"Charoleia says you reckon buying us all off will put an end to the warfare tormenting Lescar. Would you like me to point out the flaw in your reasoning?" Sorgrad asked mildly.

"If you'd be so kind." Tathrin could see no scholar's ring on the Mountain Man's pale fingers, but he was clearly astute.

"Most mercenaries do fight for the coin, that's true. Arest and his Wyvern Hunters, for instance." Sorgrad gestured towards the pale banner fluttering in the breeze and Tathrin saw the black wyvern on it. "As soon as either Draximal or Parnilesse comes up with a decent bid, they'll take their money and be on their way. But there's plenty who won't be bought so easily."

"A lot just fight for the fun of it," Gren explained.

Tathrin didn't like the keenness in his expression. "For fun?"

Sorgrad looked grimmer. "There are always men with a taste for cruelty, and a few women, come to that. Stay at home and beat your wife to death or bugger your neighbour's son and you'll dangle from the nearest tall tree. If your mind's set on killing, you can dabble in guts up to your elbows in Lescar."

Nauseated, Tathrin couldn't think what to say.

"Or revenge." Gren was still musing on motives. "Half the men fighting with Arkady the Red just want another hack at Kairal's Minstrels, after the last time they got their arses kicked. Then there's the ones out for fame and fortune, and beardless boys running away from home who think killing for coin's easier than an honest trade."

"They're generally dead by the end of their first season." Sorgrad looked down, as if he could see through the roof tiles into the room below. "Then there's the ones with nowhere else to go."

"Men like Zeil. Even if you paid him off, he's no home to go back to," Gren explained.

"Your grandfather fought to defend Carluse's borders, and your father, I'm guessing?" Sorgrad looked at Tathrin. "You'll find men with just as many generations of mercenary blood. They spend their whole lives going from fight to fight."

"Didn't Charoleia say all this when you and your pals cooked up this porridge?" Gren chuckled.

"No," Tathrin said with a spark of anger.

"Did you ask her?" Sorgrad queried.

Tathrin remembered. "She did say it wouldn't be simple, or easy."

"So she sent you to ask our advice, which is the best thing you could have done." Sorgrad looked thoughtfully at the letter. "My advice is, don't pay mercenaries not to fight."

"You want them fighting for you, driving off the ones who can't be bought out." Gren smiled with happy anticipation.

"Plenty of honest mercenaries would take your coin for that," Sorgrad assured him, "and prefer it to hacking down peasants."

"There's no challenge killing someone who can't hardly find the pointy end of a pike." Gren shook his head.

"Perhaps," Tathrin began cautiously. "But I would have to put all this to Master--" He remembered Charoleia's lecture on secrecy. "To my colleagues."

"All of you scholars, are you?" Gren asked with interest.

"Never mind that." Sorgrad walked over to the trapdoor and hauled it open. "Does anyone know where Arkady is these days?" he shouted down.

"Kellarin," someone bellowed back.

"Sheepshit," Sorgrad swore with economy. "Bald Juris?"

"Dead," another voice called. "His wife slit his throat."

That raised a cheer that made the tiles under Tathrin's feet tremble.

"Kerroy?"

"Dead of spotted fever over the winter. Him, Orlat and Shoddy Nair."

Tathrin recognised the big man Arest's voice, harsh with scorn.

That came as unwelcome news to more than Sorgrad, judging by the lamentation.

"Do you think we could get Halice to come home for this?" Gren asked hopefully.

Sorgrad shook his head briefly. "She's pregnant."

"No?" Gren was enthralled. "Who--"

"Does anyone know where Markasir is?" Sorgrad called as the noise below died down.

There was uncertain conferring.

"Carluse?" someone suggested, but several shouts instantly disagreed.

Sorgrad's brow creased. "What about Lerris the Mason?"

"Heading for Carluse," a gruff voice announced confidently.

"Definitely," another seconded.

Sorgrad let the trapdoor fall closed. "If you want someone to recruit mercenaries for you, Lerris or Markasir would be good men to talk to."

"Duke Garnot already has mercenaries in his pay. They call themselves Wynald's Warband." Tathrin sat upright. "Is he thinking of war this summer? Is that why those mercenaries are heading for Carluse?"

"Who knows?" Sorgrad folded Charoleia's letter carefully along its creases and tucked it inside his leather jerkin. "How much do you know about hiring mercenaries, lad?"

"Do you even know the difference between a hound and a cur?" asked Gren.

Tathrin didn't think he was talking about dogs. "How do you mean?"

"Wynald's Warband--they're using the Carluse boar's head on their badge now?" queried Sorgrad.

"Yes." Tathrin had seen a few of the uniformed mercenaries on the road when he had last visited his family.

"That means Duke Garnot is paying them year round, whether or not he's fighting a campaign," Sorgrad explained.

"Keeping them close to do his dirty work," added Gren.

Tathrin recalled the corpses hanging on the gibbet by the inn. "Yes, they do that."

"Among ourselves, we'd call them house hounds, taking the duke's coin in exchange for his leash around their necks." Sorgrad gestured at the flapping wyvern banner. "You won't ever see Arest add some piece of a duke's badge to his blazon."

"That makes him a cur," Gren said with relish. "A dusty dog, leading a free company of mucky pups, hunting wherever he wants."

"I see," Tathrin said cautiously. "What does that mean for us?"

"Dukes like to leash the better mercenary bands," Sorgrad said frankly, "and you won't buy them off. Once their captain-general's taken that gold, the company won't betray their word."

"No?" Tathrin tried not to sound too sceptical.

"Not often." Sorgrad grinned. "More importantly, Charoleia says you want to keep all this as secret as possible until you're ready to strike. You won't manage that if you approach any mercenary captain with ties to a duke."

"So we must hire some of these... curs?" Tathrin asked dubiously. "The ones who are a match for the dukes' hounds?"

"The scholar knows how five beans make a handful," Gren said with sarcastic admiration.

"What about these men who are heading for Carluse?" Tathrin was seized with urgent apprehension. "Are they free companies? Could we persuade them not to fight for Duke Garnot but to join us instead?"

Then he could hope warfare wouldn't be threatening his family before the summer's barley ripened.

"We'd need to know what Duke Garnot of Carluse is offering so we can come up with a better bid." Sorgrad's blue gaze challenged Tathrin again. "Charoleia says your father drinks with some guildmasters who like to get their apprentices clear of militia levies?"

"What's that to you?" Tathrin wondered what else she'd written in that coded letter.

"Thinking back on the last time Duke Garnot of Carluse sent men into battle against Duke Moncan of Sharlac, someone knew exactly where the fighting was going to happen, well aware Duke Garnot was wanting to lure Sharlac forces across the border into Carluse lands before he struck. Word got to Losand in time for the guildmasters there to make ready and close the gates to save the town from Sharlac's men and Wynald's mercenaries both. That information didn't come from Duke Garnot's men. One of Wynald's lieutenants got a flogging for it, but I know none of that company would send a warning. Why should they? Losand's fate was no concern of theirs and besides, if they came on the town all unawares, they could loot it themselves and blame some Sharlac dogs." Sorgrad shrugged but his eyes didn't leave Tathrin's. "I reckon those guildmasters have someone inside Duke Garnot's castle in Carluse Town. If that person could tell you and me what the duke is planning, we'd know how best to buy off Lerris or Markasir."

"Buy them both off," Gren advised, "to make sure whichever company loses out doesn't go off to fight for Marlier or Triolle or whoever Carluse is thinking of kicking."

"We won't get anywhere going into this blind," Sorgrad told Tathrin bluntly. "I won't even try, not even for Charoleia."

"Not for all your friends' gold," Gren agreed.

Tathrin had no doubt both men mean what they said. "There's someone close to Duke Garnot's mistress," he said reluctantly.

Gren chuckled. "Friend, do you like to play the runes?"

"You've got an honest face, Tathrin." Sorgrad's laugh wasn't unfriendly. "So it's the mistress?"

"I think so." A horrid qualm twisted Tathrin's innards, and not just because his father would be furious with him for betraying such a secret. "But if Duke Garnot suspects, she's as good as dead, and I don't know for certain." He'd only overheard his father speculating as he shared a late-night glass of white brandy with his brother-in-law.

"No one will learn it from us," Sorgrad assured him.

"If it isn't her, the chances are she knows enough to be useful regardless," Gren said comfortably.

"I could see if I can get a letter to my father," Tathrin said slowly. "I think he knows someone who sometimes carries word to a friend of a man who lives in Carluse Town."

"Piss on that for a partner-dance," Gren said robustly.

"It does sound like one." Sorgrad grinned momentarily. "No, I'm not following a chain like that. Any link could be weak or false and we'd have Carluse's fetters snapped round our wrists quick as you like."

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, 31st of Aft-Spring 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.