about hiring mercenaries, lad?"

  "Do you even know the difference between a hound and a cur?" asked Gren.

  Tathrin didn't think he was talking about dogs. "How do you mean?"

  "Wynald's Warband--they're using the Carluse boar's head on their badge now?" queried Sorgrad.

  "Yes." Tathrin had seen a few of the uniformed mercenaries on the road when he had last visited his family.

  "That means Duke Garnot is paying them year round, whether or not he's fighting a campaign," Sorgrad explained.

  "Keeping them close to do his dirty work," added Gren.

  Tathrin recalled the corpses hanging on the gibbet by the inn. "Yes, they do that."

  "Among ourselves, we'd call them house hounds, taking the duke's coin in exchange for his leash around their necks." Sorgrad gestured at the flapping wyvern banner. "You won't ever see Arest add some piece of a duke's badge to his blazon."

  "That makes him a cur," Gren said with relish. "A dusty dog, leading a free company of mucky pups, hunting wherever he wants."

  "I see," Tathrin said cautiously. "What does that mean for us?"

  "Dukes like to leash the better mercenary bands," Sorgrad said frankly, "and you won't buy them off. Once their captain-general's taken that gold, the company won't betray their word."

  "No?" Tathrin tried not to sound too sceptical.

  "Not often." Sorgrad grinned. "More importantly, Charoleia says you want to keep all this as secret as possible until you're ready to strike. You won't manage that if you approach any mercenary captain with ties to a duke."

  "So we must hire some of these... curs?" Tathrin asked dubiously. "The ones who are a match for the dukes' hounds?"

  "The scholar knows how five beans make a handful," Gren said with sarcastic admiration.

  "What about these men who are heading for Carluse?" Tathrin was seized with urgent apprehension. "Are they free companies? Could we persuade them not to fight for Duke Garnot but to join us instead?"

  Then he could hope warfare wouldn't be threatening his family before the summer's barley ripened.

  "We'd need to know what Duke Garnot of Carluse is offering so we can come up with a better bid." Sorgrad's blue gaze challenged Tathrin again. "Charoleia says your father drinks with some guildmasters who like to get their apprentices clear of militia levies?"

  "What's that to you?" Tathrin wondered what else she'd written in that coded letter.

  "Thinking back on the last time Duke Garnot of Carluse sent men into battle against Duke Moncan of Sharlac, someone knew exactly where the fighting was going to happen, well aware Duke Garnot was wanting to lure Sharlac forces across the border into Carluse lands before he struck. Word got to Losand in time for the guildmasters there to make ready and close the gates to save the town from Sharlac's men and Wynald's mercenaries both. That information didn't come from Duke Garnot's men. One of Wynald's lieutenants got a flogging for it, but I know none of that company would send a warning. Why should they? Losand's fate was no concern of theirs and besides, if they came on the town all unawares, they could loot it themselves and blame some Sharlac dogs." Sorgrad shrugged but his eyes didn't leave Tathrin's. "I reckon those guildmasters have someone inside Duke Garnot's castle in Carluse Town. If that person could tell you and me what the duke is planning, we'd know how best to buy off Lerris or Markasir."

  "Buy them both off," Gren advised, "to make sure whichever company loses out doesn't go off to fight for Marlier or Triolle or whoever Carluse is thinking of kicking."

  "We won't get anywhere going into this blind," Sorgrad told Tathrin bluntly. "I won't even try, not even for Charoleia."

  "Not for all your friends' gold," Gren agreed.

  Tathrin had no doubt both men mean what they said. "There's someone close to Duke Garnot's mistress," he said reluctantly.

  Gren chuckled. "Friend, do you like to play the runes?"

  "You've got an honest face, Tathrin." Sorgrad's laugh wasn't unfriendly. "So it's the mistress?"

  "I think so." A horrid qualm twisted Tathrin's innards, and not just because his father would be furious with him for betraying such a secret. "But if Duke Garnot suspects, she's as good as dead, and I don't know for certain." He'd only overheard his father speculating as he shared a late-night glass of white brandy with his brother-in-law.

  "No one will learn it from us," Sorgrad assured him.

  "If it isn't her, the chances are she knows enough to be useful regardless," Gren said comfortably.

  "I could see if I can get a letter to my father," Tathrin said slowly. "I think he knows someone who sometimes carries word to a friend of a man who lives in Carluse Town."

  "Piss on that for a partner-dance," Gren said robustly.

  "It does sound like one." Sorgrad grinned momentarily. "No, I'm not following a chain like that. Any link could be weak or false and we'd have Carluse's fetters snapped round our wrists quick as you like."

  Gren cracked his knuckles with keen anticipation. "Simplest thing is to snatch her."

  "She never goes anywhere without an escort." Tathrin didn't like the sound of this at all. "Besides, if it is her, how are the guildmasters to manage without her?"

  "If she has an escort, whoever's left standing can take word back to Duke Garnot." Sorgrad was unperturbed. "If we do this right, she can always go back to spy for your father's friends."

  Gren nodded. "As long as the ransom's paid."

  "Ransom?" Tathrin protested.

  "You think Duke Garnot would be convinced she was innocent if he didn't have to pay to get her back?" Sorgrad raised his blond brows.

  "You do understand we're mercenaries?"
Gren sounded genuinely concerned. "This game of yours and Charoleia's sounds like more fun than sitting on this bridge with our thumbs up our arses, but we'll still want a fat purse at the end of the day."

  "So we'll kidnap Garnot's doxy and see what we can get out of her, and for her." Sorgrad clearly didn't expect further debate. "We'll call that a payment on account."

  "If you haven't got the stones for it, lad, we'll meet you back in Vanam with the lass all tied up with a ribbon," Gren offered. "Charoleia will understand."

  Tathrin couldn't think what to say. Kidnapping? Demanding a ransom? That's what mercenaries did. He'd been sent here to recruit mercenaries to their cause. If he didn't go along with this, he'd have to go back to Vanam and tell everyone how he'd failed.

  If he didn't go along with them, it was a gold mark to a mushroom that these two Mountain Men would seize the girl anyway. How would they treat her? What would happen if she fled screaming from such an assault? If he was there, at least he could explain who they were.

  He walked over to the parapet and looked both ways along the bridge. Around the gate to the town and on the other side along the causeway, men were camped wearing Draximal's red and gold and flying banners with the beacon-basket on them.

  "How do we get off this bridge?" That was his most immediate question.

  "Same way you got here." Gren came to make an obscene gesture at militiamen too far away to see it. "It's a wild ride with the river this high."

  Tathrin's stomach lurched at the prospect. Going along with these two and their new plan would be just as hair-raising, wouldn't it?

  Sorgrad opened the trapdoor and shouted down into the noisy gloom. "Jik, you thieving louse, give the lad his fancy dagger back. We're leaving."

  Chapter Eleven

  Failla

  Carluse Castle, in the Kingdom of Lescar,

  31st of Aft-Spring

  The sun woke her early. The duke's formal bedchamber boasted heavy velvet curtains and wooden shutters, but this dressing room where he actually slept had only a muslin drape to soften the window. Duke Garnot slept on, untroubled by sunlight striking the silver amid his dark wiry hair. He always claimed that summer campaigns in his youth had taught him to sleep in any conditions.