Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (27 page)

Tathrin was certain luck had nothing to do with it. Evord took great pains to know what was going on, sending out scouts and gathering news from far and wide, even without the benefit of Artifice or Charoleia's subterfuges. Any number of reports would have reached him during their march north through Parnilesse and he'd always known Wyril was Tathrin's next objective.

Then he wondered how much further he could go before he fell asleep on his feet and sprawled headlong in the road. Thankfully, he saw the horsemen riding ahead meet another mounted contingent. A banner snapped briefly open and he caught a glimpse of a bird's widespread wings.

Sorgrad halted. 'Solura's gyrfalcon.'

Tathrin stood dumb and exhausted as the Soluran captain-general and his personal troop rode up.

'Captain Sayron.' Evord looked down, curiosity blended with mild disapproval. 'Where is your horse?'

'My horse?' That surprised Tathrin. 'Captain-General, I have been fighting through streets and along battlements.'

'Why?' Evord raised steely grey brows.

Tathrin didn't know what to make of this. He was standing in the middle of a snowy night, covered in blood and muck. Captain-General Evord sat on his horse, armed and armoured for a hazardous winter's journey. Yet the Soluran was engaging him in placid conversation, like two scholars debating some point on either side of a fireplace.

He gestured at the fiery glow lighting up the night. 'To take Wyril back from the renegades.'

'I understand the aim of your campaign,' Evord assured him. 'My congratulations on a well-executed assault. But why do I find you here on foot, leading an inconsequential pursuit? Where is your banner? Where are your gallopers and runners?'

Tathrin saw the youthful lieutenants in Evord's personal troop regarding him with veiled curiosity. Someone somewhere choked back a chuckle. Dagaran was there on a piebald cob, looking ruefully sympathetic.

'It is not a captain-general's business to be chasing all over a battlefield,' Evord reproved him. 'You should be holding some vantage point at a safe distance, to direct your forces according to reports reaching you. Which can only reach you,' he added, 'if your banner shows your sergeants where you are.'

Chagrin goaded Tathrin to incautious words. 'Forgive me, my lord. I am no such great hero--'

'Heroes don't win battles-' Evord surprised him with a grin '-any more than great men decide the course of history. But the right man in the right place can determine the course of a battle, with all the good or ill that follows from that victory or defeat. You're the right man to command Lescar's armies. This night's work proves that. So I expect to see you in your rightful place, Captain Sayron, to make best use of your undoubted abilities. Not where an unfortunate arrow or some bold fool with a blade could end all Lescar's hopes along with your life. I would take it very much amiss if such an entirely avoidable mishap undid all my hard work this autumn,' he added sternly.

'My lord.' Exhausted and uncomfortably aware that Evord was correct, Tathrin settled for a respectful bow.

'We spread ourselves along all the roads in hopes of finding more forage as we marched.' Evord looked over Tathrin's head towards the burning town. 'We will continue on towards the Great West Road at first light. But do call on me to share some breakfast before we go.'

Tathrin managed a crooked smile. 'Provided I can find a horse, my lord.'

'Quite so.' Evord nodded. 'You'll be writing to Mistress Charoleia, to tell her how you've fared?' Now Tathrin saw a gleam of amusement deep in the Soluran's icy pale eyes. 'My compliments and she may be interested to know that King Solquen intends to repay Mandarkin impudence on his northern borders, as soon as the snow melts in the mountain passes. These companies that I march with will accompany me on that task.' He paused. 'If she doesn't already know.'

Tathrin's smile broadened. 'I couldn't guess what Charoleia does or doesn't know, my lord.'

Evord nodded before snapping his fingers at a couple of the mercenary lieutenants. 'Your horses for Captain Sayron. Double up to ride back to camp.'

Tathrin saw the two young men weren't best pleased but they knew better than to argue. These places riding with Evord, all the better to learn the arts of battle, were eagerly sought.

'Thank you.' He accepted the reins of a fine bay horse while Sorgrad took possession of a raw-boned grey.

Evord smiled. 'I'll see you at first light, Tathrin.'

At the Soluran's nod, the whole troop wheeled around and melted into the night.

Tathrin heaved a sigh. 'Let's get back.' He urged the bay horse back towards the burning town. He fervently hoped the fighting was nearly done. Would it be possible to snatch some sleep before dawn and what must surely be his last farewell to Evord?

He was grateful for the Soluran's presence but still more pleased that the captain-general's mercenaries had been given so little to do. This truly was a Lescari victory.

Gren chuckled. 'I wouldn't like to be that young Wyvern Hunter, telling Arest how he lost his mount.'

'That'll teach the fool to snigger when Evord's schooling our long lad.' Sorgrad's sideways glance was warmer than his words.

Tathrin's thoughts were already moving on. He must indeed compose a report for Branca to pass to Charoleia. Could she already know what King Solquen of distant Solura was planning for the spring? Did her reach truly extend that far?

Chapter Eighteen

Branca

The Three Fountains Inn,

Solland, in the Tormalin Empire,

Winter Solstice Festival, First Day, Morning

This first morning of festival, so Charoleia informed her, was when the most fashionable in the town paid the season's respects to Ostrin. Branca looked dispassionately at her reflection in the long mirror. While she would never be a beauty, she was elegantly gowned in maroon wool, pleasingly coiffeured and jewelled. If these Tormalin despised her Vanam accent, they couldn't scorn her wardrobe.

She recalled a question she'd seen in Tathrin's thoughts. 'Where do you suppose Captain-General Evord and his mercenaries will be spending the festival?'

Charoleia was sitting on her daybed, sifting through the morning's delivery of letters and the messages Branca had fetched at dawn from the old man with the courier dove loft.

'They'll still be on the road,' Charoleia remarked absently. 'If they make good time, they should reach Abray in time for the Solstice.' She looked up. 'When does Tathrin leave Ashgil?'

'Today,' replied Branca. 'He'll be in Carluse the day after tomorrow.'

She knew he was as eager to see Failla and Aremil as he was to leave the blackened shell of Wyril. How could the town ever be rebuilt now it had become a funeral pyre? Branca shared his doubts.

'It seems the common folk of Draximal are delighted to see Wyril rid of those renegades.' Charoleia was studying another letter, smiling. 'Since their own liege lord so signally failed to act, they're increasingly inclined to contemplate a future without dukes or kings. Duchess Nisina's decision to take her daughters and son across the river to spend the festival in Ashery seems like a further betrayal.' She read a short passage aloud: '"Even those most loyal to Duke Secaris see no prospect of peace if he abdicates to a cripple who's lived all his life in exile and is now laid so low by sickness that his very life is despaired of."'

Branca shivered at a fearful vision of cold wind blowing dead leaves through Aremil's pillared hall. 'That isn't true.' But how much longer could it be before Aremil slipped beyond Welgren and Serafia's ministrations?

'No,' Charoleia agreed, 'but as long as we don't deny it, the more damage Duke Secaris does to his own cause by insisting that's how he will come to terms with us.'

Branca closed her eyes. Repellent though that calculation was, she could see how it served their purposes. It was worthy of Charoleia.

'Is there any news from Parnilesse?' Branca had also seen how urgently Tathrin sought some insight into tackling Reniack without setting Lescari against Lescari as the dukes had always done.

'Nothing noteworthy.' Charoleia's satisfaction momentarily dimmed. 'Forgive me,' she continued briskly as she locked the letters inside a casket beside her. 'Are you ready?'

'Indeed.' Branca took the casket, hid it in the false bottom of an entirely different chest from the one whose secrets Emperor Tadriol had seen, and fetched her scarlet cloak and sable muff.

Coils of ivy and sprays of yew were embroidered around the snowy hem of Charoleia's white velvet cloak. Her silk dress beneath was the same rich green and emeralds shone among the curls of her wig.

As they went down the stairs she glanced at Branca, her violet eyes bright with purpose. 'Now we're securing our hold on Draximal as well as Triolle, Carluse and Sharlac, I'll give some thought to cutting Lord Rousharn off at the knees. Remind me to write to Lord Trenaval, near Maerden, when we return. I believe he'll recall Rousharn's youthful rashness to His would-be Grace's discredit.'

'I'm sure he and Derenna are doing what they believe is right.' Much as she detested the bull-necked Rousharn for his treatment of Aremil, Branca still regretted Derenna's loss to their cause. It couldn't be denied that they were still reaping the benefits of the noblewoman's earlier arguments persuading vassal lords not to answer their lieges' summons.

'No doubt.' Charoleia shrugged. 'Now, what we need is some festival gossip that offers some clue as to how to deal with Parnilesse. We mustn't forget Marlier either, for all that the Vixen's gone to earth.'

They reached the inn's entrance hall, thronged with merrymakers. Charoleia broke off to exchange compliments and congratulations. Her step was brisk, her manner lively. Her scars were only visible when she stripped off her wigs and cosmetics at the end of each busy day.

When Branca's guilt nagged at her in the dark silence, when all other voices were stilled.

'Where are we going?' she asked quietly as they emerged from the inn's front door.

'To see the lanterns.' Charoleia carefully negotiated the steps. While Solland enjoyed far milder weather than most of Lescar, frosts persisted underfoot in the depths of midwinter.

This street lined with drapers' shops would take them to Ostrin's shrine. The flagstoned paths were so crowded that some men were risking their polished boots along the cobbles. Branca would have done the same but for her high-heeled shoes.

'Oh, look!' She paused to feign admiration for an array of embroidered stockings in a window.

Where Vanam's warehouses served their customers from tables set amid their stores of lace or buttons, Tormalin merchants laid out finery on their deep sills to lure those passing by. Step inside in this wealthy district and attentive vendors would instantly offer a seat and obsequious service.

'Fine work,' approved Charoleia, 'but Master Vitrie has finer. Oh, forgive me.' She stepped back to allow a grey-haired gentleman to examine the stockings through an inquisitive eyeglass.

'Fair festival, ladies.' He bowed and retreated into the crowd.

'You're right.' Branca turned her back on the window. 'Let's see what's offered elsewhere.'

They passed by several more shops before Charoleia paused in front of a display of gaudy feathers in silver and jewelled fans. Paper crackled as she opened the note that elderly esquire had slipped into her muff.

Branca gazed idly along the street, an apparently bored companion. No, she saw no one watching them. 'Well?'

'All manner of precedents are being kicked around Toremal's law courts and libraries. Advocate Tathel cannot find a conclusive argument that explicitly bars Tormalin's Emperor from intervening in Lescar.' Charoleia didn't sound too perturbed. 'On the other side of Raeponin's scales, his opponents cannot find any action since the rise of the dukes that would offer Tadriol the most flimsy justification.'

'Let's hope they'll continue wrangling right through to Aft-Spring.' Branca knew that's what Charoleia was seeking.

'By which time we must have a settlement for the warmongering princes to choke on.' Charoleia dropped the crumpled paper into a nut-seller's brazier where it burned to unreadable ashes. 'Which means dealing with Parnilesse and with Ferdain of Marlier,' she said with some asperity.

'With Aremil still unwell, I'm not at all sure Failla is asking the right questions of her uncle and his allies. I want to know what lies behind this recent spate of banditry in Carluse. Then there's the Caladhrian parliament meeting in Ferl, and it will take me days to find out what's deliberated there. I could wring Master Gruit's neck for having Kerith driven out of Abray, if we knew where the old fool had gone.' Shaking her head, she walked onwards. 'But if we leave here, who will keep a hand on Tormalin's reins?'

Branca had no answer for that. But she had seen a lackey waiting outside a sweetmeat emporium. His honeysuckle badge was as bright as an evening star on his dark blue jerkin. Pausing to find a handkerchief in her pocket, she nodded at the shop. 'I believe we're out of candied violets.'

'So we are.' Charoleia snapped her fingers for a crossing sweeper.