Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (44 page)

He still wanted to know exactly where Master Gruit had got to. Now they were beyond Lescari borders, he wanted to ask the Mountain mage to scry for the old merchant, and Jilseth's edict forbidding magic be cursed.

'He'll be here soon.' Gren sauntered across the parlour to look out of the window. 'How did you fare smoothing ruffled feathers this morning?'

Tathrin grimaced. 'I don't think Master Cardel likes me.'

'Master Cardel was eager to woo me,' Failla observed, her eyes bright with mischief, 'when I was Master Gruit's wealthy and widowed niece.'

'But now you're Master Ernout's niece with my betrothal ring on your finger.' Tathrin grinned. 'Would you like to be a Spring Festival bride?'

Her eyes widened with hope. 'Will we truly have peace by then?'

He held her close. 'If we don't, it won't be for lack of trying.'

'We better had,' Gren growled. 'Aft-Spring's the real start of the fighting season.'

Tathrin felt the weight of his weariness once more. 'You expect Ridianne to march? Doesn't she have her hands full hunting down these vermin raiding Marlier?'

Gren shrugged. 'Even if she stays close to home, there'll be other troublemakers thinking they can still turn a coin with their swords.'

'And exiled lords willing to hire them?' Failla looked perturbed.

Tathrin nodded grimly. 'Baron Dacren told me that Garnot's elder daughters are soliciting funds from Caladhria's barons in hopes of reclaiming their birthright.'

'We need a settlement agreed across Lescar,' Failla said firmly, 'to show everyone that there's nothing to be gained by more fighting.'

'How long till Aremil and his ink-stained friends have something we can nail up on the shrine doors?' demanded Gren.

'They'll have their proposals ready for the twelfth of For-Spring,' Tathrin reminded the Mountain Man.

The Greater Moon would be full, with the Lesser at its half, so as long as the weather held fair, interested parties could travel from far and wide to hear what Aremil had to say.

'How can we put forward a settlement for all of Lescar when Marlier's duke still holds on to his domains?' Failla said, frustrated.

'We will march on Marlier Castle while Aremil's envoys take the settlement offered in Carluse to all the other towns. Ferdain can go into exile like Secaris or make a fight of it.'

Tathrin didn't relish that prospect, heartily sick of blood and battlefields.

'The Vixen will make a fight of it,' predicted Gren. 'With her back against the river and nowhere else to go.'

'She won't prevail against our army,' Failla said with conviction.

'Just as long as all the fighting's done with by Equinox.' That would bring the year full circle, since he and Aremil and Gruit had first discussed ending Lescar's unceasing strife.

Tathrin was already looking forward to spending Aft-Spring sleeping till noon, rising to freshly cooked meals and not setting a foot in a stirrup iron. Even if he had to put every bandit in Carluse and Marlier to the sword first.

Gren grinned. 'A few of Ferdain's treasure chests would settle Gruit's debts with gold to spare.'

'One thing at a time.' Sorgrad came into the parlour. 'To begin with, we're making fine progress against these brigands.' He handed a sheaf of letters to Tathrin. 'Your regiments' reports, Captain-General.'

'Do you think we'll be rid of them by Equinox?' demanded Failla.

Awkwardly, with her still on his lap, Tathrin sorted through the terse and blotted documents. His erstwhile mercenary lieutenants would win no praise for penmanship or lyrical prose but they told him what he needed to know. 'It's looking promising.'

One letter was still folded and sealed. He didn't recognise the sloping, educated handwriting. It was addressed to
Tathrin Sayron, Scholar
, and that was an oddity these days. The frequent pleas for coin, for news of loved ones and the rambling litanies of insults and accusations were mostly sent to
Captain Tathrin
.

He waved it at Sorgrad. 'Where's this from?'

'Losand.' The Mountain Man looked up from his own correspondence. 'It was sent to the Merchants' Exchange with a request that it be forwarded to you. When the clerk heard you were here they sent it on with the latest reports from the high road.'

Turning the letter over, Tathrin saw its wax seal bore the double-bladed axe of Misaen set within a horseshoe. He frowned. That wasn't a Mountain blazon. The smith-god was honoured all along the Great West Road, where farriers worked their hearths night and day to keep merchants' wagons rolling and passing horsemen mounted.

Gren was pursuing their earlier conversation with Sorgrad. 'Will bringing the Vixen to battle prompt the Caladhrian parliament to vote for war?'

Tathrin contemplated the letter. The closest shrine to his family's home was dedicated to Misaen. His sister's husband shod horses for visitors to his father's inn.

Sorgrad answered his brother. 'The barons might well consider that the rune that tips the hand, so we need to break Marlier at the first opportunity. It must be a hard and fast campaign.'

Tathrin ignored them. The paper was of a quality his father might use; neither the finest nor the cheapest. Jerich Sayron had the coin to buy what suited his needs and no desire to waste money on ostentation.

What might a letter from home have to say? His father had condemned him for a fool when Tathrin had taken a horse after the fall of Losand, riding at breakneck pace to be sure his family was safe.

He had tried to explain himself, but his father accused him of ingratitude, stupidity and worse for abandoning his apprenticeship in Vanam. He wouldn't listen to a word. Mercenaries never brought peace to Lescar. What manner of fool was Tathrin? Or was he looking to fill his own pockets with plunder instead of working hard like an honest man?

For the first and only time in his life, Tathrin had felt an urge to raise his fist to his father.

But he couldn't do that to his mother. She was hysterical with weeping. She had been so proud, she sobbed, to know he was a scholar wearing Vanam's silver ring. That had been her one comfort after sending him so far away. But now he had squandered his future to risk his life on this folly. Tathrin had ridden off, heartsick, with her laments ringing in his ears.

'Will a hard and fast campaign be more hazardous?' Failla asked apprehensively.

Gren shrugged. 'That's usually how it goes.'

Tathrin snapped the seal and unfolded the paper. Looking for the signature, disappointment compounded his fatigue. This letter wasn't from his father. Why had he imagined it might be?

Why would Master Granal Camador write to him? Swift unease banished any thought of tiredness.

'Sweetheart--'

As Failla took the hint and stood up, he rose and carried the letter to the window, the better to decipher the noble-born priest's paradoxically illegible handwriting.

'My parents' inn has been ransacked by raiders.'

It wasn't till he heard his own words that Tathrin realised he'd spoken aloud.

'What?' Failla rushed to his side, searching his face before peering at the letter.

Tathrin let her take it. 'The Ring of Birches is three days' ride from here.'

'Four at this season,' Gren objected.

'Three!' Tathrin took a blind step towards the door.

Gren shrugged. 'You promised Aremil you'd be back in Carluse inside five days.'

'Aremil will understand.' Tathrin glared at him. 'I need a horse and a remount--'

'No you don't.' Sorgrad plucked the letter from Failla's hand without apology. 'I'll have you there inside five paces.'

Tathrin watched Sorgrad narrow his eyes, reading swiftly.

'Or do you want to go to see this priest?' The Mountain mage looked up. 'This is dated the thirty-ninth of Aft-Winter--'

'Darkest night of the season,' Gren observed. 'A good night for a raid.'

Sorgrad silenced him with a warning look. 'The priest says he doesn't know what's become of your family, but he might well have had news since he wrote this.'

Tathrin couldn't think. Either prospect held unknown horrors. Would it be better to find his parents, his sisters, already ashes in their funeral urns, safe in Master Granal's care? Or was it his duty to retrieve their bodies from the ruins of their home?

'Whoever did it, we'll find them and kill them.' Gren wasn't boasting or threatening, merely stating a certainty.

For once, Tathrin shared his dispassionate bloodlust. 'We'll go to the inn. We'll pick up some scent there, of my family or of the villains responsible--'

Responsible for their murders? The words stuck in his throat.

'You need travelling clothes.' Failla took a step towards the door. 'And your armour and swords. You'll need to take some food, and you should eat before you leave--'

'No!' Too late. Tathrin was stung by the shock on her face at his refusal. 'Forgive me, sweetheart.' He drew her into his arms. 'If I eat before Sorgrad takes us there, I'll be as sick as a dog when we arrive.'

'He's not wrong.' Gren's irrepressible chuckle did little to lighten the atmosphere.

'Aremil said he would speak to me tomorrow.' Tathrin held Failla close. 'If his Artifice touches you in the meantime, or Branca's, let them know what's happened.'

Sorgrad folded the letter and handed it to Failla. 'Keep this under lock and key, my girl, along with all our militia captains' reports. Tell Abray's Guild clerks and any nosy chambermaids that the three of us have ridden for--'

'Dromin,' Failla suggested.

Sorgrad nodded. 'I've travelled that road. I can take us close enough, after--' He glanced at Tathrin. 'Whenever suits.'

Tathrin blinked. 'But you'll be using magic inside Lescar.' He wondered why he was saying this. He wanted to find out what had happened as fast as he could, didn't he?

'Madam Jilseth can go ride a fiddlestick,' Sorgrad said curtly. 'There's no time to waste so close to success in all that we have worked for. We need to find out if your family were merely unfortunate or if someone is looking for revenge on you. If they cannot stop us, there will still be some who'll take pleasure in staining your victory with blood.'

Tathrin wouldn't have thought it possible to feel any more hollow with dread. He should have known better, knowing Sorgrad.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Tathrin

The Ring of Birches Inn,

near Losand, Lescar,

5th of For-Spring

'We should steal some horses.' Gren jogged along the road.

'And lose what's left of the daylight?' Sorgrad loped by his side.

Tathrin wasn't having this quarrel. 'If bandits have passed through, any beast not locked in a stable is gone.'

Gren wasn't to be denied. 'Let's borrow some farmer's wagon?'

'Next time you see one, you ask nicely,' suggested Sorgrad.

In the half-chime they'd been on the highway, they hadn't seen a vehicle, a rider or anyone walking.

'Haven't you ever passed my father's inn?' demanded Tathrin. 'Couldn't you have brought us closer?'

'Do you want to arrive in the yard with a flash of magelight?' Sorgrad slowed to a walk, forcing the others to do the same.

Tathrin wished he hadn't. Perversely, while they were running he could ignore his fatigue. 'You don't imagine the bastards will still be there?'

'There could be more than carrion crows picking over the place.' Gren drew his sword. 'I'd rather see them before they see me.'

'With any luck your father will be sweeping up broken glass while your mother dumps smashed crocks in the midden,' said Sorgrad. 'But don't you think they've already had enough shocks to last the season?'

Tathrin couldn't allow himself to hope he would see his family. Nor could he face the prospect that one or more of them might be dead. So he concentrated on stoking his wrath with silent, angry questions.

Who was responsible? While Sorgrad and Gren had gathered their gear, he searched through all the reports from Lescari company captains hunting down brigands. He found no mention of trouble so close to Losand.

Whose fault was that? Which lieutenant had been so lax, so unobservant, that these ruffians had crept through the undergrowth to rob an innocent family of their home and livelihood? To murder them in their beds?

Gritting his teeth, Tathrin broke into a run again. Sorgrad and Gren ran silently beside him.

As the road curved, he saw the birches first, where this shallow ridge thrust a finger of higher ground southwards. The stand of silver-barked trees opposite the inn overlooked the fields below. The first birches had been planted generations ago. Folk hereabouts tended the trees and the saplings that had renewed the grove ever since. Master Granal speculated the circle might have been sacred to the long-vanished plains-people, whom tavern tales called cousin to the Eldritch Kin.

There was no point in debating the trees' origins now. They were gone as surely as whoever had planted them. The birches were blackened skeletons, their leafless branches scratching the sky.