Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (32 page)

9th of Aft-Winter

How many eyes were covertly watching as she walked across the open bailey? How much had changed since she was the duke's mistress, to be tactfully ignored by most, tacitly scorned by servants loyal to his duchess? Now the household accorded her measured respect; for defying Duchess Tadira and Lord Ricart, for her defence of Carlusian interests amid the exiles' plots.

The price she paid for that was always being observed, as soon as she left her garret room. Friends, old foes and those indifferent or undecided noted her visits to the erstwhile chamberlain's office where Kerith shuffled letters and ledgers, to the innermost keep where Master Welgren tended the suffering. She was surrounded by apprehension and expectation, occasional blunt questions, more frequent indirect appeals and mute, speculative glances.

Failla changed her mind. She wouldn't go to see Kerith just yet. She would visit Aremil instead. Yesterday, Master Welgren had planned some fresh brew to stimulate his senses. Ostrin send there'd been some change for the better.

She followed the dark line across the cobbles where the snow was trampled to slush. The great hall's door stood open; bombastic centrepiece of this range of buildings rebuilt in ornate Tormalin style, to proclaim Garnot's wealth on his accession to the dukedom. Failla hurried through the empty, echoing hall.

Steps descended from the far door to the lawns of the inner ward, still swathed in pristine white. Ahead, the inner keep had been the ducal sanctuary. Rebuilt in an elaborate style, its furnishings proclaimed Garnot's artistic sensibility, with fabrics, ceramics, glassware and metalwork brought from southernmost Aldabreshi, and from Inglis to the distant north-east. The finest artists had been commissioned to decorate its plastered walls and ceilings. Failla ran up the central stone staircase, an architectural marvel in its own right.

Above, the elegant reception rooms had been stripped of their finery to accommodate pallets for the sick. Master Welgren had fewer patients now but those remaining were the most grievously injured. Walking soft-footed between the sleeping men and women, Failla exchanged silent smiles with the townswomen nursing them. She sighed as she noted a sheet-wrapped corpse awaiting removal with the infinite patience of the dead. Though that grievous news would at least release one family from the agonies of hope.

She had seen that pain in Tathrin's eyes, when he had visited Aremil every morning and evening of the festival. Master Welgren had hoped Tathrin's presence, his voice, his grip on Aremil's hand, might rouse him from this eerie sleep. But Aremil hadn't stirred and all Failla could do was take Tathrin to her bed and offer whatever comforts her warmth and love might provide.

Then Tathrin had been forced to leave, to bear all the burdens of his next perilous venture alone. Failla couldn't even send him her own love and assurances. She couldn't contemplate conveying such intimacies through Kerith, as she had done with Aremil's goodwill. If only he would wake up.

Taking a resolute breath, Failla opened the door to the room in the keep's south-east corner. Once this had been Garnot's presence chamber, with portraits of his ancestors admiring him from the grey walls. Now the cobalt and white floor tiles were cracked and chipped, the marble table cluttered with instruments and medicaments. Two plain beds replaced the luxuriously upholstered chairs; one for Welgren and one for whichever patient had most constant need of his attention.

'Oh.' She halted, taken aback.

Kerith sat watching Serafia as she carefully spooned bacon broth between Aremil's slack lips. He lay propped on feather pillows, as limp as the doll that their Aunt Derou had sewn for Anilt's festival gift. The faintest suggestion of soiled linen hung in the air beneath the scent of dried flowers.

'He swallows.' Kerith shook his head, mystified.

'Master Welgren says that's proof he wants to live.' Serafia refilled her spoon.

'How long can his body endure this?' Kerith's stern face twisted with apprehension.

Serafia hesitated, soup trickling back into the bowl. 'Master Welgren fears a sudden decline cannot be far off.'

Failla tried to curb her irritation as she entered. 'He says not to betray such misgivings in Aremil's hearing.'

Kerith rose to his feet. 'Is there news? From Parnilesse or Marlier?'

'No,' Failla snapped. 'I came to see Aremil.' She moved closer and brushed a lank strand of hair from his pale forehead. Was it her imagination or did she feel some slight pressure against her fingers? Was he was responding to her touch?

'Branca must attempt to rouse him,' she said suddenly.

Kerith had gone to the tall leaded window that overlooked the fountain. He rounded on her. 'You, of all people, would propose such a thing?'

In that instant, Failla recoiled from a dizzying vision. It was night-time in the keep, a chance encounter on the servants' back stair. Kerith was embracing Serafia. Failla could feel all his longing, desperate to ease the ache of his loneliness. She could feel Serafia's blood rush through her veins, physical desires repressed for so long burning deep within her. As Kerith's hand tightened on her waist, Serafia guided it upwards to cup her modestly bodiced breast.

Then Kerith's tense passion was overwhelmed by guilt and self-loathing. All he could feel was Failla's hurt, her terror and humiliation as he forced his questing mind into her memories. He had used his Artifice to strip bare all she had done to seduce Duke Garnot, every shamefully erotic detail of their intimacy, as he sought to find out what she had done to betray Tathrin and Aremil when the Triolle spy-woman had threatened Anilt.

Tearing himself away, Kerith had nearly fallen headlong down the stairs, leaving without a word. His last backward glance showed Failla a glimpse of Serafia standing appalled; at herself for yielding to such temptation, at this sullying of memories of her dead love, Elpin, and worse still, stricken by Kerith's rejection.

'No!' Failla protested, shaken.

'Then what?' Serafia demanded.

Failla hastily gathered her wits. Kerith was staring at her, his jaw clenched. Did he realise what she had just seen? Serafia simply looked bemused. Failla breathed more easily. Her cousin surely couldn't have felt any echo of that riot of emotions in Kerith's mind. She guessed he didn't know the whole truth either. She couldn't imagine he'd still be able to meet her eyes if he did.

'Not Artifice.' Failla managed to speak more calmly. 'But when Tathrin and Sorgrad and Gren have done what they must in Parnilesse, Branca will be free to leave Solland. Her voice, her touch might rouse Aremil when no other's will.'

'Ostrin bless that thought.' Serafia filled the spoon afresh and touched the broth to Aremil's lips.

'What's that?' Kerith asked sharply.

'What?' Failla looked around to see him pointing at a letter set on Master Welgren's marble table.

'When did this arrive?' Kerith went to pick it up. 'Weren't there other letters? You said there was no news.' His tone was accusatory.

'I didn't bring that with me,' Failla protested.

Kerith glared at her. 'It wasn't there before.'

Serafia interrupted Failla's angry retort. 'Surely who it's from is more important than who brought it?'

'Let's see.' Kerith snapped the seal vindictively, unfolding the paper with an angry rattle. His expression yielded to confusion. 'It's from Mellitha Esterlin.'

'The magewoman in Relshaz?' Failla recalled Tathrin's tale of meeting her in a brothel.

'It's dated this morning.' Kerith glanced up from the letter to look askance at the table. 'She must have used her wizardry to send it here.'

'What does it say?' Failla demanded half a breath ahead of Serafia.

Kerith frowned at the writing. Finally he answered them both.

'It seems Jilseth, that magewoman who answers to Planir the Black, has been scrying after Karn, Litasse of Triolle's enquiry agent. Apparently he's been busy in and around Relshaz this past half-season. Mellitha has been using her own sources to find out exactly why.'

Failla recalled Tathrin's tale of the horrors of Adel Castle. 'He recruited that renegade mage.'

'Indeed.' A humourless smile momentarily lightened Kerith's expression. 'Both magewomen are watching him from afar to be sure he makes no more such mischief.'

'So what is he doing?' Failla couldn't believe the villain was simply enjoying the seaport's debaucheries.

Now Kerith was scowling again. 'Jilseth and Mellitha believe he's behind a good deal of this brigandage plaguing Carluse and Marlier. He's encouraging penniless mercenaries who've washed up in Relshaz to try their luck to the north. They say it won't take many more raids across the Rel to bring the Caladhrian barons to their senses.'

He looked up at Failla. 'They'll send their own forces across the river, in support of the exiled dukes and their heirs, unless Tathrin and his army can deal with Parnilesse promptly enough to march for Carluse and Marlier and put these bandits to the sword themselves.'

'Would the Caladhrians truly do that?' Serafia looked uncertain. 'Before their next parliament meets?'

'Mellitha believes so.' Kerith nodded. 'She says the Solstice vote to wait and see was carried by a bare handful of voices.' His scowl darkened. 'If only I was still in Abray. There would be so much more I could do.'

'These bandits aren't just attacking travellers. They're raiding hamlets and farmsteads.' Serafia's eyes were troubled. 'I hear entire families cannot be found. What about Lathi and her children? Shouldn't we send word for them to come here?'

'You should ask Aunt Derou to write.' Failla forced the words through the selfishness tightening around her throat. If Lathi came to Carluse, all Anilt's love would focus on the woman she'd called mama since she was born.

'Give me the letter.' Failla held out her hand. When Kerith made no move to oblige, she snapped her fingers impatiently. 'I will take it to my Uncle Ernout. He can alert Reher and the other guildsmen and send covert word to craftsmen in Marlier. If they know this is a Triollese plot, intent on bringing Caladhria to invade us, they should prove more willing to work with Carluse. They can all begin hunting these bandits down instead of simply trying to avoid them on the roads.'

For a long moment Kerith looked at her unblinking. 'I'll let Tathrin know he and Sorgrad must conclude their business in Parnilesse as soon as they can.' He handed over the letter.

'Indeed.' Failla tucked the paper inside the little reticule she carried.

'Do you hear that?' Serafia said softly to Aremil. 'Then Branca can come to see you.'

But Failla saw the broth trickling unheeded down his chin. Feeling despairing tears prick her eyes, she walked swiftly to the door. 'I will be back soon.'

Leaving the inner keep, she only paused in the central range to fetch a cloak from her garret room. Hurrying across the open bailey, she nodded briefly at the militia sergeant commanding the gatehouse. After the hollow planks of the bridge over the ditch that separated the castle from the town, the previous night's fresh fall of snow muffled her boots on the cobbled road.

She could see servants busy sweeping it onto the mounds that already lined the main street running down the steep hill to the town gate. It would be a long, cold season before they saw a thaw to flush the gutters.

Some were enjoying themselves. One harassed lackey outside a prosperous merchant household threatened two young children with his besom. Jumping on the heap, they were scattering fresh clods of white over the path he'd just brushed.

As Failla drew closer, the man stopped sweeping. Their game forgotten, the children drew nearer to his protective presence, breath misty in the cold. The man upended his broom to study its birch twigs. Was he one of those who still believed she was an unregenerate slut?

Regardless, Failla politely inclined her head. 'Good day to you.'

Whatever the man murmured, his tone was civil. She knew the house belonged to a cloth merchant who had traded with Duke Garnot and other lords across Carluse with methodical detachment. No one could accuse him of being their lapdog. Now Master Bessier was keeping his own counsel close, like so many in the town. If Caladhria did invade and restore Lescar's dukes, they would doubtless argue they had never supported such rebellion. Whichever runes landed upright, such men sought to protect their wealth and families.

Did they have no concept of sacrifice for the good of all? Failla huddled inside her cloak, recalling the warmth of the sable cape that Master Gruit had provided for their masquerade as wealthy Lescari in Abray. But that had been lost when she had risked her neck to sneak back into the castle.

Then there was the coin she had hoarded, as she turned every gift, every indulgence won from the duke into more readily traded gold and silver. First she had sought to provide for herself, knowing that sooner or later Garnot would turn to a fresher, younger mistress.

Then she had lived for the day when that money would buy her a swift and secret departure, to reclaim Anilt and build a life as far away as possible. But she had given that gold to Corrad, the castle's horsemaster, as she had promised when she appealed to him, one of the few men who could sway the garrison against Duchess Tadira.

Yet these merchants still hoarded their coin and their treasures and turned a blind eye to everything else. It enraged Failla. To be free of all pretence, with Anilt acknowledged as her own, she would be content to live in a hovel, barefoot and dressed in rags. As long as they lived in a Lescar where no dukes claimed anyone's fealty.