Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (34 page)

Tathrin had been impressed. Their masquerade hadn't faltered once. Though Jettin's Artifice presumably saw through any such feints. Would armed men be waiting for them?

The carpenters kicked their weary horses into a trot. No one wanted to be locked out when the gates were secured at sunset. Tathrin had learned that Reniack's regime still held to a good many of Duke Orlin's practices. The ominous shadow of the gate soon enveloped them.

'Anyone you recognise?' Sorgrad looked upwards, not at the crossbow-wielding guards but at the severed heads thrust on bristling spikes.

The faces were surprisingly well preserved. Queasily Tathrin recalled Gren explaining how such ghastly trophies were boiled in brine and vinegar, to slow rot and deter hungry crows.

Gren contemplated the array for a moment. 'No.'

Two of the carpenters exchanged greetings with the halberd-wielding gate-wards. Gren rode forward to humbly tug at the cloak of another prentice woodworker. The lad had been reasonably civil since Gren had lost the pathetic contents of his purse to him, suffering remarkable ill-luck with the runes.

After a short exchange, Gren reined his pony back until Tathrin and Sorgrad drew level.

'That's Orlin's youngest brother Brehard, his wife, her two brothers and their children,' he said grimly. 'Duke Orlin and Duchess Sherista grace the gate on the Carif Road.'

Sorgrad nodded before glancing at Tathrin. 'Lead the way, long lad.'

As a gate-ward advanced, Tathrin squared his shoulders and rehearsed his most convincing Parnilesse tones.

'I hear Tormalin's Emperor wants our land for his own. I'll lend my sword to the fight for freedom.'

The man looked unimpressed. He had the bearing of someone well used to the burden of his chain-mail hauberk beneath that thick tunic of felted black wool, though Tathrin didn't think he was a mercenary. Most likely he'd been sworn to Duke Orlin's militia before Reniack persuaded him to betray that allegiance.

'Where are you from?' The man's halberd was ready if not precisely threatening.

'Nylmaris.'

Sorgrad had assured Tathrin that this village, in the disputed forests west of Quirton, had barely two-score houses and more goats than people.

'Never heard of it.' The gate-ward glowered at the Mountain Men huddled on their scrawny ponies. 'Who are they?'

'We met on the road.' Tathrin feigned embarrassment. 'But if we're fighting for brotherhood . . . ?' That was a recurring theme in Reniack's crowd-pleasing pamphlets.

'Every man deserves his day in the sun,' Gren piped up like a hopeful child, 'not to shiver all his life in the shadow of a nobleman's banner!'

'True enough.' The gate-ward still didn't look overly welcoming. 'Have you coin to pay your way? All charity ended with the close of the festival and we won't stand for beggars on our streets.'

'We came to help not to burden you.' Tathrin shifted his cloak. Let the man think that bulge in the belly of his jerkin was a fat purse.

'Try the Yellow Thrush.' The gate-ward stepped back, his halberd relaxing. 'On Looping Lane, south of the castle.'

'Thank you.' Tathrin urged his horse forward.

Sorgrad and Gren's ponies' hooves echoed in the confines of the gate. 'Take the second street bearing right,' said Sorgrad quietly.

Tathrin did so, hoping it wasn't too obvious he had no notion where to go. He wondered wryly if that would baffle Jettin.

'Cut through that alley between the bakehouse and its wood store,' Sorgrad instructed next.

As they made their way through the town, Tathrin was relieved to see sufficient riders and coaches on the streets to make their presence unremarkable. Men and women crowded the paths on either side and tavern doors stood open despite the chill. As much debate as drinking was going on inside.

Were all these people united in supporting Reniack? Could their plan succeed in the face of such opposition? Tathrin could only hope so. There was no going back now.

He tried to see Parnilesse Castle but could only catch glimpses of its brooding bulk. The buildings in between reminded him of Duke Garnot's renewals of Carluse. False gables hid plain roofs behind curved adornments, while fussy wrought-iron balconies caged every window.

Gren chuckled softly. 'Don't they know Tormalin nobles favour Rationalist architecture now?'

'Lescar's dukes are always a generation behind the times,' murmured Sorgrad.

Tathrin inadvertently jerked his horse to a halt as the next turn brought them into an open square. Parnilesse Castle stretched all along the far side. It had no lofty towers like Triolle Castle or the advantage of higher ground like Carluse Castle. That counted for nothing when a fortification was so vast, so many buildings enclosed within its formidable wall.

Fire-baskets illuminated the gate and torches blazed all along the frontage. Militiamen with halberds patrolled the battlements above. Only a fool would even contemplate challenging this vigilant stronghold in the very heart of the town.

Tathrin felt cold, not merely chilled by the breeze from the unseen marshes.

'Lots of mouths to feed,' Gren commented, 'with all these newcomers crowded in. No wonder he's been sending raiding parties across into Tormalin.'

'Those raids haven't prospered overmuch, according to Charoleia,' Gren said thoughtfully. 'I wonder what Reniack has laid by for a siege. Folk can't eat fine words.'

Tathrin felt a little warmer. Every bone lands to show two runes.

Sorgrad gestured across the square. 'Go past the shrine to Dastennin.'

The other buildings ringing the square were temples dedicated to the various gods, all embellished with architectural flourishes. They rode past the shrine to Trimon, darkly shuttered. Tathrin was used to such sanctuaries standing open, a lantern offering the traveller god's protection through the night. Had the Forest Minstrel's priests always been so unwelcoming here?

There were stocks in front of Raeponin's shrine. Seven figures sat still and silent, lightly dusted with snow. Tathrin's horse fretted at the insidious stink of death. He looked at the god of justice's tight-shut shrine and wondered who had sat in judgement on these men.

Gren's pony was less fastidious. He rode closer to read the placards nailed to the planks trapping the dead men's feet. 'Condemned as cowards, apparently.'

'Let's be on our way.' Sorgrad nodded towards a halberd-wielding watchman heading in their direction.

'Was it stoning or the frost that killed them?' Tathrin felt the corpses' glassy stares pursuing him. Were those deaths he must account for or add to Reniack's tally?

'If it was the stoning,' Sorgrad observed, 'these people are so dedicated to Reniack's cause they'll kill their own dissenters.'

'Or so scared they'll kill to prove their loyalty,' Gren countered, 'so they're not the next accused.'

'Regardless, Tormalin's legions face a hard fight in harder weather,' Tathrin said grimly. 'Is this the Carif Road?'

'It is,' Sorgrad confirmed.

There were fewer taverns along this highway cutting southwards through the town. That was a double-edged blessing. Fewer folk spilled out of doorways to stare at passing riders. Those who did stopped to watch them with unnerving intensity.

Sorgrad urged his pony into a trot. As Tathrin's reluctant horse followed suit, the clip of steel-shod hooves echoed back from the stone row-houses. Curious candles appeared in windows.

They could only trust in the gathering dusk. The Greater Moon was gone from the sky and with the Lesser still a few days short of its first quarter, this was the darkest night until late For-Spring.

It took far longer to traverse the town than to reach the castle from the Inchra Gate. The high road swung close to the scarp and Tathrin saw narrow lanes cutting down to the unseen harbour below. The wind blew stronger still.

Eventually he saw a black barrier dotted with torches ahead. The town wall marched down the scarp to embrace the pool below and the Carif Gate kept watch both on the marshes and the road. It was a major fortification, now securely barred for the night. Anyone knocking for admittance would have a long, cold wait for dawn.

Gren turned into a lane where no window showed a lamp. Tathrin followed Sorgrad after him.

'A nice present for someone in the morning.' Gren slid lightly from his saddle and tied his pony's reins to a gate. Shrugging off his heavy cloak, he secured it over the animal's hindquarters. Sorgrad was doing the same.

Tathrin dismounted and found a woodshed that offered his horse some shelter. He shivered as he gave the beast his own cloak but he had scant need of it now.

He hurried back up the lane. As he unbuttoned his jerkin, he caught a sniff of the potent flask that Master Welgren had given him. Nervously investigating, his cold fingers felt only a little seepage into the swaddling cloths.

At the end of the lane, Gren was looking warily for any movement within the silent houses. 'Ready?' His smile caught a glint of fugitive moonlight.

'One moment.' In the shadow of a holly bush, Sorgrad peered into his cupped hands. Water seeped between his fingers, the faintest trace of emerald radiance vanishing as the drops hit the ground.

How soon would they be explaining themselves to the Archmage? Surely Jilseth was keeping the same unrelenting watch on Sorgrad that Kerith said she had focused on Karn?

Tathrin unscrewed the flask and dampened the rags. 'Master Welgren said to hold it away from you,' he warned Gren.

Master Welgren only used this potent blend of mandragora, poppy tincture and henbane when he had to cut into the belly or chest of a patient otherwise certain to die. He also acknowledged physicians had likely killed more patients with this soporific than they had cured with its aid.

Sorgrad shook the last drops of water from his hands and took a cloth from Tathrin. 'One man up top and three below.'

Tathrin clamped his jaw shut as white light blinded him, as painful as thumbs shoved into both his eyes. Dizziness snatched away all sensation; of the ground beneath his feet, of the coldly insistent wind, of the brass flask in one hand and the soft cloth in the other. He couldn't even smell that intoxicating dampness--

Then they were standing on the Carif Gate's topmost turret.

Gren kicked the startled sentry hard in the side of the leg and the man collapsed onto his knees. Before he could shriek with agony, Gren stifled him with the potion-soaked rag. The sentry struggled, clawing at Gren's hands. To no avail. In a few moments, the man hung limp.

'Careful!' Tathrin was alarmed.

'This way.' Sorgrad opened the door to the stair, listening intently with a dagger drawn.

Tathrin followed him downwards. Gren brought up the rear, pausing only to lock the door behind them.

Sorgrad's arrival in the guardroom prompted angry shouts of alarm. Tathrin rushed after him. Sorgrad vaulted a sturdy table to kick one guard against the wall. Landing deftly, he stuffed his rag into the man's startled mouth.

Tathrin shoved another sentry who had sprung up from a seat by the fire and the man stumbled over his toppled stool. Tathrin grabbed his sword-arm, preventing him from drawing the weapon. He pressed the rag hard over the man's face with his other hand. Coughing, light-headed, he realised his mistake. He held the man at arm's length till he slumped to the floor.

Gren had grappled the remaining sentry, who'd rushed for the guardroom's other door. Shorter but stronger, the Mountain Man bore him to the ground. Gren clamped a hand over his mouth to silence him but Tathrin saw he no longer held a rag.

Blood glistened as the man bit Gren's fingers. Gren drove a brutal knee into his groin. As the sentry abandoned his struggles to huddle around his agony, Sorgrad grabbed a handful of hair to haul his head back. Tathrin pressed a fresh stifling cloth over his nose.

'Bastard.' Gren shook his chewed hand.

'Get a rag around that. Not one of Welgren's!' Tathrin hated to think of that concoction mingling with someone's blood.

'Get the ladder rigged.' Gren was already ripping a strip of linen from his unconscious victim's shirt front. As he staunched the wound, he went to bolt the doors on either side of the room that led out onto the wall's high battlements.

Tathrin went to the windows overlooking the road to Carif. For a heart-stopping moment the stiff catch wouldn't yield.

'Smash the glass.' Sorgrad was unwinding a fine rope ladder from around his waist.

'Not yet.' Tathrin redoubled his efforts and the catch gave way with a petulant squeal. Cold wind swirled and he tasted the threat of snow.

Gren shook out a linen bag he'd had tucked in his shirt and tied its drawstring securely to his belt. Sorgrad was tying the rope ladder to the crosspiece bracing the heavy table's legs. Tathrin listened for boots approaching along the battlements.

Sorgrad tossed the ladder out through the open window. Gren swung one leg through the stone mullions. Tathrin made certain the unconscious sentries hadn't stirred.

He half-wished they would, so he would know he hadn't killed them. What of the man on the open roof? Would he freeze to death in his torpor before he was discovered?