Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (18 page)

'I will cede the rule of Draximal to you and we will go into exile,' the duke said stiffly. 'As long as you promise to end this slaughter of innocents, I will swear whatever oaths you demand.'

'Your Grace!' Aremil tried to curb his anger. 'Whatever you think of me--'

Wracked with emotion, a tremor ran down his arm. His hand jerked and knocked over the tisane. Failla bent to gather up the glass and its holder, sopping up the spill with her apron.

Aremil wanted to tell her to leave it. He opened his mouth but his chest was too tight. If he spoke, he knew he'd start coughing.

'You say you're hoping for something better?' Duke Secaris was searching his face. 'You and whoever helped bring all this misery upon us? What is your plan for Lescar?'

'We will devise a fair system of governance.' It took every scrap of self-control that Aremil could muster to answer clearly. 'Through debates with nobles and scholars committed to peace, and with the guildmasters' and merchants' councils, and with the priests who administer the shrines and their charities, to give the most humble a voice.'

'What right have commoners and craftsmen to say who rules them?' Duke Secaris was genuinely perplexed. 'The natural order cannot be denied.'

Aremil would have tried to explain but a cramp was tightening around his chest like a leather strap. His temples throbbed with a ferocious headache.

'That's a discussion for another time,' Failla said with scarcely veiled anger.

Provoked, Secaris was glad to vent his frustration on her. 'His parents should have first claim on his time.'

'I can't bear this.' Bursting into noisy weeping, Duchess Nisina stumbled blindly for the door.

'Let me help you.' Lord Cullough hurriedly offered his arm. 'Let me summon my wife.'

His voice faded as he escorted the sobbing woman down the corridor. With an incoherent exclamation of anguish, Duke Secaris followed, kicking the door closed with a slam.

Failla turned to Aremil. 'Are you all right?'

He closed his eyes and leaned back, nodding mutely. Sweat prickled beneath his shirt and he felt vilely light-headed. The parlour had felt cold all morning. Now it was stiflingly hot. Could Failla open a window? Could he ask her without succumbing to murderous coughing?

'I'll get you another tisane.'

Aremil heard her gather up the tray and hurry away. Then he felt an unwelcome urgency in his bladder. He gripped the arms of his chair in frustration.

No. He wasn't going to wait like a helpless child, and risk soaking his breeches and the cushions beneath him. At very least he could get himself to the discreet closet across the hall, to find the relief of a chamber pot.

Aremil reached for his crutches, banging them against the table. He hissed, exasperated by his clumsiness, and had to stifle another brutal cough. Wincing, he swallowed a putrid taste in the back of his mouth.

Tucking the crutches under his arms, he forced himself to his feet. Too fast. He found himself unable to do more than stand motionless as the room swayed around him.

The dizziness subsided but now his head ached worse than ever. How by all that was sacred and profane was he going to work any Artifice today? Irritation only exacerbated the pounding in his head. Should he take more poppy tincture? But the medicine impeded aetheric enchantments in its own way, slowing his wits as well as his digestion.

He took a cautious step, cramps tormenting his weak legs. He shifted his crutches, first one then the other, and took another stubborn step.

Instead of the carpet, his soft shoe found something hard and round. It slid away, taking his foot with it. He had no hope of keeping his balance. As his other ankle turned beneath him, his crutches slipped away. Aremil fell hard onto the floor.

All the breath was jolted from his chest. He fought in vain to draw air into his burning lungs. Success, on the edge of oblivion, only provoked an agonising convulsion of coughing. His gorge rose. Fresh terror seized him. If he vomited as he struggled to breathe, he could very well choke to death.

His vision blurred. The last thing he saw was the silver tisane ball gleaming on the carpet. That had been his downfall. Then darkness overwhelmed him.

Chapter Twelve

Tathrin

Carif,

in the Dukedom of Parnilesse,

29th of For-Winter

'How've you fared since we last met?' Sorgrad asked Reniack genially.

Gren glowered. 'We didn't expect to see you here.'

'I'll wager you didn't,' Jettin said smugly.

At Ekarre's nod, the Pine Martens silently rose and moved away.

Tathrin rubbed the back of his neck, though he supposed he shouldn't be surprised by a sudden headache. How were they going to get out of this? Any revelation of Sorgrad's wizardry would put paid to any hopes of recruiting mercenaries for their militias. It could turn the whole Carifate against them, given how often he'd heard hired swords agree that the only good mage was a dead mage.

What if such hostility encompassed all who'd fought with the Soluran, and who now held some semblance of power in Carluse? This could all rebound on them to Reniack's considerable benefit.

'We've been in Inchra.' Matching Sorgrad's conversational tone, the rabble-rouser took a seat at a nearby table. 'We've allies commanding the town council there as well as in Brynock now.'

'Ready to direct Parnilesse's future for the good of all,' Jettin interjected as he sat down, 'not just the noble-born and wealthy.'

'Like your dad?' Gren raised golden eyebrows. 'Isn't he wealthy? And what about folk who don't want your hands on their reins?'

Before the scowling youth could reply, Reniack's gesture cut him short, just as Sorgrad's glance warned off Gren. The younger Mountain Man turned away, throwing ostentatiously casual trios of runes onto the table before him.

The three-sided bones rattled, each landing with one engraved rune upright, another showing reversed. Half of the symbols were reckoned stronger than the others; Water quenched Fire, the Harp's resonance outlasting the cry of the Horn. The Wolf hunted the Deer while the Oak overshadowed the Pine. Depending how the heavenly rune fell, though, with the Sun, the Greater Moon and the Lesser the only runes that had no reverse, sometimes the weak could still overcome the strong.

Tathrin contemplated Reniack's shaven head. What did the rabble-rouser intend by making his mutilated ears so noticeable? Because Tathrin knew his every move was shrewdly calculated.

'You were in Inchra when you heard we were here?' Turning his head, Sorgrad snapped his fingers towards the bar counter. 'More brandy, if you please.'

'We were on our way back to Parnilesse,' Reniack corrected him. 'And yes, word soon reached us. We have a good many friends hereabouts.'

'Don't we all?' Sorgrad smiled at the girl bringing clean goblets and another blue bottle. Handing her a silver mark, he poured a drink for Reniack and for Jettin before saluting them with his own cup. 'Saedrin send you good health.'

Tathrin was relieved to see the tension in the drinking den evaporating. Conversations returned to their previous informality and swords and daggers were mostly sheathed. When a hard-faced woman went to leave, Reniack's minions let her pass through the door without comment.

Reniack and Jettin were both dressed like the mercenaries who accompanied them, their badge a unicorn's head. Tathrin did his best to count them all. As well as a couple of men on each door, a handful or so leaned on the tavern counter while another trio lounged around a table a few strides away.

'You must have had a few days' hard riding,' Sorgrad observed.

'How did you enjoy your voyage?' Jettin asked Tathrin. 'I see you managed not to spend it hung over the ship's rail spewing up your guts. Congratulations.'

Tathrin smiled and nodded. He had barely suffered any seasickness, unlike the nausea that assailed him whenever Sorgrad's arcane mastery over the air shifted them from place to place.

And now it was certain that Jettin was using Artifice to spy on them.

'The weather favoured our journey.' Reniack continued talking as if the younger man hadn't spoken. 'We'll take our ease on the way back to Parnilesse,' he told Sorgrad with a confident smile, 'making sure to enlist every village and hamlet between here and there to our cause.'

'And after Winter Festival?' Sorgrad contemplated the goblet in his hands. 'You'll make your representations to Hardrew and Quirton?'

'They'll soon fall into step,' Reniack assured him. 'If they know what's good for them.'

Sorgrad looked up and smiled. 'Don't let us keep you from your business.'

Reniack stared back unblinking. 'Your business here is concluded. Get on your ship and sail away.'

'I'm sorry.' Sorgrad sounded genuinely contrite. 'But your writ doesn't run in the Carifate.'

Tathrin wanted to know what the mercenaries within earshot might be making of this exchange, but didn't want to draw attention to himself by looking around.

'You and your friends betray all freeborn Lescari.' Reniack leaned forwards, his expression ugly. 'That bitch Charoleia is talking terms with Tormalin's Emperor--'

'She's doing her utmost to keep his Imperial Majesty's legions from stamping you into the mud,' Sorgrad countered.

'Horseshit,' sneered Reniack.

So Jettin was also using his Artifice to spy on Charoleia, if he knew she had met with Emperor Tadriol. But Tathrin wondered how much the young adept was really learning if he truly believed she was ready to betray them. He must ask Aremil--

'Let Tadriol come,' Jettin challenged. 'We'll fight every prince of Tormalin!'

'Parnilesse will be free,' Reniack said with a nod. 'We'll carry that freedom to Triolle and Draximal--'

'And to every last corner of Lescar!' Jettin asserted.

'--and we will have our revenge,' Reniack concluded with menace.

Tathrin realised they were seeing the Parnilesse man in his true colours.

He had seen Reniack wearing everything from rags fit for the gutter to a silver-buttoned doublet and breeches, as much at ease in any garb. Now he realised the rabble-rouser had always been playing a role. He was as consummate an actor as the men and women who strutted in Vanam's fabled playhouses. Reniack's every step had been calculated, whether he was striding barefoot through the streets, proclaiming the rights of the humblest to shelter and justice, or piously attending some shrine confraternity meeting, seducing merchants into seditious dissatisfaction with their liege lords.

Now Tathrin saw something new in his eyes. Reniack had discarded all pretence. With his head shaved to grizzled stubble and his beard cropped short, the barrel-chested man looked like some tavern brawler, driven by a brutish love of violence.

Was it that simple? Had they been so mistaken, so deceived? For all his high-flown claims, was Reniack simply out to avenge his own lifetime of suffering and insults as the son of a Carifate whore? The more noble-born his victims, the more vicious he seemed to be towards them. Tathrin wondered if such a base-born appetite for vengeance could ever be sated.

Sorgrad's cold blue gaze fixed on Jettin. 'I don't know what you think you know, lad, but you're wrong.'

'You think Charoleia would let Trissa's death count for nothing?' Gren's lip curled. 'Like some hackle-finch discarded for advantage in a game of white raven?'

Reniack smiled unpleasantly. 'I might have believed she was true if I didn't know the cripple has been lured back to his birthright.'

'Whatever do you mean?' Sorgrad managed to sound faintly amused.

Reniack shared a malicious look of pleasure with Jettin. 'Your friend Aremil has had a most affecting reunion with his noble parents, this very morning.'

'He's quite overwhelmed.' Jettin laughed spitefully.

Tathrin tensed. He knew how tormented Aremil had been by Secaris of Draximal's unopened letters. No wonder he hadn't reached through the aether today if he had been brought face to face with the duke and duchess. But what had really happened? Could Jettin hear what was said when he looked through the aether? Tathrin was beginning to doubt that. He must ask Aremil.

'You knew he was Draximal's heir and you never thought to tell me.' Reniack spat his contempt into the sawdust smeared across the floor.

'You didn't let us know what you planned for Duke Orlin.' Sorgrad glanced at Jettin. 'You owe us a reckoning there, lad.'

Jettin stiffened defiantly. 'You've no notion what I've learned since we last met.'

Now Tathrin recalled Aremil telling him that Kerith and Branca feared Jettin was experimenting with Artifice's more problematic enchantments.

Gren wagged a finger with a smile. 'You'd be surprised what I know about your sort's talents.'

It was remarkable, Tathrin reflected, just how menacing Gren could seem while apparently being so amiable. Suddenly Jettin wasn't looking quite so bold, running a defiant hand through his tangled curls.

'You leave the lad alone,' Reniack chided. 'You don't want your own secrets known, Master M-- Master Maspin.'