Banners in the Wind Page 0,24

What leisure Iruvain could spare from his ducal duties, after his father's untimely death, he lavished on his hounds and horses. But could she honestly blame him? They had obeyed their parents' dictates in wedding. Iruvain sought a decorative bride while Litasse sought the highest rank. Had either of them ever truly considered the realities of marriage?

Whereas Master Hamare had adored her. Little by little Litasse had realised, as he tutored her in the ciphers and secrets reserved for Triolle's duchess. One tedious day she succumbed to temptation; discreetly flirtatious at first, more openly alluring the next time. Hamare had overcome his scruples to prove himself a skilled and passionate lover.

She blinked away her tears. So Iruvain was finally taking his revenge. Was the girl the first or had there been others?

'I would like to know who the trollop is.' She was pleased to find her voice calmer.

'I'll follow her.' Karn glanced upwards at the cobwebbed rafters. 'What do you suppose she's getting out of this besides sticky linen? What can His Grace offer beyond his skill at stud?'

Master Hamare had taught him always to suspect hidden truths, to be as adept at finding secrets as concealing them.

'Wherever she's come from, her family's wealth is intact, given her clothing and jewels.' A vile suspicion curdled Litasse's stomach. 'Would Iruvain sell the promise of marriage,' she said slowly, 'in return for support in reclaiming his domain? He'll need money if he wants to hire any of the swordsmen sniffing around these alleys.'

Karn's frown darkened. 'You are his wife and his duchess.'

'You don't think he'd set me aside? Who could blame him, after all the rumours?' Litasse ran a hand down her thigh. Yes, the dagger was safely strapped there. The blade that had killed Master Hamare.

According to Iruvain's bold, foolish lie, Litasse had stabbed the intelligencer when Hamare had forced unwanted advances upon her. After all, the two of them were alone, a guard outside the room's closed door. Litasse had screamed and the man rushed in to see Hamare dead at her feet. His blood was wet on her skirts and on the knife in her hand.

Who could possibly believe the truth? That two assassins had appeared in an azure flash of wizardry and murdered Triolle's spymaster? Because he had come so close to uncovering this conspiracy of Vanam's exiles to stir rebellion among Lescar's malcontents.

Hamare had done his utmost to persuade Iruvain of the danger but the young duke had refused to listen. Whatever the wrongs on both sides of their marriage, Litasse would never forgive Iruvain for that. If he had heeded Hamare, her father Duke Moncan would still be alive along with her surviving brother. None of this autumn's catastrophes would have followed if Sharlac hadn't fallen.

'Or he'll just say I am barren. In all honesty, there'll be no offspring from our union.'

Iruvain had sworn he'd never touch her again after she'd ripped that slender blade across his hand. When he'd turned on her, drunk and raging, in that seaside inn back in Triolle. Shedding his blood had been the death of her marriage, as surely as if she'd cut his throat.

'Just as well,' she said bleakly. 'If he's sheathing his sword wherever he fancies, I don't fancy a dose of the itch.'

Karn smiled with charming malice that relieved the severity of his gaunt face. 'At least let me find that young lady's maid, to warn her that His Grace's steel has a few spots of rust.'

Voices above interrupted them. Litasse sat silent while Karn stood motionless. The bedroom door slammed shut and the girl's slippered feet pattered down the stairs. Litasse saw her own conclusion reflected in Karn's hooded eyes. There was no sound of Iruvain following.

Karn slipped through the door like a shadow. Litasse turned the key in the lock. Where else could she go? Upstairs to face Iruvain's brazen satisfaction? Down to the reeking taproom, to excite whispered speculation? She didn't even have enough coin in her purse to buy a glass of wine. All that was left were the halves and quarters that the destitute of Lescar cut their copper pennies into, to buy a heel of bread or the dregs of someone's ale.

Weariness clawed her. Even though Iruvain had forsworn her body, she still woke a handful of times every night. Each time he shifted in that bed they were forced to share, she feared habit would rouse him, half-sleeping, to force her thighs open, to slake his mindless lust. She was