"I'll get your answers." Reher pulled the hammer he'd been using earlier out of the breast of his jerkin. He knelt by Sorgrad and stretched the pinned man's free arm out, clamping his elbow to the ground with his own strong hand.

"Tell us what we need to know and I'll break your arm just the once so you can't raise a sword for a while. Try to be a hero and I'll smash every bone in your hand. You'll never scratch your stones again."

"Go piss up a rope," the man snarled, clenching his fist.

Reher shook his head. "Doing that only makes it worse."

Tathrin winced as the hammer smashed the man's knuckles.

Sorgrad's hold tightened as the man shrieked, writhing in a vain attempt to break free from the agony. "Who are you working for?"

"No." The man drove his face into the soil. Sorgrad grabbed his hair and wrenched his head back before he could smother himself.

Impassive, Reher brought the hammer down a second time. Tathrin had to turn away. He tensed, waiting for the third blow. This time he saw the man's raw scream startle a flurry of small brown birds from a distant thicket.

"I'll tell you what I know!"

Tathrin turned to see the kneeling prisoner begging, wide-eyed.

"A man called Karn paid us to follow some mercenaries north," the curly-headed captive said hastily.

"Who's he, this man Karn?" Sorgrad sat back on his heels and let the tortured man loose. Reher rolled him onto his back.

"That's all we know." The injured man was in far too much pain to think of resisting, never mind fighting back. Tathrin saw he had bitten through his lip, blood and tears mingling with the dirt smeared across his face.

Reher brought the hammer down on the man's uninjured forearm with an audible crack of bone.

"No!" Tathrin protested, but no one was listening to him.

"Whoever Karn is, he's from Triolle," the curly-headed captive said desperately.

"Is he now?" Sorgrad looked interested. "Where did you meet up with him, and how are you supposed to be telling him what you've learned?"

"It was the tail end of Aft-Summer." The curly-haired man was gabbling now. "Around the Greater full moon. We were looking for a hire in the camps between Carluse and Marlier. He told us to leave word of whatever we found out at the Silver Spear Inn in Abray."

"You won't be doing that." Gren abruptly threw the man forward onto his face and held him down with a boot on his neck. "Reher?"

"Coming." The smith rose to his feet with a sigh.

"No!"

The prisoner choked on his plea as a dark stain spread in the seat of his breeches.

"He told you what you wanted to know," Tathrin pleaded.

"So?" Sorgrad was unbuckling Macra's belt. The whimpering man could hardly stop him.

As Reher quickly broke both the curly-headed man's arms, his screams cut through Tathrin's protests. It was a good thing the magic had already made him so ill, otherwise he'd be emptying his stomach again.

"That'll do." Reher stood up, as unemotional as if he'd just finished shoeing a horse.

"What now?" Sickened, Tathrin looked at the two injured men huddled in their misery.

"They're free to go." Reher began walking back up the gully.

"We go back to camp." Gren stabbed his knives into the damp turf to clean them. "We tell Arest what happened and where to find Macra and the other bodies."

Sorgrad was coiling Macra's belt round one hand. "These two had best hope they get far enough away before Arest and his men start hunting them."

That got the injured men's attention. Slowly, they stood, painfully cautious, broken arms crooked against their breasts. The first man's smashed hand was already grotesquely swollen, darkening with lurid bruising.

"Come on." Gren gripped Tathrin's shoulder and urged him up the hill.

He didn't resist, silent until they reached the scramble up to the summit linking this line of valleys. Looking back, he could just make out the tiny figures of the tortured men slowly walking away.

"Why didn't you just kill them?" he asked bitterly.

"Reher said not to." It was plainly a matter of complete indifference to Gren.

"Isn't this as good as murder?" Tathrin rounded on the smith. "Leaving them out here in the wilds without a hand to raise to defend themselves? How will they hunt for food?"

"I didn't break the skin, so they have no wounds to fester." Reher looked steadily at him. "Broken bones will mend with time and care. They can take whatever food and water their friends were carrying if they don't mind suffering to get it."

Tathrin recoiled from the thought of trying to plunder dead bodies with such injuries.

"Dead men feel no pain. If those two have to live with it for a few months, they might think better of making a trade out of other people's suffering." Reher showed no remorse. "This isn't the first time I've broken a man's bones for the sake of keeping Guild secrets safe. There's more brutality goes on in Lescar than you know of, lad."

"Don't think I don't know it!" Tathrin shivered, disgusted. He couldn't stop, chilled and wet as he was.

"'Grad!" Gren shouted to his brother. "The lad's still soaking. We don't want him taking a chill."

Sorgrad reached out, but Tathrin shied away. "I don't want your magic."

"Then take mine." Reher clapped him on the shoulder with one broad hand.

Angry and frustrated, Tathrin saw the smith leave a dry handprint on his leather-clad shoulder. As he watched, the pale shape spread down his front and presumably down his back, wisps of steam rising from the creeping edge of the subtle magic. Warmth slid between his chilled skin and the sodden shirt that had been clinging to his ribs.

"Better?" Sorgrad was watching him.

"What will you do now?" Tathrin challenged. "Will Arest's men hunt those two down, when they can't even fight back? Where's the honour in that? Or will you just drink yourselves stupid like you did after Jik and the others died, and forget them by the next morning?"

"Whoever told you there was honour in being a hired sword?" Sorgrad looked quizzically at him. "Come on, we've a long walk back."

He didn't move, not until Tathrin grudgingly took a step and then another. Reher had gone on ahead, Gren at his elbow, his quicksilver cheerfulness in contrast to the smith's looming presence.

"I don't hold with torture, not as a rule." Sorgrad walked companionably beside Tathrin. "You can always break someone, but you never know if they're telling you the truth or just what they think you want to hear. We could have got that man Karn's name out of those two without leaving a mark on them if we'd wanted to. But Reher's choice was a fair one. Once that tale spreads, there'll be fewer curs keen to take this man Karn's coin and come sneaking about these hills. Those two won't be fighting us in Sharlac, either." He smiled dourly. "Remember that, long lad. You can take more men out of a battle by injuring a handful than you can by killing twice that number."

He sighed, more solemn. "Yes, they'll drink themselves stupid tonight, Arest and the others, to blunt the sting of knowing their comrades were ambushed, killed, robbed and thrown into that hollow to rot. To blunt the sting of knowing it could just as easily have been them. To stop themselves lying awake in the darkness and thinking of all the evil deeds they'll have to explain away to Saedrin, one day sooner or later. If they can find a woman willing to sheath their sword between her legs, some of them will rut till daybreak, just to feel alive. While they're inside a woman, inside the circle of her arms, they don't have to remember that every dawn could see them dead by nightfall. Chances are, if the captain-general can spare them, yes, some will go hunting for those men we left maimed back there. Before you waste your breath being outraged, just remember they took coin from this man Karn and all the risks that went with it.

"Beyond that," he continued coolly, "no, Arest and the others won't grieve overmuch for Macra. The only ones who would have truly lamented his loss died alongside him. Mercenaries only have two or three close friends for the most part, their tent-mates usually, because that's as many friends as you can stand to have and still hope to survive their loss. So don't imagine there'll be many tears shed if you get yourself killed."

That provoked Tathrin into a response. "I have friends and family who'd mourn my loss."

"I'm sure you do, long lad," Sorgrad said equably. "You're not a mercenary. So stop judging everyone else by your own very limited experience of life. In the meantime, make sure you're ready to tell Aremil everything we've learned today. Tell him to pass everything on to Charoleia at once. She needs to find out who this man Karn is and who he reports to in Triolle. And to chase up any letters sent from the Silver Spear in Abray."

Chapter Thirty-Three.

Branca Eshelwen Manor, in the Lescari Dukedom of Sharlac, 31st of For-Autumn of For-Autumn

"Reniack has unearthed spies in Parnilesse who are reporting back to Triolle."

Aremil's voice echoed from the stone walls of the same vaulted hall that Branca had found the first time she looked into his mind.

Was this a childhood memory of some banqueting hall in his father's castle? What did it mean that he still chose to meet her here? Didn't he realise he could remake any place in his imagination? Though she noticed there were windows now, tall lancets patterned with coloured glass in a style that Tormalin's nobles had scorned for half a generation. What had prompted that?

Didn't he wonder why he always saw her in whatever bedchamber or withdrawing room she was truly in instead of some imagined sanctuary? Had he even perceived the veils that Branca wrapped so carefully around her innermost self? Though of course, he always saw his friend Tathrin where he really was. Perhaps it hadn't yet occurred to him that those adept in Artifice could control such things when those without such skills could not. Not so long ago, she could easily have seen the answer to that question. Now, that wouldn't be so easy.

Branca concentrated on the matter in hand. "Do we know if this man Karn sent any more spies sniffing around Carluse before he was killed, besides the ones he sent chasing those mercenaries?"

With that portion of her intellect still here in Sharlac well aware that she was sitting in the morning parlour in this comfortable manor house, Branca listened for Lady Derenna's approach. The older woman sought news from Vanam and from their fellow plotters at least three times a day.

"Kerith says there's no sign of anyone showing undue interest in them, though Failla jumps at every shadow."

"If she's discovered, Duke Garnot won't be overly interested in Nath or Kerith."

In her mind's eye, Branca saw Aremil sitting in his chair, his twisted body awkward, tremors shaking his left hand. Behind him, indistinct in the gloom, she saw a second reflection, pacing back and forth on strong, straight legs. Did he realise how he betrayed his frustration with his crippled condition? How could she warn him without revealing such humiliating knowledge?

Was she the only one who saw this shadowy double image? Neither Kerith nor Jettin had mentioned it. Surely Kerith would have found it a curiosity worth discussing in his search for undiscovered aspects of Artifice? While Jettin would simply have thought it too good a joke not to share.

She addressed herself to Aremil in his chair, the strongest reflection of how he saw himself. "You're sure all these threads trace back to Triolle?"

"We're certain. Every spy we've identified has been passing word back to Master Hamare. Charoleia is doing all she can to unravel his webs, to find everyone who might threaten us."

Both Aremils stopped still, looking intently at her.

"Are you certain Lord Narese is to be trusted? That none of your letters are being intercepted?"

"I am, and all our letters are wholly discreet. Unless Derenna is face to face with someone, she only writes as if they are discussing natural philosophy, alchemy and the like. They're all scholars of one sort or another, so she appears to be keeping them informed about experiments with rare earths and metals planned in Vanam. Warning them against adding anything to such a volatile mix."

"Tell her to warn them everything's coming to the boil."

A rich chuckle ran around the fan vaulting. Branca wondered if Aremil's real laugh would sound like that, or would it be distorted like his speech? It would be so strange to hear the hesitation, the hollowness in his words, when she returned to Vanam. She'd become so used to the ready fluency that aetheric enchantment granted him.

His amusement was fleeting.

"You must be careful. We cannot afford to lose you."

The force of Aremil's emotion momentarily showed Branca the image of her that he held in his own mind.

She was never more than an anonymous maid in Kerith's opinion, vague enough to be any one of a hundred women. Jettin did her the courtesy of remembering her features clearly, but when his attention wandered, he was inclined to picture her in her shift. Not that he'd ever seen her thus and Branca knew better than to mistake this for desire. It was merely the first thought Jettin had about any woman, and in her case, his imagination did not flatter her.

Aremil did not flatter her. The face she saw through his mind's eye was the one she saw in any looking glass. She was no taller, no prettier, no more slender as she sat before him on a chair much like his own.

But in Aremil's imagination, she wore silken gowns, expertly sewn to show her as shapely rather than dumpy. Her hair was long, as if it had grown uncut since girlhood rather than being regularly cropped to fit tidily under a linen cap. As if she were one of those pampered noblewomen with the leisure to have a maid brush such vanity with a hundred nightly strokes.

She looked down at her hands. At least they were less red and chapped than they had been. Travelling as Lady Derenna's maid involved precious little scrubbing and washing and the herbalist Welgren carried at least as many cosmetics and ladies' lotions as he did palliatives and tinctures. Her most arduous task was biting her tongue to curb opinions out of keeping with her supposedly servile status.

"Branca? Are you there?"

Aremil tensed in his chair, looking this way and that.

"I am."

The coloured patterns of light on the flagstoned floor brightened, as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud outside this hall of Aremil's imagining.

"Forgive me; I'm distracted. Lady Derenna is constantly on tenterhooks lest Duke Moncan discover something that implicates her husband in disloyalty."

The coloured patterns darkened and Branca caught an echo of Aremil's smouldering resentment that his own father had so easily discarded his living son.

"Isn't His Grace still shut up in his castle with his grief for his dead son?"

"Supposedly." Branca frowned. "But Welgren keeps coming across patients who suspect Jackal Moncan is planning something. That's something Lady Derenna wants Charoleia to look into."

"Charoleia has already traced the rumour back to Carluse. It goes no further and she suspects it's just Duke Garnot's malice. So she's been putting her own gloss on such tales, to keep Triolle's spies looking at Jackal Moncan rather than in our direction. That'll be prompting whatever speculation Welgren is hearing."

"Good," Branca said, relieved.

The distant Aremil began pacing.

"If Lady Derenna is so concerned with discretion, is she spreading word of our purpose widely enough? Evord's army is marching down from the north now. They'll be crossing into Sharlac any day. We must be certain that the local lords won't raise their vassals to fight them."

"She's made sure of every noble she says we can trust," Branca assured him. "We must have visited every second manor house throughout the dukedom." She hesitated. "You will tell us, when the fighting starts? Where it's happening?"

She was sorely apprehensive, even though she'd only heard her parents' nightmarish tales of bloodshed. Those were bad enough. Lady Derenna's dread was incalculably greater. She and her family had suffered the loss of loved ones, the ruin of their properties and the anguish of failing in their duty to care for their vassals. Branca reminded herself of this whenever the noblewoman's aristocratic arrogance became too abrasive. Aremil wasn't the only one struggling with petty emotions, she acknowledged ruefully.

"You'll know every step Evord's men take, I promise. Charoleia's insisting I come with her and Gruit to Abray, to be certain we hear all the news that we need to send on to you, Kerith and Nath as soon as possible. We set out on one of Gruit's river barges tomorrow."

Was it her imagination or was the distant shadow of Aremil now armed with a sword and armoured like some knight from a tapestried joust? She blinked and the image vanished as if it had never existed.