Parlin tried striking up a conversation a few times. Failla answered politely enough but gave him scant encouragement. The groom soon fell silent and turned his attention to the road ahead. The sun rose high in the sky until it hung above them, marking noon.
They were walking the horses through a stretch of woodland sorely in need of coppicing. Failla was wondering how far it might be to an inn where they'd find decent food for themselves and water for the horses when three riders appeared ahead, coming towards them.
Parlin turned in his saddle. "Shall we stop for a luncheon, my lady? These travellers might recommend somewhere?"
"Perhaps." Failla shaded her eyes with one gloved hand. The riders looked to be in a hurry. The first two rode into a shaft of sunlight falling through the leaves. Their golden hair shone. Would Mountain Men know anything about taverns? She'd heard they shunned all company but their own kind.
Chapter Twelve
Failla
The Thymir Road, in the Lescari Dukedom of Carluse,
31st of Aft-Spring
The three men heading towards them were urging their horses to a faster trot. Parlin hauled on the leading rein to draw the mule aside and Failla followed his lead towards the verge. The first two riders passed the groom with a brief nod.
As the third came close behind, he sent his horse veering into Parlin's mount. The groom cursed as the indignant mule brayed and threw its head back, the rein yanking Parlin's arm.
The man rose up in his stirrups, startlingly tall, and punched the groom hard in the face. The youth fell heavily to the road. The mule reared and tried to flee, soon defeated by the weight of the chests on its back and Parlin's senseless body dragging at its bridle.
Failla realised that the blond riders were intent on her, one reaching for Ash's bridle. The mare proved just as quick-witted. Rearing and turning on her haunches, she galloped away. Failla gripped the saddle tightly with her knees and wound a twist of pale mane around one gloved hand. She drew breath to scream if she saw anyone who could come to her aid.
The bandits' horses were fresher. They came up on either flank. Failla dug her boots into the mare's ribs, lashing Ash's neck with a loop of rein. It was no use. The bandits forged ahead, driving their unwilling mounts towards each other to force Ash to a stop.
The mare stumbled on a rut. Failla kicked her feet free of her stirrups lest she fall. One of the bandits was reaching for her. She slapped at his grasping hands, screaming as loudly as she could. Someone might hear. The man caught her elbows, dragging her from her horse, horribly strong. She writhed and squirmed. Better to fall than to be carried off. Ash neighed and reared away and Failla was indeed falling. Strong arms caught her; the second man had jumped down from his horse. As the first man let go of her arms, she twisted around to punch this second assailant as hard as she could. Her leather-clad knuckles split his lip.
"Maewelin's tits!"
He dropped her. She landed on her tailbone with a shock hard enough to take her breath away. Before she could recover, the man bent to lift her up, strong hands around her waist. She would have punched him again but he transferred his grip to her upper arms, forcing her hands down. She couldn't hope to fight back. He was so much stronger, even though he was scarcely taller than she was.
He grinned at her and she smelled cloves and salt on his breath and expensive scent on his linen. He was older than she had first thought, she realised inconsequentially. Fine wrinkles made crow's feet around his piercing blue eyes. What was a Mountain Man doing on Carluse's back roads?
"Help me get him roped!" The tall man was throwing Parlin across his own saddle.
"Knocked him cold? Good lad." The second Mountain Man tested a length of cord between his hands, flaxen hair bright in the sun. "Sorgrad, are we taking him with us?" He drew a dagger and wound his hand in Parlin's dark hair to lift the youth's head. "It's no trouble to cut his throat."
"No!" Failla screamed.
The man holding her winced. "You're louder than Maewelin's crows, girl. No, Gren. Leave him be."
"You said we needed him." The third man, so much taller than the other two, spoke hurriedly. "To take word back to the duke."
The blood froze in Failla's veins. These men were working for Garnot? Why would he send men to seize her like this? Because he knew she had betrayed him?
"Dump a body and sure as Misaen made the mountains, someone's nosy dog will find it before we're half a league away," the man holding her pointed out. "We don't want a hue and cry too soon."
"True enough." Shrugging, the second man sheathed his blade and passed the cord under the horse's belly to tie the groom's feet to his wrists.
The man holding Failla looked sternly at her. "Will you behave, to keep your man there alive?"
She nodded mutely.
"Good." The blond man released her upper arms, only to fasten one hand around her wrist. He led her, unresisting, to stand beside the horse now burdened with Parlin's unconscious body. The tall one went to gather up the loose horses while her captor's partner fetched the mule, which had taken its chance to go browsing on a hedge.
Behind her woeful expression, Failla thought furiously. Something must have happened since she'd left the castle. There had been no hint of trouble that morning. Or was that why Vrist hadn't been in the stable yard? Had Uncle Ernout been taken? Or one of the guildsmen? She tried not to let fear numb her wits.
Whoever Duke Garnot's men had seized, they couldn't know for certain that she'd been betraying his secrets from inside the castle. Otherwise she'd already have been tied to a horse's tail to be dragged back to Carluse so she could be whipped through the town by Duke Garnot's executioner, to be hanged, naked and bloody, on the gallows outside the gates. At most, surely, he could only suspect her.
Or did Duke Garnot think his castle's guards would let her escape rather than take her back to face such a fate? She was one of their own, after all, born in Carluse Town. Was that why he had sent these men to catch her? Mountain Men in Lescar could only be mercenaries. If Duke Garnot already believed she had betrayed him, had he sent these brigands to get the whole truth from her? Would she suffer rape or torture or both before she betrayed her cousin, her uncle, the guildmasters?
Failla knew she would talk in the end. Duke Garnot had told her captives always did. She began weeping.
"No need for that." The man holding her captive wiped her tears away with gentle fingers.
She snatched at the dagger in his belt. He was too cursed quick though, catching her wrist as her fingers fastened on the hilt. She fought all the same, desperate to draw the blade, to turn it against herself. Better to die quickly than betray the honest men and women she had lied and schemed to help.
The second Mountain Man came up and broke her inadequate grip on the dagger. Failla's knees gave way and she sank to the muddy ground, wracked with genuine despair.
"Don't cry, sweetness." The second Mountain Man knelt with her, comforting her like a distraught child. "You'll make your pretty nose all red."
Was he going to try seducing the truth out of her? Her fear receded a little. As long as she wasn't being beaten, there must be some hope.
"Tathrin, have you got those cursed horses in hand?" The first Mountain Man, the one with the sapphire eyes, walked away, all business.
"Promise you'll behave and you can ride comfortably." The man holding her raised Failla to her feet. He was easily as strong as the other one. "Break your promise and we'll tie your ankles beneath your mare's belly."
She could tell he wasn't joking. Failla wiped her cheeks with the edge of her cloak. "I'll be good." Her voice broke treacherously.
"Please, don't be afraid." The tall man was doing his best to control the restive horses. He sounded almost as upset as she was.
His Lescari accent--Carluse, no less!--spurred Failla to sudden wrath. "Don't be afraid?"
"Don't blame the lad," the first Mountain Man said calmly. "Now, where were you heading?"
"Thymir Manor."
The truth was out before she thought to lie. "Where we will be missed," she added quickly.
"Not before nightfall." He grinned. "We'll be leagues away by then."
"Who are you?" Failla clung to the anger that was holding her fear at bay. "What do you want?"
The first man bowed elegantly. "I'm Sorgrad and this is my brother Gren."
"Pleased to meet you." The second Mountain Man's bow wasn't as polished, though his smile was more engaging.
"I'm Tathrin." The tall man was still struggling with the horses and now the mule was being awkward.
"There are Woodsmen in these coppices. They don't take kindly to bandits hunting on their roads." Failla tried to sound convincing.
"Is that so?" The less polished Mountain Man, Gren, looked around with happy anticipation. "Will they put up a better fight than that sack of shit?"
Slung over his own saddle, Parlin stirred and moaned.
"Let's be on our way." Sorgrad took Ash's reins from the tall man, Tathrin. "Give the lady a hand up, lad."
Failla noted that the tall one was wringing his hand as if he had hurt it punching Parlin. Ostrin said he had broken a knuckle and serve him right, she thought vindictively. He bent nevertheless, so she could use his linked fingers as a step and mount.
"Why's the duke sending you all the way to Thymir?" Sorgrad took hold of Ash's bridle to lead the mare beside his own horse. "That's a long way to come from Carluse to chase you round the bedposts."
Failla looked at him, suspicious. Was this false friendliness to tempt her into indiscretion?
"I'm leaving for a few days while Lord Ricart visits."
Let him pick the truth out of that and carry it back to Duke Garnot.
"The young cat's sniffing around the old tom's quean?" Riding by her other stirrup, Gren laughed. "Can't blame the lad, mind you." He leaned forward, not menacing, more confiding. "So what would a man have to do to get a pretty puss like you purring? Can anyone less than a duke tickle your belly?"
"Gren!" The Carluse man, Tathrin, was scandalised.
Following on behind, he was leading the mule and Parlin's horse. Failla saw him looking at the groom's hanging head with concern.
Failla returned her attention to Gren. His eyes were paler than his brother's. "Your rank is irrelevant," she said calmly. "I may be a duke's doxy but I am no whore."
"Good." By her mare's head, Sorgrad was smiling with more approval than she would have expected.
Had Duke Garnot sent them to test her loyalty to him? Was that what this was all about?
She held herself ready to answer their questions with measured defiance that would prove her devotion. Only there were no more questions. Sorgrad led them down a narrow lane cutting between the coppices and on through a spread of fields where the first spring wheat showed frail green shoots.
They finally reached a larger stand of trees that Failla guessed was the edge of the hunting forest separating Thymir Manor from the next demesne. "Where are we going?"
"For the moment, this'll do." Sorgrad led her mare into a green hollow amid the trees.
"My lady." Dismounting, Gren spread his cloak carefully over a log. "You don't want the moss to stain your skirts," he explained reasonably, "otherwise someone might think you'd had a tumble in the long grass." His grin told her he didn't mean a fall from her horse.
"We have bread, cheese and chicken." Tathrin was busy with a saddlebag. "And wine."
"Come on, girl, you must be hungry." Mouth full of bread, Sorgrad jerked his head. "Sit down."
"What about him, hanging there with his ears flapping?" Gren scowled at Parlin.
Failla wondered if the groom was still unconscious or merely, wisely, pretending to be.
"Fetch him another clout and he might not wake up." Sorgrad bit into a lump of cheese. "Hood him."
Failla dismounted as Gren dragged Parlin's cloak down over his head and tied it tight. What part did the groom have to play in all of this? They'd said he was to carry the tale back to Duke Garnot. Was Parlin the one under suspicion? Did the duke want to compare whatever the youth told him with the report these mercenaries made? Did he want to see if Parlin told anyone else what had befallen her? She breathed a little easier. Parlin was most assuredly innocent of any involvement in her uncle's schemes.
"Chicken?" Tathrin offered her a nicely browned leg.
"Who are you?" She glared up at him. "Why's a Carluse man riding with mercenaries within his lord's own borders?"
"I'm no mercenary," Tathrin protested.
Gren took a hunk of bread from him. "Not so's you'd notice."
"We are, though," Sorgrad said calmly, "and we need to know what Duke Garnot plans for the summer--which mercenary captains he's corresponding with and where he plans to fight."
"So you can make your fortunes out of Carluse misery?" She spat on the ground at his feet.
"So we can put a stop to it," Tathrin said forcefully.
Startled, she saw he was wholly serious. "How?" she challenged.
Sorgrad answered. "We know you pass word of Duke Garnot's plans to some of the guildmasters so they can get innocent folk out of harm's way. We want to save you the bother. There are folk, Lescari folk, far beyond your borders who want to buy off the mercenaries before the fighting starts."
"And not just in Carluse."
As Tathrin told her a halting, complex tale of people meeting and talking in distant places, Failla listened with growing incredulity. Finally concluding, he looked at her with eager expectation.
"Have you run completely mad?" She didn't know whether to be appalled or bleakly amused. "Have you and all these merchants forgotten the truth of life in Lescar, living in exile for so long?"
"What's your point?" Sorgrad asked mildly.
"You think Duke Garnot will simply give up his plans just because he can't hire mercenaries to fight at his bidding for a season?" She rounded on him. "That he'll renounce all he desires for himself and his son and his son's sons? The High King's crown isn't just the spur for this year's fighting. It's his life's central ambition, like his father and his grandfather before him. It's the one aim that unites him and Duchess Tadira."
"They will be forced to see reason," Tathrin said obstinately.
"Reason has nothing to do with it," she retorted. "I read their letters and I hear Duke Garnot and Duchess Tadira talking. I see all their calculations as they weave their carefully contrived marriages and alliances. Come Solstice and Equinox, I see whichever dukes might be visiting Carluse doing exactly the same, them and their duchesses. They don't just plot and scheme because they have nothing better to do with their time. It's what they learned as life and duty with their mother's milk. It's what they breathe with every waking moment. Every duke dreams of uniting Lescar as a kingdom under his rule!"
"If they have no mercenaries to fight their battles, all they can do is dream," Tathrin insisted.
"Until they call up the militias. Do you think the vassal lords will refuse to fight when their liege-lord calls them to defend their own by attacking his enemies? They'll whip their tenants into line if they have to," Failla cried. "Duke Garnot's successes offer his vassal lords wealth and honour. They will carry on fighting just as they always have." She shook her head. "Folk say scholars are next to fools. I never thought so till now."
"If the dukes have no coin to finance their wars--" Tathrin began stubbornly.
"They'll sell their peasants' children into Aldabreshin slavery to raise it," Failla interrupted him mercilessly. "Garnot of Carluse has done it before and so has Ferdain of Marlier. The other dukes would do the same."
That finally silenced Tathrin. Failla looked down to find she was still holding the chicken leg. Absurdly, she realised she was hungry and began to eat.
"It always comes back to these dukes." Gren chewed a crust, contemplative.
"So, Tathrin, don't have your friends in Vanam pay mercenaries to fight each other." Sorgrad went to a saddlebag and found a wineskin. "Pay them to get rid of
the dukes."
"What?" Tathrin stared at him.
"That's not a bad notion." Gren produced a horn cup from a pocket. "Lescari militiamen are weak as wet wheat at the best of times. Even before your man Reniack starts convincing them not to fight with his night letters nailed to shrine doors." He paused to let Sorgrad pour him some wine. "If we brought all the best warbands together, we could throw down these dukes and whatever lords are fool enough to stick with them."
"Why not see if that wins you some peace?" Sorgrad produced a silver cup from his belt pouch and filled it.
"Who would rule over the wasteland you'd make?" Failla demanded.
"Aren't you already living in a wasteland? You soon will be once this summer's fighting starts." Sorgrad drank his wine. "All because of these dukes of yours. All your country's ills can be laid at their door. Ever seen a man lying sick with a rotting foot, Tathrin? Cut off all that dead flesh and pus, right back to healthy blood and bone, and he might just live."
"Is this some other notion of Charoleia's that she didn't think to share?"
Failla saw that Tathrin was angrier than ever, but not with her.
"Read her letter for yourself. Then see if you can apologise before I slap you senseless."
Sorgrad smiled at Tathrin and Failla felt a chill.
The younger man subsided, red-faced. "I beg your pardon."
"Let's get moving." Gren threw the dregs of his wine into the grass. "You don't get to kill this idea, lad, not without your friends having their say first."
"You're going back to Vanam?" Failla made a swift decision. "I'm coming, too. If there's any conspiracy to set mercenary bands fighting each other or fighting the dukes or anyone else, your people need to hear what I can tell you. Then I can warn the guildmasters. You won't get anywhere without their help and they won't believe anyone but me."
Irons in the Fire (Chronicles of the Lescari Revolution) Page 15