Irons in the Fire (8 page)

"You never know." Tathrin managed an embarrassed smile.

Eclan snapped his fingers at a gang of younger clerks who were playing an idle game of runes on the step. "Two of you, come and carry this inside! Shall I lock those up for you?" He held out a hand for Tathrin's father's weights. "No need to carry them around while you're... shopping."

"Thank you."

Tathrin started walking. It wasn't far to the thoroughfare that wound up the shallower face of the Ariborne. On this side of the hill, the recently built houses of the newly prosperous sought to leave the sprawl of the lower town behind them. On the far side, the long-established coveted their wealth in spacious mansions. Above, the upper town's ancient walls looked down from the heights where the Ariborne, Teravin and Dashire hills joined together.

He reached the Mercers' Bridge, which carried the road across a rocky cleft. On the far side, the shallow swell of the Pazarel stood guard over the high road to the west. Horns and shouts sounded from the scrub below. The hog hunters were still beating the bushes for the tusked fugitives that found sanctuary amid the wooded defiles threading through the city.

Gruit's name was boldly displayed above a storehouse's door beside a fine statue of Ostrin. The rotund and bearded god of hospitality smiled down, a flagon in one hand, a bunch of grapes in the other. It was the busiest of all the warehouses lining this stretch of the road. Liveried servants were directing storemen carefully carrying casks of fine spirits. The wax-sealed necks of bottles poked out of woven straw in tightly packed baskets.

Tathrin walked cautiously inside. Soberly dressed clerks were offering glasses of wine to prosperous men and women in silken gowns. No one paid any heed to him in his drab clerk's doublet. He saw a staircase leading to a half-open door at the back of the building. Steeling himself, he walked up.

Gruit was making notes in a ledger, a glass of wine and an open bottle to hand. "If you go back down, I'll send someone to wait on you."

He didn't look up as Tathrin hesitated on the threshold. Recalling Kierst's slander, Tathrin wondered if that was the first bottle of the merchant's day.

"Forgive the intrusion." He cleared his throat. "But I'm not here about wine."

Gruit looked up, his faded eyes narrowing. "I know your face." He thought for a moment. "You were with Wyess, last night." He startled Tathrin with a bark of laughter. "How are his knuckles? I should send him some mustard to poultice his hand, along with my thanks for knocking Kierst on his arse."

"I'm not here on my master's behalf." Tathrin's mouth was dry. "I was interested in what you had to say last night, about how all Lescari should take some responsibility for what happens at home."

Gruit considered him. "Where are you from, lad? Carluse, by your accent?"

Tathrin nodded. "I know someone who'd very much like to meet you. Someone who wants to improve the lot of all Lescari."

"I don't travel, not back to Lescar." Gruit shook his head regretfully.

"No, he's here, in the city--' Tathrin broke off, unable to think how to explain further.

Gruit laid his reed pen across a brass inkwell and looked at Tathrin. "I thought I knew all the exiles here who haven't turned their backs on their homeland."

"He keeps himself to himself--' Again, Tathrin couldn't go on.

Gruit rubbed a wrinkled hand across his grey jowls. "You think I should meet him?"

"Yes." Of that, Tathrin was certain.

Gruit smiled wryly. "Will your reclusive friend have heard about last night's events?"

Tathrin nodded. "But he'll want to have the truth of it from your own lips."

"What will he say?" challenged Gruit.

Tathrin wasn't about to hazard a guess. "You should find that out for yourself."

"Intriguing." Gruit shook fine sand across his page. "Of course, you could just be planning on luring me down some blind alley where your accomplices will knock me out and steal my rings and purse."

"Master, I swear, on whatever gods you cherish, I'm coming to you in all good faith." Tathrin was taken aback. He'd imagined Gruit would need some convincing to leave his business in mid-morning. He hadn't expected to be accused of plotting to rob him.

Gruit dismissed his words with a wave of his hand. "I hope you don't play the runes, my lad. You'll lose your shirt with a face that easy to read." Now that the ink was dry, he tipped the sand carefully into a little dish to be used again. "Besides, I don't suppose Master Wyess would have hired you without making very sure you could be trusted, and had assurances from your family sealed by a notary into the bargain." He locked the ledger in a drawer. "Saiger!"

A man ran up the stairs from the warehouse floor. "Master?"

"I'm going out for a while. If I'm not back for my appointment with Widow Quaine, rouse the Watch and send them to make enquiries about Master Wyess's new apprentice here."

So Master Gruit was both bold enough to go with him, and canny enough to make sure of such safeguards. Tathrin's spirits rose. Gruit really could be the man they'd been looking for.

Moving swiftly for a man of his years and bulk, the wine merchant crossed the room. He stowed his key chain safely inside the breast of his old-fashioned tunic, then took a brown mantle from a peg. As they walked out past the casks and baskets to the road, he bowed to his customers.

"My compliments. Fair festival."

Tathrin followed, trying to look unobtrusive.

Gruit turned downhill. "Where does this friend of yours hide himself away?"

"No, Master, it's this way." Tathrin pointed back towards the upper town and the austere battlements of the university's nearest gate.

Chapter Five

Aremil

Beacon Lane, in Vanam's Upper Town,

Spring Equinox Festival, Fourth Day, Noon

Soup slopped as the knock on the door startled Lyrlen. Most of the spoonful landed back in the bowl, but a few drops splashed onto the napkin tucked into Aremil's collar.

"Are you expecting anyone?" Exasperated, the old woman rose from her stool ready to ward off unwanted visitors.

"No." Aremil swallowed, acutely conscious of the soup on his chin.

"Master Aremil, it's me, Tathrin."

Lyrlen clicked her tongue but set the bowl back on the tray. "You must eat later, my lord."

He didn't reply as she cleaned his face with the napkin, her hands as deft as they had always been. Though her step was becoming slower and her hair was now as white as her linen cap.

Tathrin knocked again. "Mistress Lyrlen?"

"A moment, if you please." She straightened Aremil's collar. "Are you warm enough? Do you want a blanket?"

"No, thank you." He managed a smile to convince her.

Truth be told, he was a little cold despite the fire in the hearth. But he was no more going to sit swaddled like an infant than wear some aged invalid's chamber robe. If doublet and breeches exposed his twisted frame, well, visitors' reactions gave him a useful measure of their character.

The smile was worth the effort. Lyrlen went out into the hall to open the door. "Tathrin, you're very welcome."

Aremil heard him introduce someone. "This is Master Gruit, a wine merchant."

"Come in and welcome," Aremil said as the two men appeared in the doorway. "Lyrlen, that will be all, thank you."

"As you wish." She took up the tray and curtseyed before withdrawing to her kitchen.

"Master Gruit, you are indeed welcome." Aremil hoped the man would step closer. At the moment he was a mere impression of a long brown mantle topped with white hair.

"You heard about last night?" the wine merchant asked wryly.

"Naturally. Tathrin, please serve some wine." Aremil tried to look as welcoming as he could without risking a smile that would distort his face. "Master Gruit, I hope the vintage meets with your approval. Please, sit."

Gruit took the nearer end of the settle where Aremil could see him clearly. A heavily built man, he was solid rather than fat, not overly tall. Past his prime, his jowls sagged and wrinkles were carved deep into his face. But he was clearly still vigorous, his expression both alert and astute.

"Am I supposed to have lost my wits or merely my temper?" Gruit asked.

"Opinion's divided."

Aremil watched him taking in every detail of this comfortable sitting room. What was Gruit making of the thick maroon carpet, the brocaded upholstery, the shelves of tightly packed books? Assuming this was a wealthy scholar's lodging? But he'd have noticed that no university hall's crest of books or quills or lanterns was carved into the door of the house. Private property was hardly unknown in the upper town; nevertheless, it was uncommon.

Tathrin handed Gruit a crystal goblet. The merchant raised it to his lips before hesitating, seeing Aremil had received no drink.

"Please, quench your thirst. I'm subject to weakness in my hands so I prefer not to drink in company." Aremil glanced at Tathrin. "Has our friend explained my infirmities?"

"He's said little about you, other than that you keep largely within your own doors." Gruit covered his embarrassment by taking a sip.

"As you see, my weakness extends to my legs." Aremil managed a casual tone. There was no point in pretending otherwise; even at rest, his scrawny legs were awkwardly flexed.

"Yet you have heard all about last night. You're plainly a man of resource as well as resources. My compliments--this is a fine vintage. Ferl River, some two or three years old?" Gruit drank his wine and nodded at the painting hung above the fireplace. "That's Ilasette Den Pallarie's work, isn't it?"

"It is," Aremil confirmed. "That's to say, you're quite correct about the wine, and yes, Madam Den Pallarie rendered the landscape for me."

"Pardon my frankness." Gruit set his goblet down carefully on the polished rosewood table where onyx and agate game pieces clustered beside the white raven board. "There's a curious quality to your voice that I assume stems from your infirmities. I would say you're Lescari, but I cannot quite identify which dukedom you're from."

"Draximal," Aremil said calmly. "Though I have lived in Vanam for many years now."

"While your friend here is only recently come from Carluse." Gruit glanced at Tathrin.

Aremil risked an attempt at a half-smile. "We've long since decided that our common heritage unites us more than our fathers'--" he caught himself and hoped Gruit would think the stumble of no consequence "--and forefathers' quarrels divide us."

"So your call for unity among those of us in exile struck me," Tathrin added quickly.

"Is that so?" Gruit glanced from Aremil to Tathrin. "How did the two of you become acquainted if Master Aremil spends his days by his own fireside?"

"My family aren't wealthy," Tathrin explained self-consciously. "While I studied I worked as a scholars' servant."

Aremil wondered what the merchant made of his ungainly awkwardness and hesitant speech when Tathrin was so tall, fresh-faced and straight-limbed. While he sat concealing the pains it cost him to stay motionless, lest any but the most trusted see the tremors that often shook him. Did Gruit realise Aremil was Tathrin's elder by barely five years? Between the trials of his condition and his inadequate eyesight, Aremil knew his own face was thin and lined. It would not have surprised him if the merchant took him for ten years older than Tathrin.

"Are you congratulating me for making our countrymen feel miserable and guilty?" Gruit castigated himself rather than challenging Aremil.

"Tathrin says a number appeared to agree with you." Tension worsened the pains in Aremil's back. "Only they could see no way forward. So I have a suggestion for you and your fellow merchants."

"Do you indeed?" Gruit raised bushy white brows, halfway between hope and scepticism.

"Our countrymen send money to their kith and kin, to enable them to pay the dues the dukes demand in lieu of taking their sons to serve in the militias." Aremil felt a bubble of saliva at the corner of his mouth and paused to swallow. "But these remittances merely throw fuel on the smouldering fires of Lescari strife. As soon as a duke can wring sufficient silver out of his subjects, he hires mercenaries to try to impose his rule over all the rest."

"If there was no money, there could be no warfare," Tathrin said bluntly.

Gruit shook his head. "The dukes would draft men from the villages into the militias at spear-point. At least foreign blood stains the battlefields if such dishonourable men choose to risk their lives for silver."

"The dukes couldn't leave the fields untended," Aremil countered, "if they had no coin to buy Caladhrian grain to keep bread on their tables."

"The dukes and their families will be the last to go hungry," retorted Gruit. "Their hired swords would just seize what they wanted from the peasantry."

"If they're not being paid, there will be no mercenaries to do such plundering," Aremil insisted.

"If they're not being paid, mercenaries will go looting on their own behalf," Gruit said promptly. "Good coin is all that can buy peasants relief from such predation."