Gren cracked his knuckles with keen anticipation. "Simplest thing is to snatch her."
"She never goes anywhere without an escort." Tathrin didn't like the sound of this at all. "Besides, if it is her, how are the guildmasters to manage without her?"
"If she has an escort, whoever's left standing can take word back to Duke Garnot." Sorgrad was unperturbed. "If we do this right, she can always go back to spy for your father's friends."
Gren nodded. "As long as the ransom's paid."
"Ransom?" Tathrin protested.
"You think Duke Garnot would be convinced she was innocent if he didn't have to pay to get her back?" Sorgrad raised his blond brows.
"You do understand we're mercenaries?" Gren sounded genuinely concerned. "This game of yours and Charoleia's sounds like more fun than sitting on this bridge with our thumbs up our arses, but we'll still want a fat purse at the end of the day."
"So we'll kidnap Garnot's doxy and see what we can get out of her, and for her." Sorgrad clearly didn't expect further debate. "We'll call that a payment on account."
"If you haven't got the stones for it, lad, we'll meet you back in Vanam with the lass all tied up with a ribbon," Gren offered. "Charoleia will understand."
Tathrin couldn't think what to say. Kidnapping? Demanding a ransom? That's what mercenaries did. He'd been sent here to recruit mercenaries to their cause. If he didn't go along with this, he'd have to go back to Vanam and tell everyone how he'd failed.
If he didn't go along with them, it was a gold mark to a mushroom that these two Mountain Men would seize the girl anyway. How would they treat her? What would happen if she fled screaming from such an assault? If he was there, at least he could explain who they were.
He walked over to the parapet and looked both ways along the bridge. Around the gate to the town and on the other side along the causeway, men were camped wearing Draximal's red and gold and flying banners with the beacon-basket on them.
"How do we get off this bridge?" That was his most immediate question.
"Same way you got here." Gren came to make an obscene gesture at militiamen too far away to see it. "It's a wild ride with the river this high."
Tathrin's stomach lurched at the prospect. Going along with these two and their new plan would be just as hair-raising, wouldn't it?
Sorgrad opened the trapdoor and shouted down into the noisy gloom. "Jik, you thieving louse, give the lad his fancy dagger back. We're leaving."
Chapter Eleven
Failla
Carluse Castle, in the Kingdom of Lescar,
31
st
of Aft-Spring
The sun woke her early. The duke's formal bedchamber boasted heavy velvet curtains and wooden shutters, but this dressing room where he actually slept had only a muslin drape to soften the window. Duke Garnot slept on, untroubled by sunlight striking the silver amid his dark wiry hair. He always claimed that summer campaigns in his youth had taught him to sleep in any conditions.
She was pinned between him and the wall. The bed was comfortably wide for one, inconveniently small for two. She eased herself out, tucking the sheet and quilt down so no chill draught might rouse him. Reaching the foot of the bed, Failla took care not to trip over his boots and breeches. She hurried to the door, her stomach tight with apprehension. As she eased the door handle, no treacherous squeak from the hinges betrayed her. The pork fat had done its work.
It had been worth ruining her silken reticule for the sake of stealing a scrap of rind from the suckling pig served last night. But she must burn the ribbon-tied purse before some maid wondered at the grease stains. She didn't want someone carrying even such inconsequential gossip to the duchess's women.
There was scant chance Duke Garnot would notice his gift's absence. If he did, would he imagine she'd sold it for the few silver pennies it would bring her? He never showed any sign of knowing that she turned as many of his favours as she could into coin. But he had always made it clear that she need not expect him to support her once their dalliance was done. Duchess Tadira begrudged the lifelong pensions paid to respectable retainers. She wouldn't countenance the grant of a copper cut-piece to keep her husband's discarded whore from beggary.
Failla closed the door carefully and let the tapestry hiding the dressing room fall across it. Moving more purposefully, no longer feeling as if she were walking on eggshells, she hurried to the second room opening discreetly off the grand chamber. Once she'd used the chamber pot tucked beneath the washstand, she had her excuse for leaving Duke Garnot's bed.
Returning to the high-ceilinged chamber dominated by the canopied bed where dukes were begotten and born, she began reading the documents discarded on top of the map chest. Duke Garnot wouldn't recall exactly how he'd left them. Not after she'd answered his summons wearing only a flimsy bodice and lace petticoats beneath her cloak, complaining prettily that she'd just been undressing, assuming he'd talk late into the night with his advisors. All the same, she replaced each sheet as precisely as she could.
Some letters were in the duke's angular hand, others in less well-tutored script. This mercenary captain was boasting that he could bring enough individual bands together to field a company of three hundred mounted hand-tallies. In any such group of five, Failla knew, one or two would be more servant and squire to the experienced warriors. Those youths would be grooming horses and polishing armour rather than killing men. So in practice that probably meant somewhere between a thousand and twelve hundred fighting men. She set the letter down and found another from some warmonger offering to broker deals with archers and crossbowmen, promising contingents one hundred strong. There was no indication that Garnot was planning to reply to him, but Failla committed every detail to memory regardless.
A sketch map of the countryside around the market town of Ashgil offered notes beside each manor house within three days' walk. She recognised the handwriting of Duke Garnot's reeve. So those noble lords who'd failed to pay their shield levy at Spring Equinox would find themselves housing and feeding whatever mercenaries Duke Garnot hired this summer.
What was he planning? Ashgil was well inside Carluse, thirty leagues from the closest border, so there was no clue there. Duke Garnot's most enduring quarrels were with Duke Ferdain of Marlier away to the south and with Duke Moncan of Sharlac northwards beyond the Great West Road. But Duke Ferdain had concentrated on making all the coin he could out of the river trade down the Rel this past year.
Duke Moncan hadn't set foot outside Sharlac castle since his army's incursion into Carluse the year before last. After that campaign had ended in the bloody battle outside Losand where the Duke of Sharlac's son and heir Jaras had died, Garnot had been content to let the old Jackal lick his wounds in peace.
If only Veblen were still here. Failla clenched her bare toes in the thick wool of the Dalasorian carpet. Duke Garnot had always discussed his plans with his bastard son. Neither ever realised how much she learned, lingering to pick up her music from the harpsichord or gathering up her shoes before she slipped away. It hadn't occurred to them that she might still be listening outside the doors she closed behind her.
Veblen had seen her stripped to chemise and stockings often enough to discreetly desire her. Encouraging his humble hopes with artless charm, Failla had often discovered still more details of Duke Garnot's plans. Besides, she'd been looking ahead to the inevitable day when Garnot discarded her. It would have been no great hardship to let Veblen love her then.
But Veblen had died in the battle before Losand. Tears prickled Failla's eyes. Duke Garnot had told Duchess Tadira he'd got the better of that exchange. A man would sacrifice a swordwing for the sake of moving a marsh hawk nearer to the white raven, all the closer to winning the game. Duchess Tadira agreed that a bastard son was no loss, even one as loyal and able as Veblen. Not compared with the firstborn of the Sharlac ducal blood.
Failla drew a deep breath to curb her threatening tears. Duke Garnot disliked seeing her with reddened eyes. Unless he was the one making her weep, relieving his frustrations with cutting words and cruel lovemaking.
She looked down, smoothing her gossamer shift. If her hips were rounder, ripeness came to all women. Her waist was still slender, her breasts beneath the translucent silk full but not yet sagging. She had put so much effort into making sure of that, made so many sacrifices. But she had barely been out of girlhood when Garnot's gaze had found her. How long before his eye strayed towards some younger harlot?
She'd used to dread that day. Now it couldn't come soon enough. As long as she had hoarded enough gold and silver to get far away from Carluse. Just as long as no one discovered her secret before she had a chance to run.
She resolutely turned her thoughts to more immediate concerns. Could she slip upstairs before the duke woke? Would her cousin Vrist be working in the stable yard, to see the curtain in one of the empty rooms twisted around as if by some careless maid? Could she find time to write down her latest discoveries?
"Failla?" Duke Garnot's deep voice carried clearly through the closed door and the muffling tapestry covering it.
She set down the paper with trembling hands and hurried back.
"My lord?" She smiled, coquettish, expecting him to throw aside the quilt to hitch up his nightshirt and lie back against the pillows. Would he want her to ride his morning readiness or kneel between his feet to take him in her mouth?
Garnot sat up instead, a crease between his heavy brows as he swung his feet to the floor. "Duchess Tadira arrives before noon."
He was clearly none too pleased, but Failla knew better than to agree.
"The town will rejoice to see her."
Garnot grunted. "You're ready to travel, sweetness?"
"Of course." She ducked her head biddably before glancing up through her long lashes. "Though I will miss you."
"I'll miss you, poppet." He laughed, lazily pleased. "Give me a kiss."
Sitting on his knee, she teased his lips with her tongue. As his arm tightened around her waist, his other hand cupped her breast, his thumb teasing her nipple. Faintly on the far side of the castle, the clock struck the second hour of the day.
"It's later than I thought." Duke Garnot stood up, more than a head and a half taller than Failla even in his bare feet. "I want you out of here by mid-morning."
"Of course, my lord--" A knock on the door interrupted Failla's answer.
It was Lenter, the duke's valet. As always, he took no more notice of Failla than he did of the chair by the window. "Your Grace, I'm ready to shave you."
"Do we know when they're arriving?" Duke Garnot left the room. "Will everything be ready?"
"The maids are busy with the final preparations," Lenter assured him.
The closing door and the fall of the tapestry cut off whatever else the valet said. Failla bit her lip. Who was coming? Duchess Tadira had her own wing of the castle, and the servants there who scorned Failla so would have everything arranged as their mistress liked. Duke Garnot wouldn't concern himself with that.
Failla looked up at the painted ceiling where Halcarion, goddess of love and luck, bathed with her maidens. It was long past time the moon maiden granted her some good fortune. She'd have no chance to slip upstairs to the duke's guest apartments if the maids of all work were already sweeping and dusting and making up the beds with fresh linens. Come to that, if Garnot wanted her gone by mid-morning, she had better hurry back to her own room.
She stepped into her petticoats and tied them loosely at her waist before donning her cloak over her chemise. Anyone who saw her would ignore her just as Lenter had. As soon as Duchess Tadira was expected, Failla became as invisible as a shadow from some children's tale of the Eldritch Kin. That suited her. Slipping bare feet into kidskin shoes, she stuffed her stockings into the silken reticule and folded that inside the bodice that Duke Garnot had so enjoyed unlacing last night.
If she found a chance to write a message, could she slip it to someone she trusted once she was outside the castle gates? That would depend who Horsemaster Corrad chose to escort her.
Leaving the ducal chamber, she ignored the grand central staircase in favour of the servants' stairs. No one could tell Duchess Tadira that the duke's whore didn't know her place. There was no one around to see her crossing the inner ward's lawns and she slipped through a side door into the range of buildings that divided the main castle bailey. Everyone would be hurrying to get everything just right, so they could change into clean livery before the duchess arrived. Saedrin save anyone whom Tadira saw with dust on the black quartering of their surcoat or a dirty smudge on the white.
As she ran up the back stairs to the empty garrets, she could hear the scrape of tables and benches being shifted in the great hall below.
Someone had brought hot water to the washstand in her small room this morning. Failla was surprised into a smile. Tepid now, it still meant she could wash. Whoever had done her that kindness had also left a plate of buttered bread and a glass of milk. She ate and drank and made a rapid but thorough toilette, brushing out her long dark hair before plaiting it into a practical braid. Refreshed, she found a clean chemise of stout linen rather than seductive silk and drew on woollen stockings. Buttoning a cornflower-blue riding dress over thick flannel petticoats, she pulled on black boots.