Irons in the Fire (51 page)

"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.

The Dalasorians travelled light without camping gear, so their bicoloured pennants flew over shelters deftly wrought from branches that clustered on steeper slopes beyond the narrow floor of the valley. There weren't quite as many of them as there were mercenaries, but Tathrin didn't think their numbers fell far short. Beyond the formal horse lines, where shirtsleeved figures groomed stolid mounts, newly split wood fenced off enclosures where younger horses bickered and whinnied.

The regular beat of hammering underpinned the murmur of all the people moving around. Steel flashed in the sunlight as companies of men practised their sword-work on the far side of the shallow river. Barely giving the swordsmen elbow room, horsemen drilled their steeds in rapid turns, urging them into sudden gallops before pulling them up short.

"You can tell Master Aremil about all this now," Sorgrad said with satisfaction.

Tathrin scowled. "If we had an Artificer here, we could let Aremil know at once, and Charoleia."

Gren smiled. "Charoleia won't need telling. She knows she can trust us to get the job done."

"You still don't trust me." Tathrin was still aggrieved.

"Are you ever going to drop that bone?" Sorgrad looked at him, exasperated. "It has precious little to do with trust."

A brassy blast ringing across the valley interrupted him.

"They've seen us," Gren observed.

Sorgrad jerked his head towards the sound. "I don't trust or mistrust you, or Aremil, come to that, any more than I trust or mistrust a signal horn. But once that horn's been sounded, I have no way of knowing how far away it's been heard, who's heard it and what they make of that knowledge. There's no way to recall the noise any more than you can get a loosed arrow back before it lands. If there's any chance my enemies might hear something and make use of what they learn, the safest thing is to leave that cursed horn unblown until I really need it."

Before Tathrin could find an answer to that, a handful of blond men emerged from a thicket he would have sworn was too sparse to hide a newborn fawn.

"Here's something I have to trust you with," Sorgrad said quickly. "Don't tell anyone how we got here or what you know of my magic. And keep your mouth shut about Aremil picking your brains with his Artifice."

"If you say so." Tathrin looked apprehensively at the approaching Mountain Men.

The leader of the newcomers nodded and spoke to Sorgrad, who answered in the same tongue. Then the unknown Mountain Man looked at Tathrin and said something.

"I'm sorry." He tried for an apologetic smile.

The Mountain Man responded with a rueful shake of his head and the rest laughed along with Gren.

Tathrin felt his colour rising. "Do I get to share the jest?"

"No," Sorgrad said briefly. "We need to report to the captain-general."

He walked down the slope, chatting to the leader of the sentries. Gren was sharing another joke with two others, still talking in the mountains' baffling language.

Gritting his teeth, Tathrin followed. He looked around the valley, intent on committing every detail to memory since he was the only one who could give Aremil a vision of this army. First there were the mercenaries, all looking much the same as Arest's men and women. Each company's tents were all grouped around its standard, none of the blazons showing any element of a ducal badge.

Then there were the Mountain Men. Tathrin knew Aremil would want to know how many had joined them on their march through the uplands. Sorgrad had boasted a thousand would answer his summons. Tathrin couldn't vouch for that, but he guessed the total couldn't be far short now that those who'd been making their own way through the hills had joined this final muster. Stocky and blond, hard-faced, they moved silently through the mercenary tents, exchanging barely a word here and there, and for some reason he couldn't fathom, usually stopping to watch Tathrin pass by.

Did they think he was Dalasorian? They were all dark-haired strangers, taller than the tallest Mountain Men. With hands and faces tanned like his from the summer sun, men and women alike were breeched and booted. The only difference in the women's dress was the bright embroidery decorating their tunics. Tathrin had never seen the like, nor heard any language like theirs, different again from the Mountain tongue.

"You should take a wander tonight." Gren nudged him in the ribs as a girl sat fletching arrows by a fire called out to her friends. "I reckon you've caught her eye. Dalasorian girls take some bridling but it's well worth the effort."

Tathrin looked at the girl busy with her arrows. Dalasorians weren't to be trusted. His grandmother had told him that. They came and went in the night, never staying in one place long enough to raise a decent roof over their heads. That black hair was the mark of the old plains-people's blood running in their veins. The plains-people had been friends and allies of the Eldritch Kin. Until they had vanished in some catastrophe that his grandmother had been curiously vague about, only insisting it was no more than justice visited on them for their godlessness.

While the girl didn't look particularly godless to Tathrin, he still preferred Failla's gentle appeal to the bold challenge in the Dalasorian's dark eyes when she realised he was looking at her.

"Master Tathrin! It's good to see you again."

It took him a moment to realise Captain-General Evord was addressing him. Appearing from behind a tent, he looked as fresh as if he slept every night in a feather bed and rose to bathe and breakfast in Imperial Tormalin luxury.

"What do you think of our army?" the grizzled Soluran asked.

"I don't know what to think, my lord," Tathrin said honestly.

Evord looked more closely at him. "Are you unwell, lad?"

He hesitated. "Something I ate disagreed with me."

"Let's get you a tisane to settle your stomach." Evord snapped his fingers at Gren. "I take it that's for me?"

The Mountain Man grinned as he handed over Nath's carefully bound package of maps, his comment unintelligible.

Evord chuckled and answered in the same tongue before reverting to Tormalin. "Go on, both of you, introduce yourselves around the camp. I want to talk to our young scholar."

"Let me do the talking and don't play the fool," Sorgrad told Gren sternly as they walked away. Gren was laughing.

The captain-general headed down the slope and Tathrin lengthened his stride to keep up. "I didn't expect to see so many Mountain Men."

"Does that bother you?" Evord looked keenly at him.

"I don't know how I'm going to make myself understood, sir," he admitted.

"Most of the Mountain Men speak enough Tormalin for trading or barter." Evord's glance took in every detail of the camp as they passed through it. "Dalasorians are more fluent, for the most part, and those born among the northern clans grow up speaking as much of the Mountain tongue as their own." He gestured towards the collections of tents with pennants fluttering above them. "Most mercenaries can make their way through a fight, a tavern or a brothel in at least three languages. Will that help or hinder us, do you think, once we reach the lowlands?"

Evord was a scholar. Tathrin had learned that when they had first met and the Soluran had interrogated him about every detail of the Vanam conspirators' plans. He was going to be questioned again, he realised, to prove his understanding.

"If most of our army can use the Mountain tongue," he said slowly, "no duke's militiamen will know what's being shouted around them."

"Quite so," Evord said approvingly. "Though of course that'll be less of an advantage against other mercenaries. Still, even a featherweight can tip a balance."

"That's not the only reason you've recruited in the mountains and Dalasor." Tathrin felt on surer ground.

Evord's smile broadened. "What do you know of Mountain customs, lad?"

"Very little." Tathrin couldn't help an exasperated look at Sorgrad's back.

"You and the rest of the lowlanders." Evord was unconcerned. "Well, lad, up in the mountains, women hold the land in perpetuity. Each one in a kinship is granted a share in the forests and mines for her lifetime. They almost always live out their days and die in the valley where they're born. That's failure and dishonour for a man. Once boys are grown strong enough, they're taught to work in the forests and the diggings under the guidance of their fathers and uncles by marriage. Once they're young men, they must set out to find a new home. As they travel, they work to accumulate the gold and silver that proves they're fit to be husbands and fathers. That's the only way they'll find a bride willing to let them work whatever forests and mines come as her marriage portion."

"They'll be fighting in hopes of earning enough gold to go home and wed?" Tathrin could only admire the absurd simplicity of it.

"There are a great many young men up in the hills who are keen to start sowing their seed for the next generation." Evord gazed around the camp. "Give it fifteen years or so and those sheep farmers who've been annexing Mountain lands to the north of Ensaimin won't find it so easy."

Was the price of bringing peace to Lescar going to be warfare plaguing some other innocent folk? That wasn't so amusing. Tathrin cleared his throat. "And the Dalasorians?"

"We'll have an advantage in numbers overall against Sharlac and we will certainly have the edge in battle-hardiness, but I want cavalry to weight the scales in our favour as well." Evord turned down a trampled path between two lines of tents. "No Lescari duke ever trusts his militia with horses, so your countrymen are unused to fighting against mounted men or with their support."

"Why would Dalasorians lend their aid?" Tathrin wondered.

"For coin, plain and simple. Merchants going up and down the roads to Inglis seldom barter for goods." Evord smiled. "We've promised them the pick of the horses we capture, too. Needless to say, Duke Garnot of Carluse's stables are of particular interest."

Tathrin tried to laugh. All he could see was bloodstained Dalasorians galloping through Carluse Town, hacking down men and women no different from his own family. Men and women who could be Failla's kith and kin.

"Captain!"

Sorgrad was walking rapidly towards them, his expression intense. Gren followed, silently ominous.

"Thyren says some mercenaries who went out hunting last night haven't come back yet." Sorgrad gestured towards a Mountain Man.

Evord looked levelly at Sorgrad. "We must accept that a certain number will desert once battle becomes a certainty. So we'll give them till this evening. If they haven't returned by then, we strike them from the muster."

Sorgrad shook his head. "These are Arest's men. They wouldn't desert."

Tathrin wasn't so certain. "Couldn't they be heading to Sharlac or Carluse to earn some safer coin by raising the alarm?"

"Not Arest's men," Gren said stubbornly.

"No one leaves this camp with a horse, so anyone fleeing has a long, hard walk before they can alarm anyone." Evord spared Tathrin a glance. "And do you think anyone would believe such wild tales? Besides, no one knows the plan of campaign but me and my lieutenants. No betrayal would tell Sharlac or Carluse where to prepare a defence."

"Captain, all the roads of Carluse are lousy with enquiry agents. It's not beyond possibility that some of them have found their way up here."

Tathrin had never heard Sorgrad pleading before. He found it disconcerting.

Gren looked more cheerful. "If they have, they need their throats cutting."

"True enough." Evord nodded. "Very well. See if you can track down Arest's strays."