Irons in the Fire (16 page)

"If you're sending a letter, you must write everything in cipher." Derenna set her jaw. "None of this evening's discussion must leave this room. If Duke Moncan of Sharlac gets wind of such a conspiracy, my husband's as good as dead."

"Everything must be kept secret," Tathrin agreed instantly. "No one must know what I've told you about the Carluse guildsmen."

"I'd travel to Draximal or Parnilesse or anywhere else." Gruit scowled. "But I'd be missed. Too many people would be asking where I was and what I was doing."

Aremil caught Tathrin's eye. "I doubt these bold swordsmen would find a cripple a convincing envoy. That leaves you, my friend."

"You had better leave as soon as possible," Reniack said promptly.

Chapter Nine

Tathrin

The Road to Emirle Bridge, in the Dukedom of Draximal,

22
^nd
of Aft-Spring

"You don't want to go no further." A disgruntled packman trudging along the verge shouted up to the laden cart.

"Says who?" the carter replied belligerently. He threw back the torn sack he was wearing as a makeshift hood, pulling on the reins to halt his shaggy-legged pony.

Sitting on the cart's tail, Tathrin twisted around. He hunched his shoulders, the upturned collar of his cloak half-hiding his face. Even here in Draximal, he couldn't stop worrying that he might run into someone who'd once stopped at his father's inn. The last thing he wanted was word that he'd left Vanam to get back to his family. Besides, turning up his collar helped stop the insidious drizzle from seeping down his neck.

"Some gang of bastards have seized the Emirle Bridge." The wiry packman shifted his burden to ease his shoulders. "The only way you'll pass is by giving them the pick of your goods."

"Parnilesse scum?" The thick-set carter gripped his whip like a weapon.

The packman shook his head wearily. "Brigands, from the north."

"Drianon's tits," the carter cursed. "Where are you heading?"

"Reddock Ford." The packman began walking. "Unless some other flock of shitcrows have got there first."

"Piss and pox." The carter climbed stiffly down from his seat and went to the pony's head. "That's going to be half a day out of my way. You'll think better of going to Emirle Bridge, boy, if you've any sense."

"I have business there." Tathrin was already pulling his leather travelling bag from under some wicker baskets that had been added to the cart in the last village.

The carter shook his head. "You'll walk over hot coals for a cut coin, you Carluse men."

Tathrin gritted his teeth as he shoved at sacking bundles to stop them sliding off the cart. All across Draximal, whenever he'd opened his mouth, someone had made a snide remark about Carluse miserliness.

Which was rich, after he'd seen one innkeeper charge a local traveller three-quarters of a penny when he'd taken two whole pence off Tathrin for a bowl of mutton broth and turnips. Another had given an empty room to a local after swearing to Tathrin there was nothing free beyond a half-share in a bed whose mattress hadn't seen fresh straw inside a year.

"You mind them goose eggs," the carter shouted, seeing Tathrin touching a straw-filled box. He hauled on the pony's head to turn the cart around.

"No harm done." Tathrin ducked his head through his bag's strap and slung it across his body.

"Book learning won't buy passage over the bridge," the carter said with spiteful satisfaction. "Can't be one in ten of those scum can read." He clambered back onto his seat and roused the pony with a shrill whistle. The shaggy beast began ambling back the way they had just come.

Tathrin watched the cart go without much regret. He'd travel at least as fast on his own two feet. To his intense frustration, he had travelled fewer leagues on each successive day of this journey. The sailing barge on which Master Gruit had bought him a berth had carried him down the White River to Peorle in a handful of days. Then the merchant's gold had got him a seat on the courier's coach that galloped along the northern edge of Caladhria. He'd made Abray, where the Great West Road crossed the River Rel on the Lescari border, by the fourteenth day of Aft-Spring. But all across the southernmost edge of Carluse, and through Draximal, his progress had been painfully slow. It was already halfway through Aft-Spring. When Master Wyess had given him leave to go home for a sister's supposed wedding, he surely hadn't expected his apprentice to be gone till the turn of For-Summer. Tathrin hated to think of the lies he'd have to tell when he got back.

He began walking. Even if he didn't miss the bandy-legged carter's sour attitudes or the reek of his unwashed linen, he did feel uncomfortably alone. In Carluse, he'd been safe enough as his local accent was invariably taken as proof of trustworthiness. Once he'd crossed into Draximal, however, a constant chill of apprehension nagged at him like a draught on the back of his neck. Why should these people be any more generous to him than Carluse folk had been to the bloodied man who'd stumbled into an inn on the Tyrle Road, where Tathrin had stopped for the night?

As soon as the unfortunate had opened his mouth, his Triolle accent was obvious, even mangled by his broken teeth. All those who'd initially clustered round in concern had walked away. The badly beaten man had even had to pay for hot water and rags to clean and bind his grazes. Tathrin had struggled to finish his dish of pottage, silently mortified by his countrymen's callousness.

But he hadn't dared to draw attention to himself by going to the man's aid. He knew Aremil would have said he was doing the right thing, that the letter he carried was too important to risk like that. It didn't make him feel any less ashamed.

So he'd cadged a ride on the pony cart. Like the carriers carts winding their circuitous routes through the villages back home, intermittent passengers came and went for the price of a copper coin. Men and women bringing their packages for transport or collecting something sent from some other village took no notice of him or anyone else.

Well, Emirle Bridge wasn't far now and if he was walking alone, at least he didn't hail from Parnilesse. If Draximal tavern-keepers thought Carluse men were skinflints, they condemned everyone from Parnilesse as whoremongers, thieves and worse. When the carrier hadn't been abusing his pony as a lazy lump of dog meat, he'd regaled Tathrin with endless tales of Parnilesse duplicity witnessed by some friend's cousin's brother by marriage. Or he'd detailed some brutality suffered by the sister of a man who'd once sold a wagonload of charcoal to his neighbour.

Tathrin picked up his pace. Those trees on the horizon marked the beginning of the forest that ran all the way from the hills of northern Triolle just visible in the distant mist to the River Asilor, marking Tormalin's border two hundred and fifty leagues away. He knew that from the map in the book he'd left safely under his bed back at Master Wyess's. Exactly where the boundary between Draximal and Parnilesse ran through those trees was anyone's guess. Naturally, each duke was accustomed to claiming all the woodland for himself. According to the carter, so many battles had been fought under those trees that lichen-stained bones lay thicker than winter-fallen branches.

Mercenaries wouldn't care where he came from, surely? Tathrin found his lips were dry despite the drizzling rain. He reached inside his doublet to reassure himself that he still had Charoleia's double-folded and thrice-sealed letter safe. What would he do if her signet meant nothing to whoever was holding this bridge? Would the names of these mercenaries she was sending him to find prove to be the talismans she'd promised? This plan had sounded all very well in Vanam, but his confidence had been ebbing away with every league of this journey.

At least the mercenaries were still holding the bridge, if that peddler could be believed. All the while he'd been on the road, Tathrin had been worrying about what might have happened without him knowing. What if he arrived to find that Duke Secaris's men had recaptured the bridge for Draximal? If he turned up asking for these two mercenaries by name, only for someone there to hang him for a bandit like them, just to be on the safe side?

The sooner he covered this last stretch of his journey, the better. He lengthened his stride again. The road followed a shallow ridge of higher ground rising above the water meadows and he could see the glint of the river in the distance. Countless streams ran down from the hills behind him to meet here and swell the headwaters of the Anock.

It wasn't long before he saw the walls of Emirle Town ahead. He slowed. Inside his bag, his fingers found the long dagger that Master Gruit had given him. Should he hang it from his belt? His eating knife would be scant use in a fight. But Gruit and Reniack had both told him not to show a weapon. If he looked as if he could defend himself, he was all the more likely to be attacked in a mercenary camp. Then why had Gruit given him the dagger?

"Hold up, there." A heavy-set bearded man stepped out from behind an unkempt hedge and planted himself in Tathrin's path. Much like a Carluse militiaman, he wore iron-bound boots, thick black breeches and a heavy leather jerkin.

Tathrin would have liked to ignore him and walk straight past, but the man was holding a long and brutal-looking sword. Even beneath the overcast sky, the steel gleamed with dull menace.

He wasn't to be some tavern-song hero, Aremil had said very explicitly. He was to deliver Charoleia's letter. If he didn't look like a threat, she had assured him, as long as there didn't look to be any profit in it, any mercenaries he met along the way were unlikely to kill him.

At that moment, the word "unlikely" struck Tathrin as a flaw in this plan big enough to drive the carrier's pony cart through. He let go of the dagger and slowly withdrew his hand from his travelling bag. "Good day to you," he said breathlessly.

"Polite, ain't he?" a voice behind him mocked.

Heart pounding, Tathrin looked around. Taller and thinner than the first man, this second was wearing the same gear. But both men's clothing was far better made than the crude uniforms thrown at Duke Garnot's unwilling recruits. And neither man wore anything resembling Duke Secaris of Draximal's colours of red and gold or the burning beacon-basket that was his badge.

"We can be just as polite." The bearded man smiled unnervingly.

"We can't be that tall, though, not unless some bastard racks us. Long drink of water, ain't he?"

Tathrin saw that another man had joined the first, squinting up at him. Two more were coming out of hiding on his left-hand side. All had long swords, though at least their weapons were still sheathed. None looked overly concerned that he had half a head's advantage on the tallest of them. Why should they, when all of them were broader in the shoulder and thicker in the thigh than him?

"On your way to town?" the man with the drawn sword asked genially.

"Yes," Tathrin said cautiously.

"Looking to cross the bridge?" The swordsman smiled. "You'll be paying the new toll."

Tathrin wasn't inclined to argue the point.

"We'll take it amiss if you turn back now," the second to speak pointed out. "We're getting a bit tired of folk doing that."

Tathrin didn't doubt it. "I'm looking for someone, for two men." He was pleased he managed to keep his tone calm and level. Then he realised he had no idea if these men would see the word "mercenary" as an insult. Better not to risk it. "A man called Sorgrad, and his brother. I have a message from a friend of theirs." His voice rose as apprehension tightened his throat.

"Sorgrad, you say?" The bearded swordsman looked blank. "Don't mean nothing to me, pal."

"The message is from Lady Alaric." That was the name Charoleia had told him to use to anyone but Sorgrad himself.

"Never heard of her," the one behind him said dismissively.

A sinking feeling in his stomach, Tathrin looked around the circle closing in on him. Every man's face was as unhelpful as the first.

He managed a weak smile. "I'll go and ask in Emirle, if you'll let me pass."

"So you're not looking to cross the bridge?" The speaker behind him was a man of fixed ideas.

"That depends on whether I find the men I'm looking for in the town," Tathrin said slowly.

"Don't bandy words with a scholar, Jik." The gang's leader grinned through his black beard. "You ain't got the wits for it."

Tathrin saw every man's eyes fix on his silver seal ring. He clenched his fists.

"We won't rob you of that." The bearded leader sounded truly shocked. "We're not bandits."

"We'll take a look in your bag, mind." The second speaker came up close behind him, drawing his sword. He was a thin man, but looked as tough as whipcord and leather.

Sweat mingling with the drizzle on his brow, Tathrin lifted the strap of his bag over his head and offered it up.

"Good lad," the man called Jik approved. He stepped back to let one of his nameless associates take it.

"Here's a nice piece." The man handed Jik the dagger Gruit had given Tathrin. He threw Tathrin's battered purse to another. "Salo, see how much is in there."

Tathrin tried to look suitably concerned, as if that purse held all the coin he carried. The rest of Gruit's gold was only safe as long as these men didn't search him too closely, so he really didn't want to give them reason to do that.