"No." Failla shook her head, pressing herself back against the door. She couldn't do it. She couldn't betray everyone like this. "I won't help you."
"No?" The old woman queried. "When your daughter's safety depends on it?"
Failla's blood ran cold. "My daughter?"
"I know that much, even if I don't know where you've stowed her." The old woman shrugged. "Not yet anyway. Of course, if I'm busy sending word to Master Hamare about these schemes of your Guilds and Jackal Moncan's deceits, I'll hardly have time to go searching for the precious mite, will I?"
How hard could it be to strangle someone? Nath would help dispose of the body, surely? He'd have to, once she explained how the duke had sent someone to exact his revenge upon her. Failla felt her fists clench once again.
"You won't find her at all if I kill you here and now."
"Do that and my master will just send someone else to dog your footsteps." The old woman was unconcerned. "Someone far less sympathetic to your plight, you can be sure of that. I've left letters to be sent to my master if I turn up dead, or even if I don't turn up at all. They'll tell him everything I've learned so far. As it stands, Master Hamare knows nothing of your child. Kill me and he will. She'll be a new piece thrown right into the middle of this game board. Help me, and no one else need know she was ever born."
"This is your price?" Failla set her jaw. "For your silence?"
"It is." The thin blade shone in the old woman's hand. "So stand aside and I'll bid you goodnight before your so-called brother comes back."
Failla moved away from the door. What else could she do?
"Who are you?" she burst out.
"You can call me Pelletria, dear." Coming close, the old woman patted her hand reassuringly. "You've known me for years, haven't you, back at Duke Garnot's castle? That's what you'll be saying if I come a-visiting when that so-called brother of yours is around. Oh, and don't think of running, dear. You won't lose me a second time, so all you'll do is lead me straight to your little girl. If you run without her, well, I'll just have to take her under my wing when I do find her, to keep her safe. And we'll still find you. Master Hamare has eyes and ears in every town and city between the Ocean and the Great Forest. Now, you make sure you get some sleep, my dear, or there'll be no roses in your pretty cheeks come the morning."
The old woman left, smiling kindly.
Failla stood, silent, motionless, for a long moment. Slowly, she restored all the copies of the maps to Nath's writing case. Finally she began gathering up the opened letters. She had to see them answered before he came back.
Sitting on the bed, clutching the papers, she desperately tried to weave a tissue of lies that might hide these latest secrets come to torment her. What falsehoods could she tell this woman Pelletria, to pass on to Master Hamare? How much truth would she have to use to salt the deceit to make it palatable? How much was she prepared to trade for her daughter's safety, even if the child was already lost to her?
Chapter Thirty-One
Tathrin
The Pipe and Chime Tavern, in the Dukedom of Carluse,
26th of For-Autumn
"There they are." Sorgrad stepped out of the gate recess in the high stone wall that flanked the highway.
"They've taken their own sweet time about it." Gren was sitting aloft, eating apples plucked from the orchard within. "Still, a chance to flirt with a pretty girl's always worth waiting for."
From what Tathrin had seen, Gren flirted with any maid old enough to wed and any matron still young enough to have her own teeth.
The two men rode either side of Failla. Tathrin saw her look at him and speak briefly to her escort. All three urged their horses towards the gateway.
"Sorgrad and Gren?" Like them, the first man wore buff breeches, a plain linen shirt and dun jerkin, the workday clothes that every second man on the road seemed to favour. He was a few years older than Tathrin and blessed with the square shoulders, strong features and clear eyes that Tathrin's sisters always found so attractive.
Tathrin was glad he'd insisted on buying some new clothes to replace those he'd worn to rags up in the mountains, otherwise Failla could have mistaken him for one of the beggars on the road. Then he recalled his hair, long since grown out of his scholarly crop. He'd trimmed it with his knife as best he could on the long journey through the uplands but it must still look unconscionably ragged.
"You must be Nath." Sorgrad offered his hand. "You have some maps for me?"
"Yes, and here they are." The newcomer smiled, relieved, and handed over a package of oiled cloth sewn tight.
"And who are you, friend?" Gren asked Failla and Nath's companion with lively curiosity.
"Kerith." The other man, darkly bearded and solidly built, shifted in his saddle with evident discomfort.
Gren smiled sunnily. "Don't worry, your arse'll soon toughen up."
"Mind your manners and look after these." Sorgrad handed his brother the package of maps.
So this was the Artificer. Not long off the coach from Vanam and still wearing the long-sleeved black tunic and dark breeches customarily seen around the upper town. He also wore the university's silver seal ring.
"You're very welcome, Master Kerith, but you'll find precious few scholars on these roads," Tathrin said politely. "Riding on in those clothes risks calling attention to yourself. You might wish to change."
"We've thought of that," Nath said quickly. "Failla and I have been travelling as map-makers on our way to take up a commission from a suitably distant lord. Kerith's going to be a tutor freshly hired to give that lord's sons their winter season's lessons."
"Just as long as you all stick to the same story." Sorgrad dismissed the matter. "What's the news from Vanam?"
"I have one letter from my Lady Charoleia and two I was given in Verlayne." Kerith unbuckled a pouch slung across his chest and looked quizzically at the Mountain Man. "If you're Master Maspin? The lad who insisted I take them was quite certain that's who I'd be meeting and Lady Charoleia did say I should look out for the name."
Sorgrad grinned. "That's me. Some of the time, anyway."
"Shall we go and wash the dust out of our throats while you read?" Nath looked hopefully at the tavern as he dismounted.
Tathrin noted how deftly he managed the sword hanging from his belt. Was he as accomplished when it came to fighting with it?
"We've already eaten and we'll be riding on." Sorgrad opened the first letter. "But please, dine at your leisure."
"The food's very good," Tathrin volunteered.
"That's welcome news." Failla favoured him with a sweet smile. "Nath keeps finding inns where swine would turn their snouts up at the fare."
"There's hardly been much choice," he protested.
There was nothing lover-like in that exchange, Tathrin thought with private satisfaction. Though Failla did look dreadfully weary. Dark smudges hollowed her eyes and her smile was strained. Her vulnerability roused his protective instincts. "You should stay here overnight," he advised. "Make sure you're properly rested."
"Master Gruit has all the supplies we've asked for ready and waiting, but Charoleia says too many people are starting to take notice of what's going on." Sorgrad studied the letter again and shrugged. "That's hardly a surprise, now that everything's about to come together."
"Is it?" As Failla looked at Tathrin, her desperation startled him. "Truly?"
"I believe so." To his chagrin, that was all he could tell her. When would Sorgrad start trusting him with the plans for Evord's army?
"Different people noticing different things in different places isn't too much of a concern." Sorgrad tucked the letter inside the breast of his jerkin and opened the next. "As long as no one can see all the pieces moving after each other, they can't guess the play on the board."
"You say Captain-General Evord is about to make his move?" Kerith looked keenly at Sorgrad. "I've been wondering if I should come with you, rather than staying with Nath and Failla. You and Master Evo
rd still have no means of taking the initiative to contact anyone else. Until we're able to recruit another Artificer, you can only wait for Master Aremil to reach out to Master Tathrin." He glanced at Tathrin. "Forgive me, I mean you no disrespect, nor to Master Aremil either."
"I take no offence at the truth. Believe me, I'd be glad to be rid of the burden." Realising too late that might sound disloyal, Tathrin covered his confusion by stooping to gather up one of Gren's discarded apple cores.
"Fighting men run shy of magic, whatever its nature." Sorgrad finished reading the second letter. "Let's leave things as they are."
"Your swordsmen need not know about my Artifice." Kerith dismounted, ungainly proof that he was really no horseman.
"Master Aremil learns what Tathrin knows every second day or so and that suits us well enough." Sorgrad broke the third letter's seal. "You'll be more use helping Nath and Failla. As soon as the storm breaks and Duke Garnot finds his militia won't come when he whistles, his intelligencers will be beating the bushes for whoever's responsible."
"His mercenaries are already sniffing around," Failla said tensely.
"Wynald's Warband are on the prowl?" Gren looked interested. "You could end up in a decent fight before we do."
"Perhaps we should send some swordsmen to travel with Failla and Nath." Tathrin went over to Failla's horse and fed it an apple core.
"Do you want an armed escort to call all the more attention to you?" Sorgrad raised a sardonic eyebrow.
"That won't be necessary." Kerith looked quietly confident. "I believe my Artifice will ensure we travel unnoticed."
"I bet you can keep the duke's spies chasing their own tails." Gren winked at Failla. "Don't fret, sweetheart."
"What about Reniack and Lady Derenna?" She bent to disentangle her dusty blue skirts from her stirrup leather. "Have more Artificers gone to Parnilesse and Sharlac?"
Tathrin stilled her restive horse with a firm hand. "They're scholars, like Kerith."
"No need to tell us," Sorgrad interrupted, looking up from his letter. "What we don't know we can't let slip."
"I'm sorry." Failla ducked her head, the brim of her straw hat hiding her eyes.
"Don't take it to heart," Tathrin said quietly. "They don't trust anyone, those two. Can I help you down?"
"Yes, thank you." Her colour still high after Sorgrad's rebuke, Failla made ready to dismount.
Tathrin took hold of her trim waist and lifted her down to the ground. For a moment she stood so close he could feel her skirts brushing his leg and smell the faint flower scent of her linen. He could imagine he was about to embrace her.
"We do trust some people." Gren's sharp ears had heard his remark. "Charoleia, for one."
"And Halice." Sorgrad shot his brother a grin.
"And Livak." Gren nodded happily.
There was a pause.
"And?" Nath prompted.
Gren pursed his lips. "No, that's everyone."
Sorgrad folded his last letter. "The next time you bespeak your fellow Artificers, Master Kerith, warn them that the dukes of Draximal and Parnilesse have got all their spies searching for the truth about Emirle Bridge."
"More tail-chasing," Gren remarked with satisfaction.
"What did happen?" Nath saw Sorgrad's expression. "I take it we don't need to know?"
Sorgrad just smiled as he buttoned up his jerkin. "Well, we need not keep you any longer."
"It is past time we were going." Tathrin hoped Failla saw he regretted leaving her so soon. "I hope you enjoy your dinner."
"Thank you." She took the reins from him with a half-smile. "But you can at least walk with me to collect your horse, can't you?"
"No horses for us today." Sorgrad inclined his head briefly to Kerith and Nath. "Master Scholar, Master Map-maker, it's an honour to meet you. Stay safe till we next meet, and you too, my lady." He smiled at Failla.
"Where are you going?" She looked at Tathrin, perplexed, as Gren retrieved their gear from the gateway. "On foot?"
"I don't know." He honestly had no idea.
"I believe that's their business, and none of ours." Kerith set his horse walking towards the tavern. "Let's see how good the meat and ale are here."
"I do like a man who can take a hint," Gren approved.
Nath laughed and waved a farewell. "Till we next meet."
Tathrin caught the leather sack Gren tossed to him. He didn't say anything, just stood watching as Failla led her horse away, a fragile figure beside the two tall men. When would he see her again?
"Come on." Gren shoved his shoulder.
Sorgrad was already walking away, around the curve of the orchard wall into a hedge-lined track leading across the fields. As soon as they were out of sight of the road, he searched in the sturdy pouch belted on the opposite hip to his sword. "Let's see what the captain-general's been up to while we've been busy down here."
Tathrin watched as he pulled out a shallow silver bowl that fitted neatly into the palm of his hand.
"Gren, water." As his brother unscrewed the top of his brass flask, Sorgrad found a small vial of ink. "Uncork this, lad."
Tathrin's fingers threatened to cramp as he worked the stubborn stopper free. "What are you doing?"
"Scrying." Gren beamed with simple pride in his brother's magecraft.
Taking the ink, Sorgrad let a drop fall into the water. As the silver clouded, he passed his other hand across the bowl. A faint green light rose to give his face a sickly hue.
Tathrin had heard of scrying. He'd never imagined he would ever see the spell worked.
"Come and look," Sorgrad offered.
Unwilling, yet irresistibly curious, Tathrin peered into the bowl.
He caught a brief glimpse of a sprawl of tents, stone-ringed fire pits scattered between them, with picket lines for horses marking out regular squares beyond. Figures were moving everywhere. Trying to focus on one individual made him suddenly dizzy, his stomach lurching. He stepped back, pressing the back of his hand to his aching eyes.
"There's something about my magic that turns your stomach, isn't there, lad?" Sorgrad tipped the inky water away. "Well, try to hold on to your supper because that's where we're heading."
"But you said a wizard can't go where he's never been." Tathrin's gorge rose at the prospect of being caught up in the uncanny sensations of Sorgrad's magic again.
Before he could gather his thoughts, the rough stone wall of the orchard vanished in a rush of white light. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if he kept his eyes open? He did his best, to no avail. As he lost all sensation of weight and substance the light shattered around him, crazed with a violent purple glare. He shut his eyes and swallowed hard as nausea surged up his throat. The sensation of being lost in the magic was endless. Just when he thought he could bear it no longer, his feet hit the ground. The shock struck right through him, like the retching pain when he'd fallen from a tree and broken his arm as a child. Tathrin collapsed to his hands and knees and, despite all his efforts, vomited.
"Try drinking something stronger than ale before we do this again," Gren said with rough sympathy. "Like when you need a bad wound cleaned. If you're going to end up emptying your guts regardless, you may as well get merry first."
Tathrin forced himself to his feet. "Where are we?"
"Within a short walk of Evord's camp." Sorgrad held out a leather-bound bottle.
"Thank you." Tathrin took a swig, expecting water to rinse out his mouth. Instead white brandy stung his sore throat. Taken aback, he swallowed and coughed.
"Better?" Sorgrad grinned at him.
"I'm not sure." Eyes watering, Tathrin pinched the bridge of his nose. He tensed as the aromatic spirit traced a hot path to his belly, but the sickness had passed. The dizziness took a moment longer, though that might have been the liquor.
"Come on." Sorgrad started walking.
Taking a deep breath, Tathrin realised that these hills and woods were fragrant with autumn. Down in Lescar, summer's warmth lingered du
ring the day even if the nights were growing a trifle chilly. Up here the trees showed gold as well as green and the damp scent of an early mist still hung around the dell. At least the freshness lessened the headache thumping behind his eyes.
Was it his imagination or did magic make him even more nauseous now that he'd seen what evil could be wrought with wizardry? But he had felt queasy the very first time Sorgrad had shifted them from place to place in the blink of an eye, when he'd had no real idea what the man was capable of.
He took another breath and hurried after the two brothers. "Where are we, exactly?"
"Dalasor, maybe. Or Caladhria." Gren shrugged. "You know the hills where the headwaters of the Rel rise? East of the White River?"
Tathrin pictured maps of the high ground to the north and west of Lescar. The hills dictated the routes of the two roads running eastward out of Ensaimin. The Dalasor Road crossed the White River at Hanchet and headed over the Dalasorian plains to Inglis. The Great West Road left Ensaimin by way of Peorle and cut across Caladhria, crossing the Rel at Abray before tracing a line to the south of the hills through Carluse, Sharlac and Draximal.
"So this is Carluse land?" A chill replaced the heat of the white brandy in his belly. Then battle really was about to be joined.
"Duke Moncan of Sharlac would argue the roll of those runes." Gren shrugged. "Duke Garnot's writ runs further south where the lead mines are. Up here, no one cares. The land's worth nothing, not to lowlanders anyway."
Tathrin could see why. The hills were too steep and rocky for grazing, with broken screes tumbling across scant turf. While plenty of trees sheltered in the hollows, they were too squat and twisted to be cut for useful timber.
Sorgrad crested a rise. "Which makes this an excellent place to gather an army not made up of lowlanders."
Standing on the ridge, Tathrin saw that the array of tents was far more extensive than the glimpse he'd had through Sorgrad's scrying. Trying to count the mercenary company standards flapping where the wind caught them, his best guess was somewhere between thirty and forty. Tathrin wouldn't have imagined it could be possible to gather so many thousands of men, women and horses in this barren land.
Irons in the Fire (Chronicles of the Lescari Revolution) Page 36