"Let's see it." The bearded man held out a commanding hand, his sword still ready.

Tathrin reached slowly into his doublet to retrieve it. He held it out, but when the bearded man went to take it, he twitched it out of his reach. "You can see the seals and read the direction but I'm not letting you open it."

Charoleia had been very clear with her instructions. Which was all very well since she wasn't the one risking a sliced throat. Tathrin clenched his jaw. If this man was set on reading the letter, he was hardly in a position to stop him.

The bearded man grinned. "I do like to see a lad taking pride in his work." He bent forward to peer at the impressions in the wax and Charoleia's flowing script. "Fair enough. Best be on your way."

At the bearded man's nod, the others all stepped backwards.

"Thank you." Tathrin tucked the letter back inside his doublet and slung his bag over one shoulder. He hesitated.

The man holding his purse chewed his lip before pouring half the contents into one grimy hand. He tossed the lightened pouch back to Tathrin. "That'll get you a bed for the night in town and pay your way across the bridge."

Jik, the man who had taken Gruit's dagger, just grinned as he tucked the weapon through his own belt. "Better hope you find your friend."

"Shut your mouth." The bearded man smiled pleasantly at Tathrin. "Best be on your way."

"Thank you." Tathrin squared his shoulders and began walking. He didn't dare look back until the next curve in the road offered a chance to sneak a quick glance over his shoulder. There was no sign of the men who'd accosted him. Presumably they were hiding in the hedgerows again, waiting for the next pigeon to step into their trap for the plucking.

He swapped his bag to the other shoulder and kept on walking, his pounding heart gradually slowing. He still had the letter and he still had Gruit's gold, thanks to Reniack's advice. Even if walking with the purse inside his linen drawers wasn't exactly comfortable.

Emirle's walls soon rose up before him. Common grazing stretched out towards the streams on either side. Horses were tethered here and there and he could see small knots of cows ostensibly being herded by youths who seemed more interested in huddling together for purposes of their own. The town gate was open and Tathrin could see men and women milling around. What was he going to say to them?

Heavy boots ran up behind him. Black cloth enveloped his head, a cord wrapping around his neck. He struck out wildly but rope snared his arms, quickly drawn tight. He was choking, golden flashes fracturing his vision in the musty darkness. Someone kicked his feet out from under him, hobnails brutal on his ankle bone. He fell heavily, unable to save himself. Hands grabbed him by the shoulders, waist and knees. He writhed and kicked as best he could but the choking tether tightened and his head swam. Was that a faint laugh he heard?

He was slung over someone's shoulder, carried like a bundle of hides in Master Wyess's storehouse. The noose around his neck slackened just enough for the strangling sensation to fade. He hung limply as he was jolted along, struggling to draw breath through the muffling cloth, fighting not to lose his senses. If they knew he was conscious, would they choke him again? The thought of dying like that was terrifying.

Where were they taking him? Into the depths of the woods to be robbed and murdered and worse? Fear and uncertainty were as much of a torment as the man's shoulder digging into his stomach. Hanging head down like this was making him feel sick and the breath was knocked out of him time and again. He tried to tuck his chin onto his chest to save his neck from the worst of the jolts but the noose threatened to throttle him.

After what felt like half a lifetime, the pounding boots slowed and stopped. Tathrin clenched bowels and bladder, his breath coming faster, harsh with dread. He was trembling, he couldn't help it. Poldrion grant him a quick death at least. He tried to think of a suitable prayer to the god of the dead. All he could recall were the tales of torture and mutilation that the pony-cart man had related.

A despairing moan escaped him despite all his efforts. His family would never learn his fate. All they'd know was that he'd fled from his apprenticeship after repaying Master Wyess's generosity with a pack of lies.

Chapter Ten.

Tathrin Emirle Bridge, in the Dukedom of Draximal, 22nd of Aft-Spring of Aft-Spring

"You bide still, lad." Whoever was carrying him slung over one broad shoulder patted his thigh.

Before he could wonder at that unexpected courtesy, he was abruptly set down onto his feet. Still hooded and bound, he swayed, dizzy. Someone laughed and shoved him sideways. As he staggered, his feet found a slick slope. Toppling forward with a shocked yelp, he tried to curl up to break his fall. Something dug agonisingly into his side as he landed on a hard, rocking surface.

"You'll answer for any broken ribs, Macra," a menacing tone said.

Belatedly Tathrin recognised the bearded ruffian's voice. That was who had been carrying him.

Something splashed as he was hauled upright. Dampness seeped through his breeches and he felt wood beneath his hands. Everything swayed; that wasn't just dizziness. He was sitting in a boat. He coughed.

"Best not choke him on his own spew."

Tathrin couldn't tell who'd made that laconic observation. Rough hands loosened the cloak swaddling him. Blinking in the daylight, he gasped with relief as cold, damp air filled his lungs.

He was in a rowing boat with the gang who'd accosted him on the road. They were heading into the middle of the fast-flowing river. The bearded man was sitting on a thwart behind him. That must have been what he'd landed on. Tathrin took a cautious breath. He was bruised but thank Saedrin he didn't think he'd cracked a rib.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked, hoarse with apprehension.

"To deliver your letter." The bearded man's smile wasn't in the least reassuring.

"Thank you." Tathrin drew up his knees and hugged his bag, shaking with cold, damp and dread.

The bridge blocked their way, gatehouses at both ends and a tall tower rising in the centre. A pale flag was flying from the topmost turret but Tathrin couldn't make out the blazon. He was more concerned with what lay directly ahead. Each pillar supporting the bridge's seven spans was faced with angled stones that cut the foaming waters. The arches closest to either bank were each blocked by something anchored, but Tathrin couldn't make out what. Debris pressed up against the other pillars. Amid the drowned branches of some uprooted tree, he could see the unmistakable oval of a wrecked boat.

"Head for the middle steps," the bearded man advised.

The rowers facing Tathrin didn't answer, grimacing as they hauled on their mismatched oars. He heard shouts rising above the tumult of the river and saw men looking down from the parapet, waving and cheering. Over on the town bank, there was more shouting, harsher, outraged. Something cut a white streak through the boiling brown waters.

"Shit for brains, the lot of them." Sitting in the prow, Jik laughed. "Don't they know they can't reach us?"

"Let them waste their arrows if they want," the bearded man said equably.

Tathrin couldn't look away from the central pillar. They were hurtling towards it, the boat bucking like an ill-tempered horse. Far too late for his peace of mind, one of the mercenaries was handing out extra oars. Soon all of them were digging deep into the water, muscles bulging. Was drowning as quick and painless as it was supposed to be? Tathrin didn't think being pounded against the bridge's pillars was going to be an easy death.

The rowing boat glanced off the angled face of the central pillar and scraped along it.

"Catch hold!"

Tathrin realised there was a door in the broad base of the pillar, wide enough for two men to stand in. A rope slapped his arm. He grabbed at it without thinking, feeling it sear his palm before he got a firmer grip. He let out a hiss of pain. More ropes followed, the mercenaries dropping their oars to catch them. The boat slowed, pulled tight against the stonework.

The bearded man climbed up onto the weed-strewn stair leading up to the doorway. "Come on, lad."

Tathrin tried to follow but his legs were too weak for him to manage the first long step out of the boat.

"Shift yourself!" Jik shoved him in the small of the back.

Tathrin grabbed at the slimy stones and the ropes and hauled himself up. Jik followed close behind.

"Who's this?" A swordsman in black and buff garb was twisting a loop of rope around an iron hook.

"He's got a letter for Sorgrad."

"Has he, by Talagrin?" The stair guard looked at him with interest.

"This way, lad." The bearded man went on upwards.

Still hesitating, Tathrin was astonished to see that the rest of the gang were still in the rowing boat. They let go of their ropes, whooping and cheering as the flow snatched the boat away.

"Shift." The thin man shoved him again, not nearly as genial as his captain.

Tathrin made haste, hoping his knees would soon stop shaking.

The spiral stair was dark and dank but thankfully short. It emerged into a narrow room with slit windows in the three outer walls. The door in the fourth side opened onto an arched passage and Tathrin realised that the bridge's roadway cut through the ground floor of the tower. At the moment, the arch was serving as a stable for some horses and this guardroom was piled high with newly cut forage.

"Where's Sorgrad?" the bearded man asked a man sharpening a scythe with leisurely strokes of a whetstone.

"Upstairs." The man nodded toward a ladder.

"Up you go." The bearded man jerked his head.

Glad to feel some strength returning to his arms and legs, Tathrin climbed up to find a room filling the whole width of the tower. It was crowded with armed men and, he realised belatedly, a small number of equally dangerous-looking women. Most of the mercenaries were little different from the common folk of Lescar, though quite a number had the burnished copper hair of the Forest Folk. There were even a few with the thickly curled black hair and rich brown skin of the Aldabreshin Archipelago. All wore the same uniform of black breeches and tunics.

Some were drinking, others crouched around lively games of runes. There was a wide hearth on the upstream face of the tower and several men and women tended cooking pots wedged into the ruddy embers. A few were watching a game of white raven being played out in front of the portcullis rising up from the floor on the western side. Stepping into the room so the bearded man could follow him up the ladder, Tathrin tried to look as unthreatening as possible.

"Sorgrad?" As he climbed up, the bearded man looked around.

"Who wants me?" A man of no great height stood watching the white raven players. He looked at Tathrin and raised pale yellow brows. "Not who you were expecting?"

Tathrin certainly hadn't been expecting a Mountain Man. He just wished his surprise hadn't shown on his face. "I have a letter for you, from Lady Alaric."

"Have you, now?" A second Mountain Man stood up from a huddle throwing trios of runes.

That must be Gren, Tathrin realised, Sorgrad's brother. Charoleia had said they looked remarkably alike.

The whole room fell silent, everyone turning to look at him with unwelcome interest.

"Where did you find him, Zeil?" Sorgrad asked the bearded man.

He shrugged. "On the road heading for the town. So we snatched him and hooded him and brought him along."

"Do you think he's a spy?" Gren looked at Tathrin with sharp suspicion. "Is that why you hooded him?"

Zeil shrugged again. "I just thought we'd see what he's made of."

"Was it brown?" Someone on the far side of the room chuckled.

Sorgrad laughed with the rest before shaking his head. "You just thought you'd amuse yourselves at his expense, because you're a nasty bastard."

"There's that, too," Zeil agreed easily, "and Jik was getting bored of sitting in a ditch."

"Strip him." A massively built man sitting on an upturned half-barrel looked up from the game of white raven. "Check for tattoos. Zeil, any word from either duke? I'm getting bored eating pickled fish and biscuits."

"No word yet," the bearded man replied.

The heavily built man grunted, forearms as thick as Tathrin's thighs resting on legs like tree-trunks. "Let the millers in the town know that I want their best offer by the full of the Greater Moon or we'll cut the mills loose and they can pick up the wreckage downstream."

That was what was anchored under the arches, Tathrin realised. Floating mills, protected by the bridge and easier to move than permanent ones when fighting threatened this border region. What would the people hereabouts do for bread if they lost the means to grind their flour?

"You can strip yourself," Sorgrad offered, coming over, "or I'm sure Zeil will oblige."

"I prefer my meat more tender." The bearded man grinned as the rest of the room laughed. "And willing." He glared pointedly at someone behind Tathrin.

"No, that's all right. I've no tattoos." At least Charoleia had warned him about this. Tathrin let his bag fall to the floor and unbuttoned his doublet. "Your letter." He handed it to the golden-haired man and, refusing to cower, shrugged his doublet off and pulled his shirt over his head.

"And your breeches." The enormous man was concentrating on his next move. "And your boots."

"There's nothing in his breeches there shouldn't be," Zeil said easily. "You can keep those on, lad."

That provoked another roar of laughter and ribald comments. Hoping he wasn't blushing, Tathrin sat down to unbuckle his boots. He began to feel more hopeful about escaping from this with a whole skin. Zeil wasn't giving him away even though he must have felt the solid lump of the purse hidden in his breeches when he was slung over his shoulder. He tried to convey his gratitude with a look as he handed his boots over for inspection.

"No hidden blades." Impassive, Zeil tossed his footwear back.

Sorgrad was studying the seals on the letter. "Can I take him up top, Arest?"

The massively built man didn't look up from his game. "Just give anyone down below a shout if you're planning to throw him off."

Tathrin realised he wasn't joking.

"Get dressed." Slightly shorter and a little less stocky than Sorgrad, the second Mountain Man was already halfway up a flight of open steps running up one wall. He threw open a trapdoor, prompting protests as a draught followed the daylight and sent smoke from the hearth swirling around the room.

Grabbing his clothes and boots, Tathrin followed, Sorgrad close behind him.

"Slide off down below," Gren said cheerfully to the sentry on the roof of the tower. "You can shake hands with your best friend later."

"Go piss up a rope," the swordsman said amiably as he went down the stairs. "We're not all panting for a whore."

The raw cold on the exposed roof raised gooseflesh on Tathrin's arms and chest. He dressed hurriedly.

Sorgrad was studying the letter. "Gren, shut the trap." He looked up as the wooden door crashed home. "Who did you say sent this?" His eyes were piercing sapphire blue.

Tathrin met his stern gaze. "Charoleia."

"Excellent." Gren's happy grin lit up his face. "What does she want us for?"

His blue eyes were a little lighter than his brother's, Tathrin noted, and he wore his straw-blond hair longer, roughly tied with a scrap of leather thong. Sorgrad's hair was as neatly trimmed as if he'd just stepped out of a Vanam barber's.

"A handful of Lescari-born in Vanam have come up with the cunning notion of paying mercenaries not to fight."

"That's a heap of horseshit," Gren said with disgust.

Tathrin realised Sorgrad had just read an intricately ciphered letter straight through without needing any recourse to paper or ink.