Irons in the Fire (37 page)

"Who?" Branca asked.

Aremil heard Master Gruit's booming voice through the closed door of the sitting room.

"Who's here?" Branca repeated her question.

"Master Gruit and Mistress Charoleia." Lyrlen addressed her reply to Aremil. "But you need your breakfast, my lord."

"We have eaten," Aremil snapped. It was time Lyrlen stopped this nonsense of ignoring Branca.

"How?" The old woman stared at him, astonished.

Aremil took a breath. He hadn't meant to mention this. "Branca helped me."

Not for the first time. That had been some days ago, when they had been working in one of the university's libraries. Branca had told him bluntly that there was no point continuing with his studies into Artifice when he was so distracted by hunger. Moreover, she wasn't prepared to waste her time waiting for him to go home to eat in private just because he was too proud to eat in a nearby tavern. If he wanted to continue, he'd accept whatever trivial assistance he needed from her. So he had.

As Lyrlen struggled for words, Branca opened the door to the sitting room.

"Finally!" Gruit's relief vied with exasperation. "Where have you been?"

Branca set the books she was carrying down on the table. "Are we supposed to inform you of our comings and goings?"

"You're not answering to anyone, Master Merchant." Charoleia's waspish tone startled Aremil.

"Saedrin's stones, woman!" Gruit rounded on her before getting his anger in check. "Forgive me," he apologised to Aremil and Branca. "She sent word at first light summoning me like some errant apprentice. We've been waiting all this time and she won't explain why!"

"The delay's on my account, so for my part, I'm sorry." Aremil was concentrating on reaching his chair without incident. He lowered himself down with relief.

"You're looking tired, Aremil." Charoleia was concerned.

"I find it hard to sleep in this heat." Though he had found the cooler air of the early morning refreshing.

"My lord." Lyrlen hesitated in the doorway. "Shall I bring some refreshment?"

Which would doubtless include a cup that she'd insist on holding while he drank. To demonstrate how devoted she was to his interests.

"No, thank you." Aremil gestured towards the tray of sweetcakes and almond and elderflower cordial. "I see you've already provided for our guests."

"I'll make myself a tisane." Branca smiled cheerfully at Lyrlen. "Is there water boiling?"

It would help if Branca made some effort to win Lyrlen over, Aremil reflected. And if each woman's interpretation of his best interests didn't differ so sharply.

"Cakes and tisanes can wait!" Over by the window, Gruit threw up his hands. He glared at Charoleia. "Will you kindly explain yourself now?"

She smiled tautly before turning to Lyrlen. "A tisane would be welcome. Do you have linden leaves and camomile?"

"Please," Aremil interrupted before Gruit had apoplexy. The merchant's face was as red as the poppies embroidered on his linen doublet. "What is so urgent?"

Charoleia sat, twitching the hem of her pale-blue muslin away from Gruit's impatient boots. "I had a visitor last night. A young man called Karn. He's an enquiry agent for Master Hamare, the Duke of Triolle's intelligencer."

"What did he want with you?" Branca sat down beside Charoleia. Dumpy in her dun gown, she looked like the slender beauty's maidservant.

One might have expected Branca to resent Charoleia's poise and beauty, Aremil reflected, while Charoleia could have dismissed Branca as plain, frumpy and bookish. Yet the two women had been at ease with each other from their first meeting.

"He was calling on Lady Alaric, who's long had dealings with Master Hamare," Charoleia explained.

Aremil wondered idly what this fabled noblewoman looked like. Presumably most unlike Charoleia today, in her high-necked gown devoid of jewellery, her glorious hair modestly braided.

"I hear Hamare's a shrewd man." Leaning against the windowsill, Gruit's temper faded now that they were finally getting down to business.

"Master Hamare is the reason why the dukes of Triolle are still fishing their lakes and hunting their deer," Charoleia said crisply, "rather than bowing their heads as vassals of Marlier or Parnilesse. Iruvain doesn't value Hamare a tenth as much as he should, as the old duke did. He's shrewd and tenacious and his web of informants reaches all the way from Selerima to Bremilayne. He hears nearly as much as I do and he's sharp enough to know that what he isn't hearing can be just as significant. When he finds a gap in his knowledge, he'll often send a man to Lady Alaric, to trade some piece of information he's uncovered in return for her answers to plug the hole that interests him."

"What does he want to know at present?" Branca helped herself to a pale saffron cake.

Charoleia took one. "Where Duke Garnot of Carluse's whore has run to."

"Failla?" Aremil was puzzled as well as concerned. "Why?"

"To see what she knows of Duke Garnot's plans for war this summer. Hamare knows she's been in Vanam." Charoleia bit and caught cake crumbs in her cupped hand. "I told you he was good. No one else has the slightest notion she came here."

"What did you tell him?" Gruit looked worried.

"That she's in Relshaz." Charoleia finished her cake. "I set that rumour loose in Peorle before Solstice, so he'll hear it from other sources."

"
You
set that rumour loose?" Aremil felt some fraction of Gruit's exasperation.

Leaning on the windowsill, the merchant frowned. "We should have been told."

"Is that so?" Charoleia raised her neat brows.

Lyrlen's knock interrupted Gruit's retort. The servant woman entered with a tray bearing two silver-mounted glasses of steaming water. She made a careful curtsey to Charoleia. "My lady."

At least she had brought Branca her tisane as well, Aremil reflected.

Charoleia took the glass of straw-coloured liquid. "Thank you."

"So is this Karn going to look for Failla in Relshaz?" Branca took her glass. Dark-red threads floated out of the pierced silver ball at the bottom to tint the water. Aremil could smell blackcurrants blended with Aldabreshin speckle-spice.

"He'll go sniffing through the mercenary camps along the banks of the Rel first." Charoleia cradled her glass in her white hands. "Thanks to Gruit's folly."

"What?" Gruit demanded, indignant.

"Do you know why he's interested in those rats' nests?" Charoleia glared at the wine merchant. "Because, as Karn told me in return for news of Failla, Master Hamare believes someone from Vanam is recruiting hired swords. There's talk of a troop of Lescari exiles riding into battle. Karn's here to find out what lies behind that."

Aremil was dismayed to see Gruit's colour rise not from anger but embarrassment. "What have you done?"

"You said Tathrin told you your mercenary friends will soon reach the mountains east of Wrede." Gruit folded his arms. "Then they'll move south into the hills above Sharlac. This captain-general, Evord, he'll send scouts into Marlier to recruit experienced men. I've just been hinting at the chance of a rich contract from Vanam to make sure the best mercenary bands aren't already embroiled in some other quarrel. It's not as if there's any truth in it, so where's the harm?"

"Sorgrad has been writing to those mercenary captains he particularly wants to retain since before Summer Solstice," Charoleia said acidly. "Now there's the danger that Karn will pick up some trace of Sorgrad's letters while he's following this false scent you've so clumsily laid."

"We began talking about curing Lescar's ills at Spring Festival." Gruit pushed himself away from the window and began pacing. "Summer Solstice has come and gone and still we sit and talk in endless circles. If we're to see anything change, someone has to take action."

"Making ready for successful action takes time," Charoleia said with icy contempt. "All too often, undue haste makes for wasted effort. Captain-General Evord has to bring an army through the mountains and across the White River unnoticed. You have just made that a good deal harder."

"Excuse me." Branca broke into the argument with a raised hand. "If you don't want Hamare hearing some rumour that Sorgrad is recruiting men, why did you send this man Karn to Relshaz in search of Failla?"

"His journey will take him through all the mercenary camps in Marlier," Gruit seized on this argument. "Why not send him off to Selerima if you're so concerned?"

"He'd be going to Relshaz by way of Marlier regardless and it will be a great deal easier to have him killed while he's in the mercenary camps." Charoleia sipped her tisane. "In such a way that convinces Hamare his man was merely unlucky. I may even be able to arrange for ciphered letters to be found on his body, to persuade Hamare that Failla truly is in Relshaz."

"He has to die?" Aremil swallowed hard.

"This will merely be the first death of this enterprise," Charoleia said calmly. "There'll be more dead than you can count once we see the progress Master Gruit's so eager for."

"Someone will count them and grieve for each and every one."

Aremil saw his own revulsion mirrored in Branca's brown eyes.

"Can he not be bought off, this man Karn?"

"No." Charoleia looked steadily at him. "He's utterly loyal to Hamare and besides, he's as hard as hobnails for all he plays the wide-eyed youth so convincingly."

"So we really must do this?" Aremil felt hollow inside.

"We must." Regret coloured Charoleia's words. "I would rather not, believe me. Who knows who Master Hamare will replace him with? Someone better? I doubt it. But someone it will take me some while to identify, that much is certain. I know a good many of Hamare's people and where the threads of his webs run, but getting the measure of whoever steps into Karn's shoes will take time I have better uses for. And I will have to pay handsomely to be sure Karn's corpse can't be laid at my door. Master Hamare is an excellent source of information and I'd just as soon not lose his goodwill."

"Then we'll all answer to Saedrin for our part in the man's death." Gruit looked troubled. "If this is all we have to discuss, I'll get back to my casks of wine."

"We have more business to attend to." Charoleia drank her cooling tisane. "Please, Master Gruit, have some cordial. You are correct, you know, when you say we must make swifter progress or abandon this whole enterprise."

The wine merchant cleared his throat. "I suppose it's been a while since breakfast." He came over to take a glass and a cake from the tray.

Did this strained politeness mean the two of them saw the folly of holding a grudge? Aremil hoped so.

"When Captain-General Evord's army comes down from the mountains, they're going to need feeding. We must get unthreshed wheat and beef and mutton still on the hoof to Verlayne. We need men ready to take it on into the hills and asking no questions." Charoleia looked expectantly at Gruit.

"You can leave that to me," he said. "My men are well used to keeping trade matters confidential and much else besides."

It took Aremil a moment to recall exactly where Verlayne was. Ah yes, it was one of the towns on the White River, the first sizeable settlement after Hanchet, if one were travelling from Vanam. Travellers not wishing to follow the river all the way to Peorle could take the road southbound out of Verlayne and skirt the western flank of the Lescari uplands. By heading straight for Duryea and the Great West Road, they could cut a lengthy dogleg out of their journey towards Tormalin.

"They will need weapons and amour," Charoleia continued. "Arrows, spearheads and swords. Chain mail and loose links besides, together with plenty of leather thong. I've never met a captain of mercenaries yet who didn't complain he was always running short of it."

"All to be bought discreetly and carried to Lescar without anyone getting wind of it." Gruit's faded eyes grew distant as he contemplated this challenge. "I know people who can get any amount of barrels and casks to Abray for me without raising questions. But we don't want the merchants who trade down the Rel getting curious about goods arriving in their town and going no further. It would be better to carry such supplies to Duryea and leave the high road there."

"What about Duke Ferdain of Marlier?" Aremil frowned. "He must keep a weather eye on mercenary affairs with so many camps within his borders."

"He does," Charoleia confirmed. "So we will keep Duke Ferdain more interested in the gold piling up in his counting-house." She set her empty tisane glass down. "Master Gruit, please convince as many of your fellow merchants as possible that it would be arrant folly to send their goods to Tormalin by way of the Great West Road this season. We want every barge sailing down the Rel so full that they're all but sinking."

Gruit smiled for the first time. "I should be able to persuade some influential guildsmen to ship their goods out of Relshaz on galleys cutting straight across the Gulf to Solland and Toremal. A good few will follow where such bellwethers lead."

"Duke Ferdain of Marlier can amuse himself counting the coin he levies from every cargo on the river." Branca looked thoughtful. "But less trade on the high road means fewer tariff payments filling Duke Garnot of Carluse's coffers."