Banners in the Wind Page 0,3

had saved it when the Duke of Triolle had taken to his heels, leaving the gates wide open.

Tathrin ran up the steps to the Chatelaine's Tower, traditionally housing the castle's foremost noble lady short of the duchess. Some trusted confidante and holder of the keys would have relieved her from the cares of running the household, most particularly when her liege lady was doing her foremost duty in filling the ducal nursery. But Duchess Litasse had fled along with her husband and they'd not even been wed two years, so there were no infants to slow them down.

Where had Triolle's duke and his duchess ended up in the chaos after the Battle of Pannal? Were their nameless corpses rotting in some ditch, murdered by faithless mercenaries who'd fled that slaughter? Had they fallen victim to the Parnilesse mob, who had risen up to massacre their own duke and his family? Or were Iruvain and Litasse safely holed up with some unforeseen allies, intent on retaliation once winter was past? How could a decisive battle leave so much unresolved?

Salo, a mercenary whose bandy legs hinted at childhood starvation, was guarding the heavy oak door. 'My lady.'

'Good day to you too.' Tathrin knew any retort would only amuse the mercenaries still teasing him about playing chatelaine to Captain-General Evord's stewardship. Besides, it was a mild enough jest compared to the savage humour the fighting men could delight in.

Dagaran, the Soluran lieutenant, was waiting in the hallway, studying a portrait of some former duchess. A narrow smile relieved his saturnine face. 'I haven't called at an inconvenient time?'

'Not in the least.' Tathrin unlocked the reception room door.

All within was as pristine as any duchess could have demanded, thanks to Tathrin wielding broom and feather duster. He wasn't inclined to trust those castle servants who'd remained and he'd done enough cleaning back in his father's inn, even if being found with a mop had first prompted the mercenaries' mockery.

He swiftly assured himself that no one had touched the coffers on the polished table holding so many confidential letters and lists. Tathrin had the only keys to those locks. But some key to this elegant room might have escaped Arest's vigilance.

Triolle's successive duchesses had increased the castle's comforts, dividing each tower's interior into richly furnished apartments and insisting on broad windows to admit more light. There was a pleasure garden on the far side of the bailey, though the arbours were drab and forlorn, summer's roses long since fallen. Apparently it had been the particular delight of the late Duchess Casatia.

What would Iruvain's mother have thought of his headlong flight? Tathrin grimaced. Every coin has two faces. The disgraced duke might be bereft of father and mother but at least he need never face them to explain his actions.

'There's news from Carluse.' Dagaran crossed the room to look out into the vast courtyard.

'Word of Iruvain?' Sorgrad asked quickly.

'Or his duchess?' Gren shot a sly glance at his brother.

'We've still no notion where Their Graces might be.' The mercenary handed a sealed scrap of parchment to Tathrin. 'The captain-general's compliments and he'd value a prompt response.'

The note was short and to the point, in Evord's elegant penmanship.

My scouts report that the renegade mercenaries who seized and sacked Wyril are now advancing on Ashgil. Please advise how you intend to stop them. Naturally I am happy to offer my advice on your first campaign as captain-general of the Lescari militias.

'Why must I--?' He crushed the parchment in his hand, knuckles whitening.

'Lescar's future is now in Lescari hands.' Dagaran looked steadily at him. 'It's time for you to prove that to anyone who might doubt it.'

'I see.' Reluctant, Tathrin understood nonetheless. Of all who'd plotted to overthrow the dukes back in Vanam, he was the only one who had served Captain-General Evord throughout the autumn's campaign. But could his limited knowledge of warfare possibly meet this challenge?

Sorgrad tugged at the crumpled note still in his hand. 'You can let me have this or I can break your fingers,' he offered.

Tathrin didn't doubt it, so loosened his hold.

'A fight for Ashgil?' As Gren peered over Sorgrad's shoulder, the prospect clearly delighted him. 'That'll shake the stiffness out.'

'As long as the renegades hold Wyril, they cut the highway to Dalasor. If they can take Ashgil, they're masters of the most direct route to the Great West Road. They're looking to rob our northerly friends as they head for home.' Sorgrad glanced at Tathrin, sapphire eyes penetrating. 'Failla's in Ashgil, isn't