Irons in the Fire (23 page)

Aremil braced his hands on the arms of his chair, set his feet on the floor as solidly as he could and raised himself up. He teetered on the edge of sinking back down as his arms began to tremble. Then he heard voices.

"Duke Moncan of Sharlac hasn't travelled anywhere for well over a year?"

That was Tathrin, keen to learn all he could of recent Lescari affairs.

"He hasn't left the castle. Not to visit his vassal lords, not even those with holdings he could reach inside a day. Not even to hunt."

That was Failla. Why was she here?

Aremil forced himself onwards and reached for his crutches. There was no question of having Failla see Tathrin lift him to his feet like some baby encouraged to take its first steps.

"They say he's grieving." Failla entered as Tathrin courteously opened the door for her. "He keeps Lord Jaras's urn in his own chamber and refuses to have the ashes dedicated to Poldrion in the castle shrine."

As usual, Aremil saw that her demeanour was as modest as her high-necked grey dress and the cream lace shawl around her shoulders. So why didn't he trust her?

Tathrin was about to say something when he realised Aremil was already on his feet. "Are we late?"

"We don't want to be." Aremil realised he sounded unpleasantly peevish and fell silent.

"I'm nervous." Failla favoured Aremil with a charming smile.

"You're probably still a little tired." He tried to sound encouraging. "You had a long journey."

"No, I mean, yes, I did." As Failla smiled at him, a dimple came and went by her enchanting mouth. "I'm perfectly rested, though. You've been very kind."

Her gaze slid to Tathrin. Was it his imagination, Aremil wondered, or did his friend's eyes brighten whenever he looked at her?

"Master Tathrin's hired you a carrying chair." Lyrlen came into the room, smoothing her apron with satisfaction.

Aremil stood motionless. A carrying chair. As if he were some decayed relict bent with joint evil or an aging profligate paying for a lifetime's gluttony with Ostrin's curse of gout.

"It's too short a distance to warrant asking Master Gruit for the use of his carriage." Tathrin was looking at him anxiously.

"A good notion." Aremil was thankful for the mask that a lifetime had made of his face. At least he could walk out through his own front door on his crutches. That salved his pride somewhat.

Outside, the carrying chair proved to be one of the simple, open design rather than some cumbersome closed affair. That was a minor mercy. He lowered himself down and tucked his crutches beside his knee.

"Good day to you, sir." The man at the front gave some signal to his counterpart and they lifted him without a jolt.

Tathrin courteously offered Failla his arm. "I was wondering," he said as they began walking, "do you know a maltster, Master Arlet? He travels between Losand and Ashgil."

"I met him once." Failla looked up at him with that smile Aremil considered so unreasonably seductive. "At an inn called the Duck Roost, on the Ashgil Road."

"I know it." Tathrin nodded. "You met him on your uncle's business?"

This was one reason why Aremil didn't like carrying chairs. Being seated meant conversation invariably went back and forth over his head. As the other two talked about places and people Aremil didn't know, he tried once again to work out why it bothered him so to see Tathrin paying the girl such attention. She had risked her life, spying on Duke Garnot of Carluse to help the guildmasters save countless Lescari youth from peril.

They had so much in common, Tathrin and Failla, both Carluse-born and tied into this conspiracy that the guildsmen had woven. They'd had twenty or so days' travelling to become friends, the latter half of the journey cooped up in a coach, courtesy of Master Gruit's generous purse. Had they become more than friends overnight at some coaching inn? Though Mountain Men were reputed to guard their own women's virtue with jealous knives. Had they proved effective chaperones for a duke's whore?

Aremil looked down the street past the muscular shoulders of the chair-man. Did he mistrust her because she was a whore? She was very unlike those whores who had been paid to attend to his twisted body, on those rare occasions when Lyrlen could be persuaded to spend an evening visiting her few friends elsewhere in the city. Aremil never asked Tathrin where he found such women, just grateful that his friend found nothing remarkable in him confessing to the same desires as able-bodied men. Everyone else assumed he was as sexless as some hapless slave castrated by the Aldabreshin savages.

So Tathrin knew how to deal with whores. He should be proof against whatever blandishments Failla had up her ostensibly demure sleeves.

"We turn right there." Tathrin pointed for the chair-carriers' benefit before smiling at Failla. "Have you ever seen the bridges at Palastrine?"

"No." Failla's wide-eyed gaze invited him to continue.

Was she an actress as talented as any gracing the stage at The Looking Glass Playhouse? On the other side of the balance, why shouldn't she find Tathrin attractive? He was tall, handsome and straight-limbed, and shared her passion for righting the wrongs of their homeland.

Was his mistrust of her simple jealousy? A moment's rational thought reminded Aremil that he had absolutely nothing to recommend him to such a beauty. Who would ever imagine that he might desire Failla? Not even Lyrlen thought there was any impropriety in her staying as his guest. After all, there was no way he could negotiate the staircase to the guest bedrooms even if he had a mind to.

No, he reflected, he wasn't jealous. Tathrin could bed the wench, if not with Aremil's goodwill, then at least with his understanding. He was more envious of the time Failla had spent with Tathrin over the last half-season. He really didn't want to hear about their journey and their long conversations lamenting the harsh reality of life in Lescar and their speculations as to Duke Garnot of Carluse's plans. Aremil wanted to tell Tathrin about his own discussions with Charoleia and Gruit, with Reniack and Lady Derenna, as they had pooled their knowledge and ideas. He wanted to hear Tathrin's opinions on the tales of aetheric enchantment that he'd been assiduously gathering.

Quite apart from all that, he just wanted to spend some time with Tathrin, to play white raven and talk about whatever inconsequentialities occurred to them. After being so used to having a friend, he hadn't enjoyed returning to his old isolation.

"It's the house with the green door." Tathrin pointed ahead.

The chair-men set him down gently in front of it. Aremil waved Tathrin away and managed to get to his feet on his own. "I have dined here several times while you've been away."

"Good day, gentlemen." Charoleia's maid opened the door.

A serene Relshazri woman, Charoleia had certainly not found her among the girls lingering in the portico of Drianon's temple in hopes of a profitable hire. Aremil wondered how long she had served her mistress and just how much she knew about the mysterious Lady Alaric and all her other guises.

"Failla!" A stocky blond man with an engaging grin followed the maid out onto the steps. "We've missed you!"

With his unkempt hair, sturdy boots and plain brown doublet and breeches, he looked as rough-hewn as any of the Mountain Men who visited Vanam from time to time. But his accent had nothing of the uplands about it.

"Hello, Gren." Her smile was polite but not encouraging.

"Master Aremil," Gruit said in welcome.

Aremil noticed the wine merchant watching him apprehensively as he followed the others into the parlour on slow crutches.

"Let me." Tathrin held the door open for him.

This sitting room was refreshingly clear of clutter, which made it all the easier to notice the expensive furniture, and the elegant statuettes of the gods on the marble mantel. Paintings of Vanam's hills in the days before the upper town had spread beyond its walls quietly suggested that this wealth had deep foundations in the city.

Reniack was pacing back and forth across the wide bay window, keeping a watch on the street. A second blond man was sitting opposite Derenna, a small table with a half-played game of white raven between them, the pieces all enamelled bronze on a patterned marble board.

This must be Sorgrad, Aremil decided, the other blond man's brother. The one whom Tathrin seemed to think was more dangerous. Contemplating the game pieces with quiet intensity, he was dressed in dark-blue broadcloth tailored with all the understated elegance of Vanam's wealthiest residents.

Derenna wore the same shabby black dress Aremil had last seen her in, with the same lack of concern.

"Who's winning?" Gruit went to look at the game while Aremil lowered himself carefully into a chair.

"We don't know as yet." Derenna shot her opponent a sharp look of reluctant admiration.

"For the moment, honours are even." Sorgrad's expression was amiable and unreadable.

"Anyone want to roll some runes?" Gren asked hopefully.

"Are we all here?" Trailing a scent of summer flowers, Charoleia arrived in a gown of amethyst silk. Her maid followed with a tray of glasses and a bottle of Master Gruit's finest Tormalin red wine.

"You two think you can improve on our plans?" Reniack turned around. He wore a dark tunic and breeches with stockings and polished shoes, all clerkly neatness, but his manner was as combative as ever.

"Yes." Gren raised his glass with cheery smile.

"We can." Sorgrad was quietly confident.

"Please explain." Charoleia sat, gesturing with a silver-ringed hand.

Aremil waved the maid's offer of a glass away. After the door closed behind her, he watched Derenna and Reniack as Sorgrad outlined the case for overthrowing all of Lescar's dukes. Tathrin had already set out their reasoning to Aremil, summarising the long debates he'd had with Sorgrad and Failla as they had travelled together.

Was it possible? Aremil wondered. Could they do this? He'd spent most of the previous night staring at the ceiling of his darkened bedroom, his usual pains a minor consideration as he turned this astonishing proposal over and over in his mind. He asked himself time and again what this stranger could possibly gain by persuading them all down a road to ruin. What profit could there be for a mercenary in that?

"You want to kill the dukes?" Reniack said with disbelief.

"Overthrow," Tathrin corrected him.

"You won't overthrow Duke Orlin of Parnilesse," Reniack told him roundly. "He'll take death before defeat."

"His choice." Sorgrad shrugged. "This is still Lescar's best road to peace. You've been talking about attacking the dukes' ability to fight by cutting off their funds and depriving them of fighting men. That's fine as far as it goes, but you've already realised that weakening one dukedom will only leave the others in a stronger position. If you really want to put an end to this strife, you have to rid Lescar of them all."

"Could we?" Gruit breathed.

Aremil saw that the idea had caught the old man's imagination.

"With the right mercenary companies fighting for you." Gren lounged against the marble fireplace. "As long as you have enough coin to keep them sweet."

"You also need the right captain-general for those mercenary forces." Sorgrad moved an enamelled swordwing and smiled at Derenna. "Your move, my lady."

"Do you know the right man?" Gruit demanded.

Derenna spared the game a cursory glance and moved the white raven behind a gorse brake.

"Evord Fal Breven." Sorgrad studied the board.

"He would be my first choice," Charoleia agreed.

"Never heard of him," Reniack said dismissively.

"He'll be very glad to know it." Sorgrad didn't look up from the game. "That doesn't alter the facts. Fourteen years ago, he commanded one of the most successful mercenary companies that Lescar's seen in a generation."

"Captain-General Evord is a Soluran," Charoleia said calmly. "He earned his spurs fighting in their western provinces. Mercenaries in the pay of the border barons keep beasts and wild men from crossing the Solfall River and make sure the Mandarkin don't come south through the mountains."

"What brought him to Lescar?" Gruit asked curiously.

Gren shrugged. "Easier fighting for better money."

"Where is he now?" Tathrin wanted to know.

"He went back to Solura." Sorgrad moved a pied crow. "He got sick of never being allowed to win a victory that would actually solve anything. He would accept a commission from a duke, come up with a plan and carry it through. Before he could force a decisive conclusion, he'd be whistled back like a recalcitrant hound when some duchess's petticoat plotting or a realignment of the dukes' alliances made it all moot."

"You would set a Soluran to rule over us?" Derenna moved the white raven, snapping the alabaster figurine down with unnecessary force. "How long would that peace last? Nobles and commoners alike would refuse to bow to a foreign usurper."

Aremil shifted so he could get a better view of the game board. The Mountain Man was a very skilled player.

"Evord would have no interest in Lescar's so-called throne." Sorgrad shifted an owl. "Which is another reason why you want him in charge of this army. He'll do what he's paid to do and then retire to his own lands in Solura."