Lescari Revolution 03: Banners In The Wind (9 page)

Chapter Six

Litasse

Adrulle, Caladhria,

16th of For-Winter

Two elegant women and their burly footman approached. She drew in her skirts to move closer to the shopfronts. That was only common courtesy. She also didn't want anyone getting too close. Her blue twill gown was shamefully stained from her recent ordeals by boat and by horse.

Despite sluicing her own underclothes each night, Litasse was horribly aware of her rank odour. All her perfumes and soaps had been lost in their desperate flight along with most of her clothes.

The women made no attempt to accommodate her presence on the flagstones flanking the cobbled street. They barged past, shoving her into the open shutters of a drapery.

As Litasse gasped, the women's escort turned to spit with deliberate malice. She looked down to see phlegm glisten on her skirt.

'What do--' Before Litasse could vent her outrage, the trio were lost in the uncaring crowd.

The draper clapped his hands sharply. 'If you're not buying, madam, make space for those who are.'

She drew herself up to rebuke him. Then she realised he didn't know who she was. Just one more dispossessed Lescari cluttering up their well-to-do town in her dirty gown. Claim to be duchess of Triolle and they would call some constable to detain her till she could be secured in a madhouse.

Her eyes stinging with humiliation, Litasse retraced her steps. If her noble husband wanted to know what was proclaimed in the broadsheets nailed to the hoardings of the Buttermarket, he could cursed well go and look himself.

She turned into a narrow lane, cobblestones uneven on either side of a noisome drain. The inn was halfway along, its woodwork in need of paint and its stonework green with the moss that thrived in this damp, low-lying district. Regardless, the price of a room had been her topaz earrings, last of the gems concealed in her bodice.

At least Iruvain must feel at home. Litasse's mortification was warming to wrath. His erstwhile dukedom was little more than a swamp.

Brushing back a tormenting strand of black hair, she threw open the door. But as she climbed the scuffed and dusty stairs, her anger cooled to leave her despairing. Who could command respect living in such a hovel? Did that sly-faced innkeeper even believe they were who they said they were? Or was he simply content to empty their purse before throwing them out into the gutters?

They had come too late to Adrulle. Sharlac nobles most closely aligned with Duke Moncan had prudently retreated as soon as Sharlac Castle fell. More followed when this Soluran invader didn't claim the dukedom or assert another duke's claims to be crowned High King. Such uncertainty was dangerous. Sharlac's lords agreed there would be time enough to reclaim their domains when all this dust had settled.

Those Carlusian nobles who'd prospered under Duke Garnot had shown scant loyalty after his successive defeats. Once Duchess Tadira had been murdered, when news spread that Ridianne, Duke Ferdain's whore, had saved Marlier by turning on Triolle and Parnilesse, that flight had become a rout.

Those noblemen and women had still found time to pack. They had abundant clothing and servants to care for their comforts. Men-at-arms guarded their coffers of good Tormalin gold and Ensaimin-minted silver. Caladhrian merchants scorned leaden Lescari marks. So even the humblest lordlings fleeing to the Caladhrian bank of the Rel had the money to maintain their derisory titles, leaving no decent accommodations for latecomers who outranked them. Thus she, daughter to Duke Moncan of Sharlac and duchess of Triolle by marriage, was living in a single room in this squalid tavern.

Her knuckles whitened on the newel post as she turned to the final flight of stairs. Because her fool of a husband had fled from his own castle like a housemaid scared by a mouse. After that, he led his troops to disaster at the Battle of Pannal. Then he made their dire situation still worse.

As Iruvain insisted they flee down the River Anock to the coast, their haphazard household and pitiful hoard of coin had been packed into commandeered barges. Litasse didn't believe those other boats had sunk. No wreckage or bodies had followed them downstream. Those scoundrels had stolen such tempting cargo, doubtless abetted by some of their faithless servants. More had slipped away each night.

They would never have suffered such losses if Iruvain had listened to her. If they had gone north or east to make common cause with Lescar's remaining dukes.

Reaching the landing on the topmost floor, her certainty faltered. If they had gone to Parnilesse? That thought made her blood run cold. They would have been slaughtered with Duke Orlin, Duchess Sherista and their children.

But they would have fared better if they had thrown themselves on Duke Secaris's mercy, for her father's sake. Draximal had long been an ally of Sharlac. Litasse's generous lips narrowed as she flung open the door to their garret.

'If you--'

She stopped, dumbfounded, on the threshold.

Iruvain lay sprawled on the bed. He wasn't naked; this unheated room was too chilly for that. But his doublet and shirt were unbuttoned, his breeches and smallclothes shoved down to his knees.

His hardier companion had stripped to her chemise, her blue gown tossed carelessly onto a chair. The fine linen was bunched around her waist, exposing her shapely buttocks as she rode him hard. Lace hung loose about her shoulders, her full breasts exposed for his grasping hands and greedy mouth. Murmuring with pleasure, she threw back her head, chestnut locks tumbling down her back.

'You bring your harlots to my bed?' shrieked Litasse.

The girl gasped, blushing scarlet. One silver-braceleted arm shielding her breasts, she tugged up her slipping shift. She would have risen but Iruvain took hold of her hips, refusing to release her.

He glared at Litasse from his pillows. 'Get out.'

'How dare you?' Her voice rose still more shrill.

'Get out or stay and watch.' Iruvain didn't blink. 'But don't think I'll be servicing you, my lady wife.'

The girl moaned with inarticulate protest, turning away from Litasse. A silver and lapis necklace gleamed through the tangles of her glossy hair.

Iruvain smiled beguilingly up at her. 'No, you're not done yet, sweetheart, and neither am I.' His strong fingers dug into her white thighs, forcibly rocking her back and forth. 'It would be a sin against Halcarion not to finish what we've started.'

He would do it too, while she stood there. Litasse could see the cruel satisfaction in his brown eyes. He'd enjoy it all the more, his blood pumping harder with his pleasure at her embarrassment.

Leaving the door swinging open, she stormed back down the stairs. Let anyone who wanted see her rutting swine of a husband, wallowing with some fool of a girl seduced by his handsome face and honeyed words.

She nearly fell down the last steps to the turn in the stair. Barely managing to keep her feet, she stood for a moment, fighting treacherous hysterics.

Below, the tavern door opened and someone came hurrying upwards. Litasse pressed her hands to her face, trying to quench the blush burning her cheeks. But where could she hide her humiliation?

A lithely muscled man, his light-brown hair shaven close, rounded the first flight. He looked up, startled. 'Your Grace?'

'Karn--'

As Litasse struggled to explain, Iruvain's groans echoed down the shabby stairwell. The girl's gasps rose with ostentatious ecstasy.

'He has some whore--?' Karn took two steps in a single stride, his grip on the banister murderous.

'No--' Litasse choked.

Karn saw something in her face to change his mind. He threw open the door on the landing. 'In here.'

Mute, Litasse acquiesced. Little better than a linen closet, the innkeeper swore this was the only chamber available for their remaining servant. She sat on the narrow bed that took up half the space. She had no choice. Her knees wouldn't support her.

Karn pressed his back to the closed door. Even in the inadequate light filtering through the grimy window, she saw him glowering. At least he wasn't cross with her.

She gathered her wits. 'She's no whore, with a new velvet gown and Inchra lace trimming her linen.'

'She's ruined, whatever her family.' A sneer curled Karn's lip. 'Once word spreads that Iruvain's tupped her.'

Litasse shook her head. 'I can't disgrace her.'

Karn was perplexed. 'No one will trace any whispers to you.'

True enough. He'd learned every dark art of spreading lies from Triolle's much-lamented intelligencer, the cruelly murdered Master Hamare.

Litasse still shook her head. 'Iruvain will know. I was the only one who saw them.'

'Not if I go up now.' Karn wasn't easily dissuaded.

'Iruvain will retaliate.' Litasse picked at the threadbare coverlet with a chipped fingernail. 'He'll tell everyone that I am the whore.'

He had reason. Litasse had been the first to betray the vows they'd exchanged before Drianon's altar. But she had been so lonely, so frustrated. What leisure Iruvain could spare from his ducal duties, after his father's untimely death, he lavished on his hounds and horses. But could she honestly blame him? They had obeyed their parents' dictates in wedding. Iruvain sought a decorative bride while Litasse sought the highest rank. Had either of them ever truly considered the realities of marriage?

Whereas Master Hamare had adored her. Little by little Litasse had realised, as he tutored her in the ciphers and secrets reserved for Triolle's duchess. One tedious day she succumbed to temptation; discreetly flirtatious at first, more openly alluring the next time. Hamare had overcome his scruples to prove himself a skilled and passionate lover.

She blinked away her tears. So Iruvain was finally taking his revenge. Was the girl the first or had there been others?

'I would like to know who the trollop is.' She was pleased to find her voice calmer.

'I'll follow her.' Karn glanced upwards at the cobwebbed rafters. 'What do you suppose she's getting out of this besides sticky linen? What can His Grace offer beyond his skill at stud?'

Master Hamare had taught him always to suspect hidden truths, to be as adept at finding secrets as concealing them.

'Wherever she's come from, her family's wealth is intact, given her clothing and jewels.' A vile suspicion curdled Litasse's stomach. 'Would Iruvain sell the promise of marriage,' she said slowly, 'in return for support in reclaiming his domain? He'll need money if he wants to hire any of the swordsmen sniffing around these alleys.'

Karn's frown darkened. 'You are his wife and his duchess.'

'You don't think he'd set me aside? Who could blame him, after all the rumours?' Litasse ran a hand down her thigh. Yes, the dagger was safely strapped there. The blade that had killed Master Hamare.

According to Iruvain's bold, foolish lie, Litasse had stabbed the intelligencer when Hamare had forced unwanted advances upon her. After all, the two of them were alone, a guard outside the room's closed door. Litasse had screamed and the man rushed in to see Hamare dead at her feet. His blood was wet on her skirts and on the knife in her hand.

Who could possibly believe the truth? That two assassins had appeared in an azure flash of wizardry and murdered Triolle's spymaster? Because he had come so close to uncovering this conspiracy of Vanam's exiles to stir rebellion among Lescar's malcontents.

Hamare had done his utmost to persuade Iruvain of the danger but the young duke had refused to listen. Whatever the wrongs on both sides of their marriage, Litasse would never forgive Iruvain for that. If he had heeded Hamare, her father Duke Moncan would still be alive along with her surviving brother. None of this autumn's catastrophes would have followed if Sharlac hadn't fallen.

'Or he'll just say I am barren. In all honesty, there'll be no offspring from our union.'

Iruvain had sworn he'd never touch her again after she'd ripped that slender blade across his hand. When he'd turned on her, drunk and raging, in that seaside inn back in Triolle. Shedding his blood had been the death of her marriage, as surely as if she'd cut his throat.

'Just as well,' she said bleakly. 'If he's sheathing his sword wherever he fancies, I don't fancy a dose of the itch.'

Karn smiled with charming malice that relieved the severity of his gaunt face. 'At least let me find that young lady's maid, to warn her that His Grace's steel has a few spots of rust.'

Voices above interrupted them. Litasse sat silent while Karn stood motionless. The bedroom door slammed shut and the girl's slippered feet pattered down the stairs. Litasse saw her own conclusion reflected in Karn's hooded eyes. There was no sound of Iruvain following.

Karn slipped through the door like a shadow. Litasse turned the key in the lock. Where else could she go? Upstairs to face Iruvain's brazen satisfaction? Down to the reeking taproom, to excite whispered speculation? She didn't even have enough coin in her purse to buy a glass of wine. All that was left were the halves and quarters that the destitute of Lescar cut their copper pennies into, to buy a heel of bread or the dregs of someone's ale.