The Warrior's Bond

Appendix to the D’Olbriot Chronicle,

Winter Solstice Concluding the First Year of

Tadriol the Thrifty, As Written by Esquire Fidaer,

Castellan of the Tailebret Estates

Solstice celebrations have seen some relaxation of the austerity enjoined on us in the immediate aftermath of the new Emperor’s election, much to the relief of tradespeople the length and breadth of Toremal. But all the gowns and furbelows adorning our ladies must be paid for with solid coin this year, now merchants have Imperial sanction to refuse open-ended credit to even the noblest of Houses. Well, Tadriol’s strictures may be unpopular with giddy girls obsessed with fashionable competition and Esquires keen to cut an elegant figure, but I write this after submitting my annual accounts to the Sieur of my Name with the best set of balances for some years. With Messire’s approval, I plan to use these funds firstly to support the tenantry who suffered in the recent floods around Nymet, and thereafter to expand whichever of our enterprises will benefit from sustained investment.

On the Sieur’s insistence, all branches of the D’Olbriot House heeded the retrenchments urged by Tor Tadriol earlier than most. Thus, the increased coin taxes levied on our strong rooms have not hit us too hard. It is also consolation to see Tor Tadriol’s thrift does not fatten his own coffers under the threadbare guise of Imperial necessity. This winter has seen a wide extension of Imperial munificence to the commonalty, even without unduly harsh weather, and Tadriol used the occasion of Convocation to announce that the Emperor’s Dole at Summer Solstice will be a substantial gift for the truly indigent rather than token silver for notables of shrine fraternities and craft guilds.

Speaking purely for myself I am relieved to report no return to the costly, stifling ceremonial so beloved of the Name so lately gracing the throne. The Convocation of Princes was a brisk affair, the Adjurist’s rod duly broken after the briefest of addresses by the Emperor thanking the Sieur Tor Sylarre for his many years of loyal service to Tor Bezaemar. The Sieur Den Thasnet echoed these sentiments in florid terms but was soon caught by the Imperial gaze and wound up his eloquence. Tadriol may not have that knack of making friends that so characterizes the Esquires of Tor Bezaemar, but the man has undeniable presence in debate.

My Sieur D’Olbriot proposed Messire Tor Kanselin for the now vacant office, and once Den Murivance and Den Gennael had backed him with patent enthusiasm the other Houses voted accordingly, led by Den Janaquel. Tor Priminale held aloof, but that is hardly remarkable, given the extensive bonds tying that Name to Tor Bezaemar. The Sieurs Tor Sauzet and Den Ferrand then acknowledged new Designates before Convocation. Each is a younger son, but both can claim established friendship with the newly elevated Tadriol, and, of course, our new Empress was born Tor Sauzet.

Marital propsects for the ladies now entitled to style themselves Tor Tadriol have been understandably enhanced by their Name’s accession. Within the privacy of these pages, I wonder if his superfluity of daughters influenced Messire and the Sieur Den Munvance when Den Tadriol proposed this particular scion as candidate for the Imperial throne. Alliance by marriage has to be the speediest way for a new dynasty to secure its position among the preeminent Houses, after all. As I write this, my wife sits across the library, studying cadet lines of Tor Tadriol in hopes of finding some younger son or daughter who might be amenable to a match with us, while the lesser lines of that House still remember we were both of equal standing so recently. I hope I have some success to record in these pages next year.

Betrothal of the Emperor’s eldest legitimate girl to a senior line of Tor Kanselin was announced at the dance concluding the Festival, and I imagine all five younger Demoiselles quite wore the feet out of their slippers, they were so much in demand. The illegitimate girls are being similarly courted among the upper echelons of merchantry, prompting Esquire Den Muret to tactless jokes that Tadriol’s enthusiasm for spreading his seed before marriage was all part of some long-held plan to endear himself to the commonalty. In my experience, youth needs no encouragement for such exuberance and, while such large a posy of byblown children is unusual, it is hardly unheard of. More importantly, there is no hint that Tadriol has dishonoured his vows since his marriage, whereas we can now openly condemn the late Bezaemar’s scandalous profligacy with his favours.

As we wait for the new year to open tomorrow, I find myself full of optimism. Tor Tadriol is a young man with an open mind and considerable intelligence, ready to look beyond the confines of his House, with an astute eye to the wider interests of Tormalin. After nigh on a generation of rule by that Bezaemar called the Generous but whose largesse was so often confined to those of his own circle, I am confident we cadet lineages will benefit from all manner of new opportunities over the next few years. The first of these will be playing our part in deciding what epithet to bestow on our new Emperor; I fully intend to make sure we lesser voices are heard.

In the Archive of the House of D’Olbriot, Summer Solstice Festival, First Day, Morning

I was none too keen on lessons as a boy and watching someone else learning their Emperors was truly boring. I stifled a yawn and leaned back in my chair to stare up at the long barrel of the wooden vault high above us. The lynx and chevron badge of D’Olbriot was repeated all along the top of the wall, interspersed with insignia of Names allied in marriage to the House over the years, and I squinted as I tried to identify them. At least when Casuel had been burying himself beneath parchments in libraries the length and breadth of Tormalin, I’d been able to idle the time away with other chosen men once I’d delivered any messages from the Sieur to whatever Esquire of the Name managed that particular estate. Officially I’d been advising my counterparts on their training regimens, but in practice we’d usually spent more time swapping fighters’ tales, all the while cosseted by housekeepers and stewards impressed with my new status. It had certainly made a pleasant change from my days as a sworn man, when, visitor or not, I’d been expected to take my turn at all the duties customary for my rank.

The yawn escaped me and a clerk laden with ledgers spared me an indifferent glance on his way past. We were sitting about a third of the way along a long line of identical tables running from one pair of vast double doors to another, hemmed in by serried ranks of bookshelves reaching out from the walls, dark leather bindings of close-packed tomes enlivened here and there as a flash of gilt caught sunlight filtering through narrow windows to remind us of the morning outside. In the few scant stretches of unshelved wall, niches held statues and a few ignored curios forlorn in polished glass cases.

“Do you have it straight?” Casuel demanded curtly.

“I think so.” Temar ran a cautious finger down a parchment.

“Then recite the rote, if you please,” ordered the mage.

I tried to look interested. Temar did need to know such things if he wasn’t to embarrass himself and his hosts, and the first of Festival’s social gatherings was after noon today. When Casuel had insisted on reviewing Temar’s lessons, we’d reluctantly had to agree it was a sound notion.

Temar dutifully shut his eyes, brow furrowed. “Modrical the Ruthless, Modrical the Hateful—’ He broke off. “How in Saedrin’s name could the Princes pick a title like that for their Emperor? Calling Nemith the Reckless was the worst slap in the face the Convocation could think of for him! What did this second Modrical do?”

I shut my mouth at a glare from Casuel. “No one is really sure,” said the wizard tightly. “The Chaos was still raging. Indeed, he was assassinated at the Summer Solstice Festival of his second year, when he was acclaimed as Hateful.”

“Presumably when he was already dead?” Temar opened his eyes, grinning at me.

“And who was elected to replace him?” asked Casuel.

“Kanselin.” Temar sighed. “Kanselin the Droll?”

“Kanselin the Pious, then Kanselin the Droll,” the mage corrected.

“Then Kanselin the Rash, Kanselin the Blunt, Kanselin the Confident, and lastly Kanselin the Headstrong, who presumably had not the talent of his father and uncles,” Temar suggested.

“When you have the leisure to study the period, you’ll find it rather more complicated than that.” Casuel visibly curbed his impulse to explain. “And the next House awarded the throne?”

“Decabral,” Temar ventured slowly.

Casuel took the parchment from the younger man’s hands. “And the first was acclaimed as what?”

“Decabral the Eager. Then the Patient, the Nervous,”

Temar smiled again. “The Virtuous, the Pitiless, whom the Houses deposed after a couple of years, and lastly the Merciful. But do not ask me who was whose brother, son or cousin, I beg you.”

“Getting the rote correct is sufficient.” Casuel tried to sound encouraging.

“Sauzet next, the Worthy and the Quiet.” Temar ticked the names off on his fingers. “They were shoved off the Imperial cushions by Perinal the Bold, who found himself edged out by Leoril the Wise.”

“I see no need for flippancy,” commented Casuel. “Next?”

“Leoril the Dullard.” Temar looked at me but the question died on his lips as he caught Casuel’s sour expression. “Leoril the Eloquent, Leoril the Affable. Then Aleonne the Valiant.” He fell silent.

“Acclaimed the Valiant when the Lescar Wars rose to such a pitch they spilled over our western borders,” I prompted. “So we needed Aleonne the—?”

“Sorry.” Temar drew a sudden breath. “Aleonne the Defiant, the Resolute and then Aleonne the Gallant.”

“You need to know more detail of events after that.” Casuel sorted through books stacked neatly before him, sparing a disapproving glance for the untidy array by Temar’s elbow. He handed one over with evident reluctance. “Annals of Tor Bezaemar. Read as much as you can, and do be careful, it’s my own copy and such things are expensive.”

Temar turned the pristine tome in his hands. “I thought Inshol the Curt succeeded the last Aleonne.”

“Correct.” I nodded my own approval at Temar. Once we’d left Bremilayne behind us and travelled without incident for a few days, Casuel’s fears of being called on actually to make magic had faded. Then he’d applied himself to teaching Temar everything he might conceivably need to know for a visit to Toremal and plenty he’d have no use for as well. I was impressed to see how much the lad had learned. After long days in the saddle on our interminable journey across the highlands, the last thing I’d have wanted was a tutor like Casuel, his charmlessness woefully exacerbated by leagues jolted along in a carriage shared with Avila Tor Arrial. Temar and I had stuck to our horses.

“And when he died, his relict married the Sieur Den Bezaemar, who became?” The wizard wasn’t about to give up.

“Bezaemar the Modest,” said Temar after a pause. “His son was Bezaemar the Canny, who must have seemed like a permanent fixture after reigning for nearly fifty years. His grandson was Bezaemar the Generous, then the Princes wanted someone less free-handed with their coin and chose Tadriol the Thrifty. Thrifty but none too healthy, so his brother soon stepped up as Tadriol the Staunch. He stepped down after a handful of years, but Convocation picked the wrong nephew because Tadriol the Tireless dropped dead in under a year. They had better luck with his brother the Prudent, who ruled for eleven years and was already well provided with children, including your current Emperor Tadriol, his third son, acclaimed the Provident last year!” He grinned at Casuel.

“The rote is correct but please keep facetious comments to yourself.” Casuel shot me an indignant glance. “I imagine that’s your interpretation?”

“We had to talk about something as we rode,” I shrugged. We’d used the time to review the previous day’s lessons and to talk about family, friends, life in Kellarin and in Tormalin. With Casuel sitting on his dignity in his coach, we’d reaffirmed our tentative friendship and incidentally smoothed the most jarring archaisms out of Temar’s speech.

“Well, I hope you took note of the insignia of the Imperial Houses as I told you to, Temar.” Casuel reached across the table for a roll of parchments laced together across their top with scarlet ribbon. “You need to study this as well. I’ve asked the Archivist for a copy but he says all the scribes are too busy with the courts sitting, so you’ll have to make your own.” He handed over paper and a charcoal stick in a silver holder.

Temar looked blankly at the tightly drawn columns of names and figures, little heraldic symbols heading each entry. “What is this?”

“Last year’s Land Tax register.” Casuel stared at Temar.

“There was no such thing in the Old Empire,” I reminded the wizard. “Each House and Name pays an annual charge to the Imperial coffer, based on its holdings and assets.” I explained to Temar. “The old system of levies for specific wants was abandoned generations ago.”

Temar shook his head. “I wonder my grandfather’s shade did not return from the Otherworld and kick me awake at such insult to Princes’ privileges.”

He stood up abruptly, pushing himself away from documents, ledgers, leather-bound volumes and screeds folded within sealed ribbons. I watched as Temar turned slowly on his heel, looking grimly at the racks of rolled parchments, shelves of bound tomes, flat cases holding maps, charts, records and plans. The only sound was the susurration of turning paper, broken by the muted rasp of the ladders attached to each set of shelves being pushed along its rails. Every day must bring some new shock to remind the lad just how much life had changed on this side of the ocean, I thought.

“Sit down,” Casuel hissed as curious heads peered down from shelf-lined bays in the galleries above. High windows transmuted golden sunbeams into reds and blues, greens and browns, the alchemy of stained glass spilling blurred jewels across the dun matting.

Temar shook his head as he slowly resumed his seat. “My grandfather kept all deeds of grant and records of tithe in one locked chest. Granted, it was as long as a man and an armspan deep but—”

“Remember just how much time has passed,” Casuel interrupted. “This archive holds the record of twenty-five generations, twenty-five years to each one.”

“I allow I am ignorant of much, Mage D’Evoir, but I know how many years to a generation,” said Temar acidly.

I hid a smile behind my hand as Casuel paled. Temar’s unconscious aristocratic inflexion belatedly reminded the mage of their relative rank.

“I only meant—’ said Casuel hastily, “oh, never mind. Documents became far more important after the Chaos. In the Old Empire everyone knew which House held what lands, whose service was owed to whom. Things had stayed constant for so long, after all. When the rule of law was re-established, rival claimants arose to land and property and written proof of title was invaluable.” Casuel tapped the taxation roll sharply. “Please apply yourself, at least to the first two or three leaves. Names are listed in order of taxes paid, so it’s a good indicator of the wealthiest. The first fifty or so are Houses you’re likely to visit or meet but it wouldn’t hurt to have at least read through the first few hundred.”

Temar ran a thumb over the unbound edge of the stack of parchments. “In my grandfather’s day all the Sieurs of all the Houses sitting together wouldn’t have filled these tables.”

“I’d advise you to get your bearings in Toremal as it is rather than repine for what is past.” Casuel lifted his chin defiantly as I gave him an icy look.

Temar bent over the close-written list. “I do not see why we cannot have ink in here,” he muttered as he smudged his notes.

“Because the Archivists forbid it and quite right too. Who knows what accident or mischief might be done.” I noticed Casuel glance at the floor by his feet as he spoke. He’d done that several times today. “The right document can make or break a family.”

“Half the Names I knew are gone and many of these mean nothing,” said Temar at length, rubbing a hand round the back of his neck. “Where are Tor Correl, Den Parisot? What about Den Muret? Who in Saedrin’s name are D’Estabel, Den Haurient or Den Viorel?”

“Many Houses fell into ruin during the Chaos.” Casuel couldn’t resist another glance at the floor by his chair and I shifted myself to see what he’d got there. “It’s nigh on unheard of for a modern Name to fall extinct in the male line, but when warfare racked the Empire there were many casualties. New grants of nobility were made later, or indeed simply assumed.”

“Nemith has much to answer for,” spat Temar. “Poldrion grant demons drown him yet in rivers of sorrow.”

“Of course—you knew him.” Casuel blinked. “Forgive me, this is merely history to us.” As he leaned forward, a leather satchel resting against his chair slid flat to the floor unnoticed by the fawning mage.

“I knew him, so far as a cadet of a minor House had anything to do with an Emperor,” said Temar grimly. “Enough to learn he was a whorestruck drunkard wasting the gold the Houses sent for troops to defend the Empire on debauchery and enriching his favourites.”

“In all justice, Nemith’s folly wasn’t the only evil blighting the Empire,” countered the wizard.

“True, Raeponin forgive me.” Temar sighed and reached across the table for another of Casuel’s books. “Your man Minrinel, in this so-called Intelligencer, he doesn’t even mention the Crusted Pox.” Temar’s mouth yielded to a brief grimace of grief. “Three other sons of the House of Nemith might have been elected Emperor had they not been ashes in their urns even before their grandfather the Seafarer breathed his last.”

I looked up from trying to reach the strap of Casuel’s satchel with my toe as the wizard scribbled notes eagerly in the margin of his own papers. “Do you know what went on at the Convocation of Princes when the Imperial throne fell vacant? Why did they make such a disastrous choice?”

“I have no notion.” Temar’s eyes were distant with a memory of mourning. “I was not of age and my grandfather didn’t attend, too busy with the affairs of House and tenantry. The Crusted Pox killed all the men of my father’s generation and my own brothers and sisters besides.” Temar bent suddenly over the taxation list, scribbling furiously. I shut my own eyes on an echo of my own remembered grief, the death of my only sister.

“Indeed.” Casuel twisted his fingers together uncertainly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to distress you. But all the weeping in the world won’t uncrack an egg, that’s what my mother always says.” He coloured slightly.

“Just how powerful is D’Olbriot?” Temar asked me suddenly, curt words echoing in the hush.

“Please lower your voice,” Casuel begged in muted entreaty.

I nodded at the list before Temar. “At the last taxation, Messire D’Olbriot was reckoned to control a twentieth part of Tormalin revenues and commerce.”

“Add in about seven or eight other families and those Names are responsible for just less than half the entire commonalty of the Empire?” Temar pursed his lips.

“Which is why you must learn due courtesy,” said Casuel severely.

“Life was very different before your Chaos, Mage D’Evoir, but we were taught a modicum of manners,” Temar said icily.

I wasn’t about to let Casuel get away with that patronising attitude either. “From everything those scholars working with the Archmage said, the last days of the Old Empire probably have more in common with this present age than with any era between.”

“Why are you so well read in such things, Casuel?” Temar asked unexpectedly. “The mages who come to Kel Ar’Ayen would be hard put to list the provinces of the Empire, let alone the Imperial Names. They spend all their energy on study of their element and think Hadrumal is the centre of the world.”

“My family has a particular interest in these matters,” Casuel stammered with uncharacteristic nervousness. He looked down for his satchel but I’d managed to hook it over to me.

I grinned at the wizard as I opened the flap and lifted out a folded bundle of parchment tied with faded ribbon. “What’s all this?”

“The House of D’Alsennin was not the only one to disappear in the Chaos.” Casuel snatched the documents from me. “You call me D’Evoir, Esquire, but that’s not really an honour I’m entitled to, not yet, anyway.” He gave me an indignant look before unknotting the ribbons and spreading the top parchment out for Temar to see. “The last D’Evoir attested in the historical record was a Governor of Lescar. He was murdered in the final year of Nemith the Last’s reign, but other than that I can’t find anything about him, not even if he had a family or sons. I’ve managed to trace my own family back nineteen generations but the evidence before that is scarce and contradictory. If I could find any other D’Evoir from the Old Empire, I might find some threads to tie my own family back to the Name.” The mage shut his mouth but not before we’d heard a definite note of pleading in his voice.

Temar lifted fine black brows. “If the Name is gone, the property of the House scattered to the four winds and tenantry claims lapsed, there can be no obligation to answer nor indeed coin to do so.”

“It’s not a question of wealth but of status,” said Casuel stiffly. “It would mean a great deal to my family, to my mother, to establish a tie. Then we can use the style D’Evoir, adopt the badge of the House.”

“I see.” Temar’s face was a well-schooled blank. I bit down my own opinion of such middle-ranking, jumped-up ambition. So the wizard fancied himself descended from noble blood, did he? I wondered if his merchant father would consider the cachet of rank sufficient recompense for Casuel’s snobbery raising his family to the Land Tax register.

Soft steps made us all look round and Casuel hastily tucked his parchments beneath a ledger marked with ancient fingers. “Not that it’s of any real importance. No need to mention it to Messire D’Olbriot or his nephew.”

I was already on my feet as Esquire Camarl D’Olbriot approached from the southern door. I bowed and Camarl’s answering bend from the waist was constrained both by his close-tailored coat and incipient portliness. His dark hair was brushed into a careful affectation of disorder but eyes and mouth showed resolution at odds with the season’s fashion.

“How go your lessons, D’Alsennin?” he asked humorously.

“He’s a most diligent pupil,” Casuel smiled ingratiatingly.

Temar shrugged wryly. “There is a great deal still to learn.”

“We can’t expect you to master the complexities of the modern Empire in a scant half season of study at inns along the high road.” Camarl grinned suddenly. “Don’t worry; you’ll be with me at most social occasions and Ryshad’s to be your escort elsewhere.”

“Planir has asked that I make myself available,” interrupted Casuel hopefully. “To offer assistance.”

“Indeed.” Camarl nodded graciously at the wizard. “But I beg your pardon, Temar, we’re disturbing you. It’s Ryshad I came to see.” Camarl led me adroitly into a book-lined alcove. “Can he hold his own in company without looking an utter fool?” the nobleman asked bluntly, turning his back on Casuel’s ill-disguised curiosity.

“I think so,” I said slowly. “And as you say, either you or I will be with him, to smooth over any difficulties.”

Camarl looked thoughtful. “We have more pressing concerns than stopping Temar frying himself in his own grease with a thoughtless remark. Kellarin has potentially enormous resources.” His amiable face hardened. “A great many people want Temar to grant Master So-and-So rights over such-and-such. Someone else will want exclusive licence to this, that or the other, while their rivals will be falling over themselves to offer a supposedly better deal. He’s a bright lad and has acquitted his responsibilities admirably this past year, but the Sieur and myself, we’re worried that he’ll find his rooster’s cooked and eaten before he knows it. Then all he’ll go home with is a feather duster.”

I spared a brief smile. “So you don’t want him overwhelmed with demands?”

“We’ve had invitations from half the Houses in the city; Festival’s only five days long and every hostess wants Temar to decorate her revelry,” Camarl nodded. “Don’t let him commit himself to any invitation without checking with me. Saedrin only knows what might be asked of him, and surely he deserves some leisure after his rigours in the wilderness.” Camarl looked a little anxious. “It’s safest for everyone if he stays within our House’s circles. The Sieur can manage all the to-and-fro of negotiating Kellarin’s trade, then Temar need only put his seal to finished agreements.”

I nodded slow agreement. “The Sieur will secure the best for D’Alsennin’s people.” Temar nailing his own foot to the floor through some entirely understandable ignorance would serve no one’s purpose. “Anyway, Temar’s main concern is recovering the artefacts needed to revive the rest of the colonists. I imagine he’ll be happy to leave trade to Messire.”

Camarl grimaced. “I suppose he can ask people about their heirlooms without causing too much offence, but don’t let him make a nuisance of himself. There’ll be plenty of time for such things after Festival.”

“Indeed,” I said neutrally.

“I knew you’d see sense. Oh, and I have these for you.” Camarl handed me three neatly folded and sealed letters.

“My thanks,” I said in some surprise. It’s not the place of the Sieur’s Designate to be running errands.

“I needed some excuse to bring me here,” Camarl smiled with a shrug. “No need to mention our other discussion.” He turned away, bowing to Temar and acknowledging Casuel with a brief wave. “If you’ll excuse me, Esquire, Mage.”

Temar grunted absently, lost in the taxation list. Casuel watched the Esquire D’Olbriot walk away before dragging his attention back to Temar’s notes. He clicked his tongue with annoyance. “The likelihood of you meeting any scion of Den Cascadet is so remote as to be laughable.”

“Why?” Temar demanded.

“They’re nobodies!” Casuel fumbled for a fuller answer as Temar stared at him unblinking. “They’ll spend Festival ringing the loudest bell in Moretayne, but hereabouts they’d make a very tinny rattle.”

“They’re a provincial Name running cattle in the down-lands near Lequesine,” I volunteered.

“Two artisans beholden to that Name lie insensible in Kel Ar’Ayen.” Temar’s lips narrowed. “The artefacts to revive them may have been passed back to the family. I must contact the Sieur or his designate.” He ran a charcoal-dusted finger down the taxation record. “I will not let those who entrusted their lives to my hands spend a day longer in that stifling enchantment than is absolutely needful.”

“Saedrin make it so,” I said with feeling.

“Do please take care.” Casuel gently rubbed at a grubby mark with a kerchief from his pocket. “That’s all very well, Esquire, but you’ll hardly have the leisure to call on every fifth-rank Name in the city, and no one will have time to spare searching through their archive to accommodate you. Every clerk is busy preparing for the assizes.” He gestured at a sombrely dressed man climbing a ladder to a high shelf stacked with deed boxes.

Temar looked at me. “How much time do these assizes take up?”

I grimaced. “Strictly speaking, cases raised at Solstice should be settled before the following Equinox or penalties are levied. Few Houses avoid such censure.”

“It’ll be the turn of For-Autumn before anyone can spare attention for your requests,” said Casuel with some satisfaction.

“That’s true enough, as far as the archives go, but I could make a start while you’re at this afternoon’s reception,” I said slowly. “If you tell me what you’re looking for and what Names might have the pieces, I could at least visit the Houses here in Toremal and see if anyone knows anything.” Even slight progress towards rescuing those unfortunates from the enchantment that had so nearly killed me would be a sight more productive use of my time than kicking my heels in some gatehouse with all the other sworn brought along to add to their liege’s consequence.

“I hardly think you’ll be invited in to poke round any House you please, Ryshad,” protested Casuel. “Can we please concentrate on the matter in hand?”

I ignored the mage as Temar wrote industriously on a fresh sheet of paper. “We are mostly looking for pieces of jewellery and small trinkets.”

“And well-bred Demoiselles will let you make free with their jewellery caskets?” Casuel scoffed.

“No,” I agreed, “but I can ask valets and ladies’ maids about heirloom pieces, can’t I?”

“You’ll be the one risking a whipping.” Casuel took the paper from Temar and slapped it down in front of me. “Can we please concentrate on the taxation lists. We’ve precious little time as it is.”

Temar and I exchanged a rueful glance and he bent over his notes once more. I tucked Temar’s list inside the breast of my jerkin and sorted through the letters the Esquire D’Olbriot had brought me. I recognised the writing on the first: my brother Mistal, one of those lawyers who earn their bread spinning out litigation between the Houses until the very eve of the following Festival. He wanted to meet for a drink, asking me to send the letter straight back telling him where and when tonight. I smiled briefly but wasn’t about to waste time on his raptures over some lady-love or whatever ripe scandal he’d unearthed. The next letter was creased and stained with sweat and dust, the direction simply to Ryshad Tathel, House of D’Olbriot, and written in an unpractised hand. I snapped the wax seal and slowly deciphered spidery writing that looked to have been written in treacle with a blunt piece of stick.

“Temar.”

“What is it?” He looked up.

“It’s from Glannar.” I’d made the man swear on his arm ring to write and tell me what he found out. “They’ve not turned up any of the stolen goods and there’s still no scent of any culprit.”

“Any trace of the Elietimm?” demanded Casuel.

I shook my head. “No sign of any strangers at all.”

“That’s no proof,” snapped Casuel. “They use Artifice to conceal themselves.”

“You can see all the Eldritch-men you want if you stare into a chimney corner long enough,” I retorted, “but they’ll still only be the shadows from the lamp stands.”

Temar looked at Casuel and then to me. “So what does that tell us?”

“That we know no more than we did when we left Bremilayne.” I didn’t bother concealing my own annoyance. I wasn’t about to blame the Elietimm or the Eldritch-men, not without proof, but it would have eased my mind to know the theft had just been wharf rats taking a tasty morsel.

Temar returned to his list and Casuel started leafing through his books, marking places with slips of paper and stacking the volumes in front of Temar. “These are significant events in the annals of the leading families that you must know about.”

I opened my third letter: good-weight paper precisely addressed in an elegant hand using sloping Lescari script in regular lines and faintly perfumed with something my memory told me was expensive. “Will you excuse me, Esquire D’Alsennin?” I asked formally. “It seems I have some business to attend to.”

“What?” demanded Casuel.

I hesitated; best not to raise Temar’s hopes until I knew if this speculation had paid off. “A lady I know is visiting the city.”

Casuel sniffed with censure but Temar laughed. “Can I come?”

“Not this time.” I winked at him.

“Well, you can hardly read these things for me, so by all means call on the lady.” Temar shrugged a little unconvincingly.

“Then I’ll see what I can do with your list.” Temar’s expression lightened at that thought so I left him to his studies, abandoning Casuel to his disapproval.

Once outside, I looked both ways along the road before leaving the broad portico sheltering the wide steps of the building. The D’Olbriot archive is housed in one of the Name’s many ancestral possessions scattered throughout the city. While the nobility have long since left the lower town to tradesmen and hereabouts to worse, the archive has stayed put. The contents are just too unwieldy to move to more salubrious surroundings and, valuable though the yellowing parchments are to advocates preparing their interminable deliberations, they’re reckoned safe enough here. Thieves prefer real gold more readily spent and the clerks are backed by watchmen big enough to deter casual destruction or fire setting. I tossed a copper to an old man sitting on the steps with two shock-headed puppets dancing lifelike at his deft command. He’d been there for years and always alerted the Archivist to anyone threatening his pitch.

The close-packed houses all around had been long since broken up into squalid lodgings, four or five families now cramped beneath roofs sheltering one household in better days. The crumble-edged yellow stone was marred by stains of water and filth poured from narrow mullions below old-fashioned steep gables. Here and there intricate oriel windows stood out below the vanity of the little turrets that had been so desirable in the days of Tor Inshol, their conical caps of ochre tiles broken and patched.

A gaunt girl staggered out of a nearby alley, green-tainted eyes vacant. I could smell the sickly sweet sweat of the tahn enslaving her clean across the street. I ignored her outstretched hand and hurried on, clapping a hand over my mouth and nose as I passed a dead dog motionless but for the seething of maggots. Even with the sun riding high, shadows were held captive by tall buildings three and four stories high, and I kept an eye out for anyone lurking in hopes of cutting a purse to pay for whatever vice had them in its claws.

I was heading for the tongue of higher land that forms the northern side of Toremal Bay. When I’d first come to the city, little older than Temar and proud of my newly sworn status, it wasn’t a district D’Olbriot’s men would go to in anything less that threes, daylight or no. Any Name with property thereabouts balanced the rents they might collect against the blood it would cost them, and most reckoned the game not worth the candle. Then a new storm had blown up in Lescar’s interminable wars and the ebb and flow of battle washed fresh flotsam up on to Tormalin shores. This was the only place the dispossessed wretches could get a foothold, and they’d dug in their heels, refusing to be knocked on their arses again. It’s easy to despise the Lescari, to mock their dogged persistence over claim and counterclaim, their obsession with land title and vengeance, but there’s no denying that single-mindedness serves them well at times.

I walked along streets where broken shutters had been replaced with new wood, bright with paint. The children might be grubby from playing in the dust but had started their day with clean if patched clothes and lovingly brushed hair. The clack and creak of working looms floated out of open windows high above, and women chatting as they kept an eye on their offspring sat on balconies with distaffs busy in their hands. The Lescari may have arrived without half a lead Mark in their pockets but they had skills in their hands and knowledge in their heads. These days more than half the noble dwellings in the upper city have North Bay tapestries gracing their walls.

I pulled the perfumed letter from my jerkin and realised I had missed a turn. Retracing my steps, I found the narrow flight of stone stairs. Counting doors along the soiled walls, I saw I wanted the one marked by an earthenware pot bright with scarlet flagflowers. I knocked, wondering how long the brilliant splash of colour would last before some drunken reveller kicked the blooms down the steps, either from accident or exuberant desire to see how far they might fly.

The door opened a scant hand’s breadth and I saw a shadowy figure within. “Yes?”

“Ryshad Tathel.” I held up the note. “For my lady Alaric.”

The door closed as the wedge securing it was kicked aside. It opened to reveal a gawky youth whose nervous energy kept his hands in constant motion. He was no stripling though, much my height and with shoulders broad enough to promise strength when he filled out. He wiped sweat from his forehead before running a hand over the beard so many Lescari affect. His beak of a nose and wide set eyes reminded me of seasons spent about Messire’s business along the border with Parnilesse. I’d had a friend from there, Aiten, whose death was a score I vowed to settle with the Elietimm.

“This way,” the lad said curtly. Tormalin was much his mother tongue as my own so some earlier brush with Lescar’s recurrent catastrophes must have swept his wretched forebears here.

I followed him up uncarpeted stairs dimly lit by an inadequate skylight. The lady I had come to visit proved to rent the entire first floor. A demure maid in an expensive silk dress sat on the landing and rose to greet me.

“I’ll let my lady know you’re here.” Her accent was unmistakably Relshazri, seldom heard in Toremal for all the trade plied across the benign waters of the Gulf that separates the two great cities.

She disappeared and the lad clattered noisily down the stairs to his kennel. I ran a contemplative finger over the inlaid swags of flowers decorating a table where the maid had put her sewing. This piece would grace the boudoir of any wife of D’Olbriot.

“My lady bids you welcome.” The maid ushered me into the front room. I swept a bow fit for the Imperial presence.

“Good day to you, Master Tathel.” The woman seated serenely on a richly brocaded daybed gestured me to equally costly cushions gracing an immaculately polished settle.

I stifled an impulse to check my boots for filth from the streets. “My lady Alaric.”

She smiled demurely as the maid reappeared with a tray carrying a crystal jug and fluted goblets with white spirals frozen in their glass stems. My hostess studied me openly as the girl served us both water, as is Lescari custom, so I returned the compliment.

There are many women who look perfection at twenty paces but fewer than half look so enthralling at ten, when the counterfeits of powder and paint, cut and drape are revealed. This was that rarest of beauties, a woman who would still be flawless when you were close enough to taste the scent adorning her graceful neck. Her complex coiffure, not a hair out of place, was the deep rich chestnut of a prize horse. Her lightly powdered skin glowed like the palest ceramic, broad high forehead and elegant nose above lips with the colour and velvet softness of rose petals. Her eyes were a blue-violet deep as an evening sea and dark and wise with experience, one of the few things giving a hint of her age. I guessed her older than me but couldn’t have said whether by two years or ten, and that suggestion of superiority made her allure both more tempting and more daunting. She smiled slowly at me as the maid left the room and the heat I felt round the back of my neck had nothing to do with the weather.

“You can call me Charoleia,” she said; lifting her glass in a brief salute.

“Thank you.” I raised mine but didn’t drink. A man might wish to drown in the depths of those peerless eyes but I wasn’t about to risk water from any north side well. “That’s how I think of you,” I admitted. “Livak told me your various travelling names but I don’t think I kept them straight.” I hadn’t imagined I’d ever have business with a woman Livak said had a different guise for every country and another for every complex scheme she devised to separate fools from their gold.

“No matter. And you can drink that.” Her smile widened to betray an entrancing dimple in one cheek. “I send the boy to buy water from the Den Bradile springs every morning. You won’t spend your Festival stuck in the privy because of me.”

I took a sip. The water was cool and untainted, black fig sliced in it for freshness. “I trust you had a good voyage?” I wasn’t quite sure how to get to the point of my visit. Charoleia was one of the many friends Livak had scattered across the Old Empire, all living on the outside of law and custom. I’d met a few of them and had found them mostly shabby, straightforward to the point of bluntness and be cursed to the consequences. But Charoleia was a lady fit to adorn an Imperial arm.

“The trip was uneventful.” She set aside her glass and smoothed the skirts of her pale lavender gown. Fine muslin was appropriate for the heat, but it’s cruelly unflattering to so many women. On Charoleia the delicate cloth simultaneously enhanced and discreetly blurred the sensuous curves beneath. “How is the young D’Alsennin? I hear you had some trouble in Bremilayne?” Her musical voice was as beautiful as her face but I couldn’t hear the ring of any particular city or country.

“Some goods were stolen but we don’t know who was behind it,” I said frankly. “Could you help find out?”

Charoleia arched a delicately enquiring eyebrow. “What makes you ask that?”

I leaned back against the cushions and matched her gaze for gaze. “Livak says you’ve a network of contacts in every city between the ocean and the Great Forest.” Livak also openly admired this woman’s intelligence and my beloved isn’t given to empty praise of anyone. “I imagine you’ll get news from places no Sieur’s man would get a welcome.”

That enchanting dimple fleeted in her cheek. “I’ll expect to be paid for my trouble.”

I nodded. “That would be only fair.”

Charoleia rose with consummate grace and crossed to a stout cupboard set in a far corner. She unlocked it with a key on a chain at her wrist. “And there’s my courier’s fee for this to settle.” She removed a small wooden box and opened it to show me a battered copper armring. So she had it.

Similar to the one I wore in form only, this one had been made in the last days of the Old Empire, had crossed the ocean on the arm of one of Temar’s still sleeping companions and by whatever route had come back to end up in a Relshazri trader’s strong room. When Elietimm enchantment had overwhelmed my waking mind, Temar’s sleeping consciousness had woken and gone in search of this ancient piece, whoever was trapped within it calling out in a voice only he could hear.

“What is your usual fee?” I kept my feelings hidden behind an expressionless face. Truth be told, they were a fine mixture of satisfaction and apprehension.

Charoleia smiled with feline grace. “How much is this trinket worth to you?”

I pursed my lips. What would be a fair price, for me and for her? Living this elegant didn’t come cheap after all, and I had some personal resources to draw on before I’d need to make an appeal to Messire’s coffers, but there are rules to every game. “Its value’s not so much a matter of money.”

“No,” she agreed. “It’s far more important.” She spun the ring on one perfectly manicured forefinger. “This holds the essence of a man in thrall to enchantments generations old.”

“If it’s the right piece.” I’ve played out games of Raven from hopeless-looking positions and won them before now.

“It’s the right piece,” she assured me. “I got every detail from Livak when she passed through Relshaz at Equinox.”

“I do hope so.” I raised a hand in demur as she offered it to me. I wasn’t about to lay a finger on the thing.

“So what is it worth to you?” she repeated softly.

“What’s your price?” I countered.

She took her time replacing the armring in the battered box before leaning back against the cupboard, her face lively with mischief. “A card for the Emperor’s dance on the fifth day of Festival.”

I blinked. “You don’t want much! Half the Demoiselles in the city would sell their little sisters for that.”

“That’s my price.” Charoleia laid a hand on the little box and smiled sweetly. “I’m sure Esquire Camarl would oblige.”

“You want an introduction?” I’d been expecting to haggle over gold but this wrong-footed me. “What would your name be?”

“Lady Alaric will do,” she shrugged. “Dispossessed and orphaned in the battles between Triolle and Marlier, she’s here to try and build a new life for herself, you know how it goes.” Now her accent was flawlessly western Lescari.

“Why does she warrant invitation to Imperial entertainments?” I asked a little desperately.

“Isn’t her matchless beauty sufficient?” she enquired, wide-eyed. “Then again, perhaps she has some family secret, some key information to assist Imperial efforts to halt the warfare brewing between Carluse and Triolle?”

“Do you?” I demanded.

“What do you think?” She dimpled at me.

“I think you’ve a scheme in hand that’ll leave some poor goose well plucked,” I told her bluntly. “If half what Livak’s told me is true, you’ll be gone by the first day of Aft-Summer, leaving empty coffers and shattered dreams littering the city. That’s your affair and Dastennin help all fools, but I’ve no intention of being your whipping boy. I’ll be the first person the Duty Cohort would come asking after if I’m seen introducing you to D’Olbriot.”

Charoleia’s laugh was surprisingly hearty, a full-throated chuckle with a sensuous edge to it. “I see you have something in common with Livak. But you’re right to cover your own flanks.” She lowered luxuriant lashes for a moment. I let her take her time and drank my water.

“I’ve no game in hand, Halcarion be my witness. I’m here playing a speculation.” She resumed her seat on the daybed, tucking her skirts demurely around sculpted ankles white above silken slippers. “Your Esquire D’Alsennin, his ancient colony, this new land across the ocean, it’s the talk of Relshaz, Col and every other city between Toremal and Solura. All the runes are in the air at present and I want to see how they fall. Half the mercenary commanders in Lescar are working with understrength corps because every third mercenary is hanging round Carif hoping to take ship for the rumoured riches of Nemith the Last’s final folly.”

She wasn’t about to share any more than that, I realised as I watched her drink her own water. “So you’re waiting to see how the game plays out?” Livak had told me information was more precious than gold to this woman.

Charoleia nodded. “All the major pieces will be on the board at the Emperor’s dance. I want to see their moves for myself.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said slowly. “I make no promises, but Dastennin’s my witness, I’ll try.”

“Livak tells me your word is a solid pledge.” Charoleia smiled amiably.

“How was she when you saw her?” Charoleia’s charms notwithstanding, it was a future with Livak that my own game aimed to win, I reminded myself sternly.

“She was well,” nodded Charoleia. “Tired from the sea crossing, but then she’s never a good sailor. They rested for a few days and then took the Great West Road for Selerima.”

I didn’t envy Livak that journey, clear across the old provinces. I frowned. “Usara said they’d be heading for Col.”

Charoleia shrugged. “Livak said she was looking for Sorgrad and ’Gren. I knew they were going to be in Selerima for Equinox.”

I stifled a qualm. Livak had told me precious little about that particular pair of long-time friends and I suspected that was because she knew I’d take against them. Livak stealing to keep food in her belly as an alternative to earning her keep lifting her skirts—that was something I’d come to terms with. These brothers had no such justification, and when me and Livak had been fighting for the lives of Temar and the colonists they’d been robbing the Duke of Draximal’s war chest, that much I did know.

Charoleia was studying me with interest and I kept my face impassive. “Do you know if she found them?” If so, Livak might well be finding ancient lore to earn us the coin to choose our own path together. Then again, going back to a life of travelling and trickery with old accomplices might be tempting her astray.

“I haven’t heard.” Charoleia shrugged.

I’d have to go and soothe Casuel’s ruffled feathers, I realised with irritation. I needed a wizard to bespeak Usara and get me some news.

“Are you taking the armring with you?” Charoleia nodded at the battered box.

I hesitated, like a dog seeing a bone in the hearth but remembering a burned mouth.

“It should be safe enough locked in the box,” said Charoleia softly. “But I’ll send Eadit with you to carry it, if you prefer. Livak told me that you’d been used against your will by enchantments woven round such things.”

I set my jaw against her sympathy. Used against my will scarcely began to describe being held captive inside my own head, unable to resist as some other intelligence used my body for its own purposes. My stomach heaved at the memory.

“No, I’ll take it.” I took the accursed thing from her, my hands slippery with sweat against the scuffed wood. Nothing happened. No frustrated consciousness came scratching round my sanity, no desperate voice howled in the darkest recesses of my head, and I let slip an unguarded sigh of relief. “I’ll take my leave then, and I won’t forget about the dance card.”

Charoleia rang a little silver bell and I realised she was nearly as relieved as me. That was understandable; she’d hardly want a man-at-arms losing his wits in her elegant boudoir. “Call yourself. You’ll always be welcome.”

The maid opened the door and I wondered how much she’d heard from her post at the hinges. Her serene face gave no hint as she showed me down to the street door where the lad playing watchdog was desultorily polishing his sword.

I tucked the box under one arm as I stepped out into the heat of the day now building to its peak. The sun rode high in the cloudless bowl of the sky, glare striking back from whitewashed walls of new brick repairing ancient, broken stone. Sweat soon beaded my face, soaking my shirt as I took the circular road that skirts the shallow bowl of the lower city, keeping an eye out for broken slabs or curbstones that might trip me into the path of the heavy wagons and heedless drays lumbering along. I hurried past genteel merchant houses and between ambitious traders’ yards, ignoring the rise and fall of the land over the hills that ring the bay for the sake of the quickest route back to the D’Olbriot residence.

Paved roads branched off the stone flagged highway and led up to the higher ground where the Houses had built anew in search of clean water and cool breezes in the peace of the Leoril era. A conduit house stood in the corner where the route to the D’Olbriot residence joined the high road. The stream running beside the road sparkled in brief freedom between the spring behind the D’Olbriot residence and the conduit house diverting it into the myriad channels and sluices serving the lower city and giving D’Olbriot tenants one more good reason to pay their rents on time. But the Sieur still maintains the public fountains and wells for the indigent, and one stood here, an eight-sided pillar rising high above me, each spout guarded by god or goddess in their niche above a basin.

I dipped grateful hands into the clear water, splashing my head and face and feeling the heat leaching from my body. I drank deeply and then looked up at the blue marble likeness of Dastennin, impassive beneath his crown of seaweed as he poured water from a vast shell, gathering storm clouds looming behind him. You spared D’Alsennin’s life in Bremilayne, Lord of the Sea, I thought impulsively. Let him achieve something with it. Help us release those people still sleeping in that cave. Turning to the gods seemed in keeping with a tale of enchantments from a time of myth.

“If you’re done, friend—” A groom in Den Haurient livery was waiting, the horse he was exercising gulping from the trough for thirsty beasts.

“Of course.” I walked more slowly up towards the D’Olbriot residence. The usual stifling stillness hung over the ever narrowing strip of parkland clinging to the bottom reaches of the hill and tiny black flies danced in swirling balls beneath fringed leaves. But the shade trees offered welcome respite from the heat, and as I reached the top of the rise a breeze freshened the air. A well-tended highway winds between the spacious preserves of the upper city. No cracked slabs are allowed to trip the privilege of the oldest noble Houses—Den Haurient, Tor Kanselin, Den Leshayre, Tor Bezaemar. I walked past tall walls protecting extensive gardens surrounding spacious dwellings served by more lowly lodgings clustered close by. At this time of day there was little traffic, the only cart already nearly out of sight as it headed for some distant House built in more recent generations to escape the ever increasing pressures of the lower city.

As I drew closer to home I saw sentries walking slowly along the parapets of the walls. The watchtowers added in the uncertain days under T’Aleonne were fully manned and the D’Olbriot standard flew from every cornice. All customary pomp was displayed for Festival, to remind any visitors just which House they were dealing with and to bolster far-flung family members with pride in their Name.

“Ryshad!” The man sitting in the gatehouse hailed me, a thick-set, shaven-headed warrior with a much broken nose. He’d trained me in wrestling when I’d first come to D’Olbriot service.

“Olas!” I waved an acknowledging hand but didn’t stop or turn up the stairs to my new room. Elevated rank warranted privacy and that meant I was sleeping in the gatehouse rather than the barracks that filled one corner of the enclosure. Though I’d found privilege could have a sour aftertaste. With so many of the D’Olbriot Name arriving for the Festival, the noise of the gate opening and closing late into the night had disturbed me far more than the familiar bustle of the watch changing at midnight in the barracks. Still, with any luck most of the family would have arrived by now.

Turning sharply on to the gravelled path I hurried towards the tall house at the heart of the precisely delineated patterns of hedges and flowers. Temar had this reception to attend and I wanted to show him some small progress towards our shared goal before he left. Then I reckoned I’d earned half a chime out of the merciless sun for a meal and more than one long, cold drink before I went to see what I could discover from the Names on his list.

Leaving the grand reception rooms behind me, where the ladies of the House were catching up on half a season’s gossip by the sound of it, I passed lackeys bringing laden trays of refreshments up from the lower levels. I hurried up the first flight of stairs leading to the private salons reserved for the Sieur and Esquires of the Name. They were as busy talking as the women, open doors revealing older men deep in serious conversation, sons and nephews in attentive attendance, news and promises for later discussions exchanged on every side.

I bowed my way down the hallways and gained the second storey, where the corridors became narrower, with softer carpets underfoot and the intricate painted patterns on the walls giving way to plain plaster sparely stencilled with leaves and garlands to complement the ornate tapestries. Visiting servants were busy with trunks and coffers, some calmly hanging dresses and setting out favourite possessions while others went flustered in search of some missing chest. Resident maids and lackeys went steadily about their business with arms of lavender-scented linen and vases of flowers to make ready rooms for unexpected arrivals who’d changed their minds and accepted the Sieur’s invitation at the last moment.

I turned down a side passage to see a page was sitting on a cross-framed chair by the door at the end. He jumped up but I waved the child back to his hornbook. He’d spend enough of his day on his feet without me insisting on due deference and I could knock on a door myself. “I’m here to see Esquire D’Alsennin.”

“Enter.” Temar answered my knock at once and I opened the door. The Sieur had decreed Temar was to be treated with Imperial courtesy and thus warranted the finest, coolest quarters available. Windows broadened when this northern façade had been rebuilt filled the room with light and Temar was standing by one, arms folded crossly over his creased shirt and looking distinctly mutinous.

“Good day to you, Chosen Tathel.” Demoiselle Tor Arrial sat on a gilt-wood stool upholstered with damask that matched the curtains of the old-fashioned bed dominating one half of the room.

“Demoiselle.” I made a low bow, mindful of her Imperial heritage.

Her bark of laughter made me look up. “I am in no mood to be flattered by a title more suited to those coveys of maidens cluttering up the place. Avila will suffice.”

“As you wish,” I said cautiously. Informality was allowable on the road, but I wasn’t going to call her by her given name in Messire’s hearing. “Are you fully recovered from the journey?” She’d looked fit for her pyre the previous day, every year of her age weighing heavy on her head.

“I am quite restored,” she assured me. “A good night’s sleep works its own Artifice.”

“Ryshad, I really should come with you this afternoon,” Temar appealed to me. “This is my responsibility and my Name will lend weight to our requests.”

“How so, when no one knows your face?” demanded Avila acidly. “You need to assert the dignity of your House with these lately come nobles before you can claim the right to speak for Kel Ar’Ayen. That means exchanging the usual courtesies, just as Festival always demanded.”

“I was never any good at such things,” the youth objected.

“Because you never applied yourself and there was your grandsire to do the duty for you. You cannot escape the obligations of your rank now,” challenged Avila.

“Making yourself known will certainly smooth our path, Temar,” I interjected. Messire D’Olbriot would hardly thank me if Temar absented himself this afternoon. “And I’ve made a start on tracing the artefacts already.” I placed the box on a marble-topped table and opened it with hesitant hands to reveal the armring within.

Temar reached out an eager hand but then withdrew it.

“What is it?” Avila asked with a curious look at us both.

As one man Temar and I glanced across the room to a scabbarded blade resting on a walnut cabinet by the dressing room door. Artifice had confined Temar’s essential self within that sword through nine Imperial eras. No, he was no more about to risk handling an artefact holding a similarly imprisoned mind than I was.

“Let me.” Avila came to pick up the armring and turned it to examine an engraved device, dark lines blurred with age in the tarnished metal. “Ancel fashioned this badge when he and Letica married.”

“Maitresse Den Rannion, as was,” Temar whispered hastily to me. “Her sister, you know.”

I nodded. I’d made it my business to know all the long-dead colonists regardless, but I also seemed to have Temar’s own memories lurking in the back of my head supplying such answers. I wasn’t sure I liked it, but it was undeniably useful.

“This belongs to Jaes, the gate ward. He helped Letica plant her herb garden.” Avila ran a creased finger over the incised sea eagle’s head and tears shone briefly in her faded eyes.

“One more will be rescued from the darkness,” said Temar hoarsely.

“We can spread our efforts this afternoon,” I suggested. “I’ll take your list and try to talk to servants, men-at-arms, people like that. You make yourself known to the nobility and charm a few likely Demoiselles.”

He rubbed a hand over his hair, leaving it in unruly black spikes. “I might manage that.”

“Who is to keep this safe?” Avila put the armring back in its box and looked at us both.

I held up my hands in demur. “I’ve nowhere to keep it.”

“It is not staying in here,” said Temar hastily.

Avila gave us both a scorching glare as she got stiffly to her feet. “You would-be warriors can be remarkably chicken-hearted. Very well, I will keep it in my room. Temar, dress for this afternoon’s folderols.”

I opened the door so as to avoid her gaze but nearly betrayed myself when I saw the face Temar was pulling at her departing back. I grinned at him. “We’ll see who’s made most progress after dinner tonight.”

The D’Olbriot Residence, Summer Solstice Festival, First Day, Early Afternoon

Temar watched Avila and Ryshad go with some regret, then realised the page was staring hopefully at him. “I need clean clothes and I have yet to see my own luggage,” he said bluntly. “Whom do I ask?”

“I’ll get Master Dederic,” said the boy hastily and before Temar could say anything further he disappeared towards the backstairs.

Temar went back to staring out of the window, looking down on the complex interlacing of hedge and blooms that hemmed this enormous dwelling. The grounds of his grandfather’s modest hall had nourished deer and cattle, useful animals, not some empty display.

A discreet tap on the door drew him back to the present. “Enter.”

“Good day to you, Esquire.” A dapper man bowed into the room with aplomb.

“Forgive me, I do not believe we have met…” Temar apologised.

“I’m Dederic, tailor to the House.” The man clapped his hands and two liveried lackeys hurried in, arms full of garments. A hesitant youth with a ribbon pierced with pins tied round one wrist followed clutching a two-handled coffer. There must be more servants in this house than mice, Temar thought. In fact, there was probably some underling specifically dedicated to removing mice, and a separate one for the stableyard rats.

“Send the page for hot water. The Esquire will wish to shave.”

Dederic dismissed one of the lackeys before producing a length of knotted silk thread from one pocket. “I made up a few outfits for you overnight. I took measurements from your old clothing, so the fit won’t be all we might wish, but if I measure you now we can make the necessary adjustments tonight.”

The apprentice with the pins produced a small slate from his coffer and both tailors looked expectantly at Temar.

He stopped running a hand over his chin to judge for himself whether he needed to shave and stood still as Dederic moved rapidly round him. “Two fingers less in the back. If you could just raise your arms—thank you. Half a handspan long in the sleeve, Larasion help me. And your feet a little wider apart—thank you.”

The man took an impertinently intimate measurement and Temar was about to ask just what in Talagrin’s name Dederic thought he was doing when he noticed the close fit of the breeches everyone else wore. He swallowed his curt enquiry.

“It’s the Tor Kanselin reception this afternoon?” Dederic raised a fine black brow.

“It is? I mean, yes, it is,” Temar nodded firmly. “Who exactly is to be present, do you know?” he asked cautiously.

“Just the younger nobility from the better Names, mostly those from cadet lines who are visiting for Festival,” said Dederic, measuring the width of Temar’s shoulders with an approving murmur. “It’s a chance for everyone to catch up with the gossip while the Sieurs are occupied with assizes business.”

That didn’t sound too bad, thought Temar, determinedly quelling unwelcome nervousness. “What would you advise me to wear?” The last thing he wanted was to be embarrassed by his appearance.

Dederic ran a thoughtful hand over precisely pomaded curls. “Perhaps the pewter? Where is your valet?”

Temar blinked. “Camarl’s servant saw to my needs when we arrived. I have no attendant of my own.” And the struggle to convince Camarl’s valet he didn’t require anyone’s help washing had put Temar right off having one.

“I’ll assist you just this once.” Dederic’s narrow nostrils flared a little. “Speak to the Steward about a valet and don’t let him tell you everyone’s so busy you’ll have to share with some minor Esquire.”

One of the ubiquitous pageboys arrived with a steaming ewer. “I can shave myself,” said Temar hastily.

“Very well, if you wish.” Dederic glared at his apprentice, who was exchanging a smirk with the pageboy. “Huke, lay out linen and the pewter coat and get back to the seamstresses.”

Temar shut the door of the dressing room on the man’s continuing instructions with a sigh of relief. He pulled his shirt over his head and poured precisely warmed water from the ewer. Lathering his face, he looked at his reflection in the mirror of the ornate fruitwood washstand. The face in the glass looked irresolute, hollow-eyed, and Temar set his jaw beneath the soft luxury of the scented soap. Remember the uncompromising civility of real court life, he told himself silently, forget the easy camaraderie of Kel Ar’Ayen. He looked at his reflection again; people had often said they saw his grandfather in his eyes, hadn’t they? Temar shaved with firm yet careful strokes of the expertly honed blade, summoning up a host of memories of the stern old man. That was the example to keep in mind. None of these modern Sieurs could have matched his grandsire.

“Can I be of assistance?” Dederic peered round the door.

“Thank you, no.” Were these nobles incapable of doing anything for themselves? Temar stifled his irritation with a last wipe of his face with a soft white towel, remembering his grandsire had little use for men who needlessly rebuked their servants. He ignored the scented unguents arrayed along the washstand and went back into the bedchamber. “So what am I to wear?” He looked dubiously at close-tailored breeches and a full-skirted coat laid on the bed.

“Your shirt, Esquire.” The tailor held up the garment and Temar shrugged it on. “Oh, no, not like that.” Dederic raised frantic hands as Temar tugged brusquely at the fine frill around the neck.

“Camarl’s shirts are plain-collared.” Temar tried to conceal his dislike of the starched linen brushing his chin.

“For everyday wear.” Dederic smoothed the fabric with deft fingers. “For Festival, we fancy a little more elegance.”

More idiocy than elegance, Temar thought to himself as he buttoned cuffs hampered by lace falling to his knuckles. “At least hose have not changed that much.” He sat on the bed to roll pearly knitted silk over one foot and then realised the stockings were a handspan shorter than he expected and had no laces, and in any case there were no points on his drawers to tie them to.

Dederic smiled briefly. “The buttons at the knee secure the hose, like so.”

Temar pulled on the breeches, shoving his shirt in all anyhow before fumbling with unfamiliar fastenings at one side.

“Please, Esquire, allow me.” Dederic looked so pained that Temar reluctantly let the man pleat the linen neatly around his waist before smoothly securing the fine woven wool. Temar grimaced at the unaccustomed snugness.

“And now the coat.” Dederic held it up proudly, light grey wool with smoky watered silk showing where the cuffs were folded over and where buttons caught the fronts back for ease of movement. Temar was relieved to find it wasn’t as heavy as he had feared but immediately felt uncomfortably restricted beneath the arms and across his shoulders.

Dederic took his chance to sort out the confusion of lace at Temar’s cuffs and arrange the frill of his shirt within the stiff upright collar of the coat. “Most pleasing, Esquire.”

Temar managed a strained smile and turned to a long looking glass in a fussy ormolu frame. He clenched fists unseen beneath the absurd lace. The colonists of Kel Ar’Ayen had worn practical shirts and functional jerkins, serviceable breeches of leather or sturdy cloth, clothes little different to those of the mercenaries who’d rescued them. If women’s gowns had changed in cut, length or neckline over the generations, that had been of little interest to Temar.

Seeing himself dressed up like this was as forceful a reminder as any yet of just how far adrift he was from his own age. Qualms knotted Temar’s belly so tight he half expected to see his stomach squirming in the reflection. He moved his arms; no wonder these sleeves were so constricting, sewn tight to the body of the garment rather than laced in, as he had always been used to. What he wanted, Temar decided, was to rip off these stupid clothes, hide in that ludicrous bed and pull that absurd coverlet over his head until all these fawning servants and this whole incomprehensible Festival had gone away.

“A house shoe will suffice for this afternoon,” Dederic continued. “But the cobbler will take your pattern for boots at your earliest convenience.”

“I have boots,” said Temar curtly, turning to the chair he’d kicked them under. But Dederic was already kneeling before him with what looked like a girl’s slipper. Temar sighed and reluctantly eased one foot into the square-toed soft grey leather.

“I have plain buckles or—”

“Plain,” interrupted Temar.

Dederic reached into the box for an unembellished silver fastening. As the tailor fussed around his feet, Temar scowled angrily at his reflection. He could run back to Kel Ar’Ayen, couldn’t he, but what would he say when he got there? How could he excuse himself when everyone was trusting him to bring home the artefacts to restore loved ones to life and light? Ryshad was right; the chosen man could talk to servants and men-at-arms but it was Temar’s duty to deal with nobility.

“Don’t you have any jewellery?” Dederic asked plaintively as he stood. “Something with your own badge on?”

“Just this.” Temar raised the hand bearing his father’s sapphire signet ring.

Dederic looked doubtful. “It’s not quite the colour for that coat. Some diamonds, perhaps?”

Of course, Camarl always wore rings and pins, some collar or chain. No matter. Temar had no wish to show off like some cockbird flaunting fine feathers. His father’s ring was sufficient for him. “I see no need for anything more.”

“Perhaps a little pomade?” Dederic offered Temar a brush.

“No, thanks all the same.” Temar dragged the bristles through his hair and gave Dederic a warning look as the man made a move towards a scent bottle. “This will suffice.”

“I’ll see if Esquire Camarl is ready,” offered the tailor and bowed out with a practised smile.

Temar was examining his sword thoughtfully when Camarl came breezily into the room some time later. “Oh, we don’t wear blades, not indoors, not at a social gathering.”

“There’s no way anyone could fight in these clothes.” At least his own spare frame was more flattered by close tailoring than Camarl’s stoutness, Temar thought. He slid the gleaming steel back into the scabbard.

“You look most stylish.” Camarl ushered Temar out into the corridor. “Though this afternoon will be quite informal, just a chance for you to meet a few people before the real business of Festival begins—” Camarl broke off and clicked his tongue against his teeth.

“What?” Temar looked sidelong at the other man, noting jewelled clasps securing the turned-back cuffs of his amber coat, rings on every finger glinting beneath the lace at his wrists.

“I was going to say you’ll be able to recognise people’s Names by their badges but I don’t suppose you will.”

Temar frowned. “We have—we had insignia, for seals and battle standards, but from what Master Devoir said your business of badges is rather more complicated. But he did his best to drill me in the important ones.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask what would the D’Alsennin emblem be,” grimaced Camarl. “People will be asking. The Archivist set his clerks looking, but there’s not one recorded, not as such. Formal insignia were mostly adopted after the Chaos and your Name—”

“Had died out by then,” Temar supplied sadly.

“Quite so.” Camarl coughed to cover his discomfiture and for some moments they walked in silence down to the bustle of the lower floors. Camarl smiled at Temar as they turned down the final flight of stairs. “But even in the Old Empire, most Houses favoured some theme for their crests?”

“D’Alsennin mostly used leaves.” Temar closed his eyes on childhood memories of the silver clasp that had secured his father’s long hair, one of the few things Temar remembered him by. But he’d left that treasure safe with Guinalle.

“Leaves are certainly traditional, but you’d need to decide on something distinctive.” Camarl’s hand strayed to the enamelled lynx mask fastening his shirt collar. “Opting for your own badge would be a good notion, though. It’ll give us an ideal opportunity to introduce you to the Emperor.”

Temar halted on the bottom step to let a giggling trio of girls trip lightly past. “How so?”

“All grants of emblem have to be approved by the Emperor.” Camarl raised his voice above the excited buzz of conversation. “Well, that’s the formality. What’s important is our Archivist making sure any new device is sufficiently clear not to get confused with someone else’s.” He raised a hand and two stripling Esquires halted to let him and Temar pass ahead of them through the crowded hallway.

“We all just chose our own insignia,” grumbled Temar as they walked out into the sun. “No Emperor had a say in such things.”

“Life in ancient times was freer, perhaps.” Camarl stopped to look thoughtfully at Temar. “But after the Chaos, when the time came to rebuild, the Names surrendered freedoms for safeguards all would abide by. That’s why the Emperor rules on things like badges, since he’s pledged to enforce them.”

Temar was trying to find something to say to that when a new thought diverted Camarl. “Where’s Ryshad? He should be attending you.” He looked around the thronged gatehouse with growing displeasure.

“I had errands for him.” Temar met Camarl’s frown with a challenging look. “I have that right, do I not? To set him small tasks?”

Camarl sighed. “We have plenty of servants for such things. Ryshad really does need to appreciate a chosen man has quite a different status to the merely sworn.”

Temar dutifully followed Camarl through the crowd waiting in the gatehouse as a succession of small carriages and gigs were brought round from the stable yard at the rear of the residence. “Is everyone going to Tor Kanselin’s reception?” He smiled faintly at a young girl who was white with suppressed excitement.

“Oh, no.” Camarl snapped his fingers and the next gig drew up smartly in front of them. “The first day of Festival’s very informal. People mostly visit old friends and call on relatives in other Houses.”

He urged Temar into the open carriage and they were carried along the highway. Temar looked down the hill, trying to work out exactly where the D’Olbriot residence was in relation to what he remembered Toremal to be. So far he’d seen nothing of the walled city he had known, arriving after dark and then being jolted through seemingly endless crowded streets in the coach that had taken them to the archive. He’d seen nothing he recognised and found this lack of any bearings disconcerting. But the trees blocked any view of the land sloping down to the bay, so Temar turned to looked with some interest at a knot of buildings tight inside an ancient bank and ditch incongruous beside the square-cut wall of the residence. “What is that?”

Camarl smiled. “Grace houses, workshops, that kind of thing.”

Temar recognised a frail, silvery carillon of traditional bells. “You have a shrine there?”

“Sacred to Poldrion,” nodded Camarl absently. “A D’Olbriot priesthood for generations. The Sieur granted it to one of my cousins at Winter Solstice, I believe.”

So much for the hallowed observances the god expected from the Head of a House, thought Temar indignantly.

Their carriage halted as a wain loaded with freshly cut blocks of stone negotiated an awkward little bridge over the stream. Temar turned to watch it heading for a building as yet no more than a promise of scaffolding poles beyond the shrine enclosure.

“Here we are.” Camarl stepped lightly down from the carriage.

“Already?” Temar wouldn’t have bothered harnessing the horses for this distance.

Lackeys in bronze and beige escorted them through the gatehouse. “As you see, the late Sieur Tor Kanselin rebuilt in the Rational style,” Camarl told Temar in an undertone.

Temar only just managed to stop himself stumbling on the steps to the gravel walk when he saw the edifice before him. While later wings had clearly been added to the D’Olbriot residence, Temar had approved the new building as a sympathetic mix of old and new. It was evident Tor Kanselin had scorned such compromise. A square, unbroken frontage was pierced by regular windows, longest on the lower floors, graduated in size to the small garret rooms half hidden by the pediment topping the wall. Every line was straight, every corner exact, the pale stone ornamented with precisely parallel carving framing rigidly geometric designs. These angles were reflected in the sharply delineated gravel walks and hedges of the gardens, the potential unruliness of flowers banished and patterns of coloured gravels laid out instead. Where trees were permitted, they were clipped into tightly disciplined shapes, not a sprig out of place.

“What do you think?” chuckled Camarl.

“It is rather startling to my eye,” Temar said cautiously.

“It’s a fine example of Rational architecture,” Camarl commented, ‘and yes, it’s a bit severe for my taste. But the old Sieur was one of the first, so it’s one of the strictest examples you’ll see. Styles have softened around the edges these days.”

He smiled to a waiting lackey as they walked up to the door precisely in the centre of the frontage. “Fair Festival, Getan. No, don’t trouble yourself. I know my way.”

As the retainer bowed low, Camarl immediately turned down a long corridor leading to the rear of the building. Mock pillars of polished golden stone were set in the white plaster of the walls, supporting a complex frieze running above the tops of doorways and blending into the ornate decoration of the coffered ceiling. “That looks a bit more lively,” Temar remarked.

“Yes, Rational style is all very well, but you do have to recognise the heritage, don’t you?” Camarl sounded amused. “Watch your footing.”

The glassy marble floor caught Temar unawares as he tried to identify the mythic figures among the intricate detail.

“When we were children we’d get a hearthrug and slide along here if we could escape our nursemaids,” grinned Camarl, gesturing at the white expanse inlaid with mottled tawny lines.

Temar laughed but thought all those choice ceramics set on spindly tables must have been horribly vulnerable to rampaging children. There had been no such hazards in the halls of his youth, where plain panelled walls were only relieved by stern-faced statues on plinths it took three men to shift. Banners hung overhead from dark hammer beams and plain silken drapes only framed the long windows to baffle drafts from ironbound shutters. But he liked the idea of the staid Camarl causing havoc hereabouts.

A florid platter displayed on a side table caught his eye. Arimelin sat weaving dreams in her bower and the trees reminded Temar of the tracery engraved on his sword, his grandfather’s gift before he sailed for Kel Ar’Ayen. The blade had been made for the uncle expected to be the next Sieur D’Alsennin before the Crusted Pox blighted all their lives.

“Holm oak,” Temar said suddenly. “Could I take the holm oak as my badge?”

Camarl cracked his knuckles absently. “I can’t think of a House using it, not anyone of significance. The Archivists would have to check the lesser Names but we could argue for D’Alsennin precedence.”

Would that help put him on an equal footing with these nobles always flaunting their finery, wondered Temar. His grandfather had never needed such display; face and Name were enough to command respect from equals and subordinates alike.

“Here we are.” Camarl nodded to the waiting lackey as they reached the end of the corridor. The leaves and flowers of the plasterwork frieze framed a marvellously lifelike swan, wings bating in defiance and neck arched with its head hovering right above the lintel as if it might peck at those passing beneath. Temar laughed.

“Just to remind people who they’re dealing with,” smiled Camarl.

The lackey flung open the double doors with the efficiency of long practice and Camarl strode casually through, Temar rather more stiffly by his side.

“People will call in through the afternoon, then go on to other things,” murmured Camarl. “We’re here to socialise, not talk trade, so don’t let anyone press you on colony business.”

Temar wondered just how exactly he was to manage that without giving offence, but he followed Camarl obediently down the vast room. This high ceiling was another triumph of the plasterer’s art, swags and garlands framing flowers, knots, beasts and birds, too stylised and too fantastical to be anything but insignia, Temar decided. The plain walls, by contrast, were a mere backdrop to an imposing array of gilt-framed paintings. Glazed doors in deeply recessed bays in the three outer walls gave on to terraces where Temar saw tempting glimpses of green foliage. The inner, southern wall had bays to match the doors furnished with intimate circles of chairs upholstered in deceptively plain silver brocade. Fireplaces of clean-cut white marble held vast arrays of lilies, while bowls of golden roses scented the air from fruitwood side tables.

Two young ladies occupied one of these bays, prettily pink but appropriately demure in dull silk gowns of honey gold and jessamine yellow, collars of diamonds and pearls around their necks.

“Demoiselles.” Camarl’s dark eyes warmed with affection. “May I make known Temar, Esquire D’Alsennin. Temar, I have the honour to present the senior Demoiselles Tor Kanselin, Resialle and Irianne, two of my dearest friends.

Both swept elegant curtseys, first to Temar, then to Camarl. “You’re horribly early,” accused the one in the honey-coloured gown, hazel eyes charming in a strong-featured face.

“Lady Channis arrived just before you. She’s calling on our lady mother,” piped up her younger sister, light brown gaze fixed on Camarl.

Resialle, the elder, stepped past Temar towards the empty length of the gallery. “Let’s walk a little, before the room becomes too crowded. I’m sure you’ve been wanting to see the pictures.”

Temar could take a hint as plain as a kick in the shins. “Demoiselle.”

She led him briskly out of sight of Camarl and her sister, silken shoes whispering on the woven rush matting. “This is the Sieur Tor Kanselin who was uncle to Inshol the Curt,” she said brightly, indicating a portrait of a balding man, chin on chest and arms folded, swathed in a black robe barely distinguishable from the vista of storm clouds dark behind him.

“He looks half asleep to me,” said Temar critically.

“That’s a pose of earnest contemplation, I believe. In a time of uncertainty, a show of wisdom helped maintain confidence in the Name.” Resialle stole a glance at Temar from behind a raised hand. She adjusted a discreetly jewelled comb pinning a long fall of lace to the back of her high-piled black hair before folding her hands demurely at a trim waist girdled with a heavy golden chain with a pomander and a fan hanging from it.

Temar winked at her. “You need not play the tutor just to get your sister and Camarl a little privacy.”

Resialle looked a little abashed. “He said you weren’t stupid.”

“Festivals were always a favoured time for match-making.” Temar smiled, resolutely looking her in the eye rather than letting his gaze fall to the low circular neckline of her gown.

He did permit himself a brief glance at her cleavage, where a jewelled swan fashioned round the body of a single, splendid pearl hung on gold and white-enamelled chains linked by a diamond clip.

“Oh, the deal was done at Equinox, but they’ll be more than just a match.” Resialle caught up her fan and smoothed the pristine white feathers clasped in a golden handle set with fiery agates. “Irianne’s adored Camarl since before we put up our hair or lengthened our skirts.”

“Since he slid down corridors with her?” hazarded Temar.

Resialle laughed. “He told you about that? Yes, and shared sweetmeats with, and consoled over lost cage-birds—and teased mercilessly about her hopeless singing.”

“So when will the wedding be?” Temar asked idly.

“Mother’s doubtless planning it as we speak, but she’ll keep it to herself until the very last minute,” Resialle shrugged.

Temar was puzzled. “Why so?”

Resialle looked askance. “We hardly want people claiming a marriage entitles them to some handout from the Name. It can cost a small fortune to stop that kind of nonsense turning into a riot.”

So the nobility no longer celebrated a wedding by rewarding their faithful tenantry with feasting and gifts. Trying to conceal his disdain, Temar turned as the double doors opened for a handful of richly dressed young men and women.

Resialle laid a hand on his arm. “You could drop Camarl a hint, you know, that Irianne’s a grown woman. She’s threatening to have herself painted by Master Gerlach if he doesn’t at least kiss her soon.”

Her laugh, half scandalised, half admiring, plainly told Temar some response was expected. Unfortunately he had no idea what it should be. “That would make him realise?”

“You don’t know Gerlach’s work?” Resialle’s colour rose a little. “Of course you don’t.” She led Temar to the gallery’s most remote recess. “That’s one of his, our mother, painted as Halcarion, you know, in the allegorical style.”

Temar’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t decide what was more shocking, that any woman could be so impious as to have herself portrayed as the goddess or that she would do so in diaphanous gauzes clipped negligently over one shoulder leaving one glorious breast all but naked to be rendered in loving detail by the artist.

“It’s very good, isn’t it?” said Resialle admiringly. “But Mother would have five kinds of fit if Irianne suggested it before she was married.”

How was he ever supposed to meet this Maitresse Tor Kanselin without dying of embarrassment? Temar turned hastily to look for something more familiar, walking rapidly and gratefully towards a clutch of smaller pictures hung close together on the far wall. “This is more the style I remember,” he said inarticulately.

Resialle wrinkled her nose at the stiffly formal figures. “We consider that kind of thing very old-fashioned.” Her attempt to make light of her opinion fell as flat as the faces in the ancient portraits. “But there aren’t many families with pictures from before the Chaos, so we keep them on display.”

Awkward silence hung in the air until a steward broke it with ringing declaration. “Esquire Firon Den Thasnet and Demoiselle Dria Tor Sylarre.”

Resialle let slip a glance at the girl who looked back with avid curiosity.

Temar didn’t think he could cope with two of these girls and hurried to start some conversation to forestall introductions. “So how do we get from these to that?” Temar waved vaguely in the direction of the scandalous picture.

Resialle managed an uncertain smile. “Tastes change gradually, naturally. These old styles, the figure on a plain background, they were to convey presence, power, weren’t they? That square stance is all about strength.” She was clearly repeating something some tutor had drilled into her.

Temar shrugged. “I suppose so.” He’d never really thought about it, but then there’d never been anything different to look at.

Resialle moved down the gallery to some smaller canvases.

“These are from just after the Chaos.” Her tone became more animated. “That’s the Sieur D’Olbriot whose cousin was wife to Kanselin the Pious. It’s the old pose, but see the map beneath his feet. There’s Toremal with the sun’s shining on it, to show hope and renewal, while the lost provinces are all still in shadow.”

Temar studied the ominous darkness behind the solemn figure, broken only by a single shaft of light edging the clouds with gold. “I see,” he said politely.

Resialle’s smile betrayed relief. “Even when the backgrounds stay plain, the people become more natural-looking.” They walked slowly down the length of the room, gazing at the portraits increasingly viewed from an angle or the side, some looking away from the artist, clothes painted with soft realism.

“Later you have to look at what they’re holding,” explained Resialle as they halted in front of a hollow-eyed man with a forked, greying beard and an odd-shaped hood to his enveloping cloak.

Temar obediently studied the silver-banded staff in the old man’s hands. “And that means—?”

Resialle looked faintly disconcerted. “It’s the Adjurist’s rod.”

“Of course.” Temar hoped he sounded at least half convincing. He’d better remember to ask Camarl what in Saedrin’s name that was. No, he’d ask Ryshad. He looked up at the long-dead old man and realised this sombre elder’s father’s grandsire hadn’t even been thought of when Temar had left Toremal behind.

Resialle retreated behind noncommittal remarks as they continued their slow progress and Temar didn’t dare venture any comment of his own. A lackey brought crystal glasses of sparkling wine, which at least gave them both an excuse for silence. More people were arriving now, mostly much of an age with Resialle, but Temar noticed a few older ladies whose satin gowns were overlaid with lace from throat to hem. Resialle was casting longing glances at her friends so Temar stared at the pictures to avoid catching her eye. That was how sensible clothing had drifted into this nonsensical attire, he realised, seeing lengthening jerkins becoming ever more full cut. At least he’d not been woken to some of the more ludicrous excesses of fashion, he thought, gaping at a bloated lordling in a puff-sleeved coat, shirt poking through slashes in the fabric caught together with jewelled clasps. And if breeches had turned too close-tailored for Temar’s liking, at least that was better than the bagged and frilled style that cursed some earlier generation.

“Tiadar, Tor Kanselin as was, who married into the D’Olbriot Name nine generations since.” Resialle was beginning to sound bored, Temar realised. He studied the painting, desperate to find something intelligent to say about it. “That jewel!” He stared at the swan pinned to the scalloped neckline of the painted lady’s gown, faithfully rendered in minute detail. “That’s the one you’re wearing, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes,” said Resialle, brushing it with a finger and a touch of smugness. “It came back to our House with a daughter in the next generation but one. It’s been a Tor Kanselin heirloom piece since the Modrical era. It’s in all the portraits.”

“Are many jewels handed down like that? Do people make a point of having them painted?” Temar leaned forward to study the swan but remembered himself just in time.

“Yes,” Resialle said slowly. “The lately ennobled buy things and then break them up for new settinp, but decent families have a proper sense of history.”

Temar startled her with a beaming smile. “Most of those still sleeping in Kel Ar’Ayen entrusted themselves to their choicest jewels, rings and lockets. Vahil, my friend, Vahil Den Rannion brought them back to the Name that gave them leave to go,” he explained. “Do you think we might find them in a House’s pictures?”

Resialle looked nonplussed. “I don’t see—”

“Hello, Ressy. Doing your duty by Camarl’s poor relations, are you?” A spotty youth dressed in startling purple with silver edging to his lace appeared at Temar’s shoulder. “You want to be careful. Leeches are cursed hard to shake loose.”

“Esquire D’Alsennin, may I make known Firon Den Thasnet,” said Resialle without enthusiasm.

Den Thasnet favoured Temar with a curiously close-mouthed smile that betrayed acrid tainted breath. “White feathers, is it, Ressy? But your Sieur refused to discuss Tayven’s suit with our designate, he said you weren’t open to offers.”

“If you’re going to be offensive, you can go away,” snapped Resialle.

“We’ll see you sniffing round any girl showing a white fan, will we, D’Alsennin?” Den Thasnet’s raised voice turned nearby heads and several people drifted closer, faces animated. “Looking to restore the family fortunes with a good match is all very well, but you’ll need something to back an ancient Name if you’re going to dance the measure hereabouts. Have you any property this side of the ocean?” He sneered at Temar, showing unattractively stained teeth.

“Of course, your brother’s up before the assize, isn’t he?” A newcomer just beyond Resialle interrupted the youth. “So you’re honour bound to be the loudest arse in the room, if he can’t be present.” He inclined his head to Temar. “Maren Den Murivance, at your service.”

“That’s a spurious claim and you know it,” retorted Den Thasnet angrily. “That was our mother’s settlement. Den Fisce only wants it back because we’ve doubled the rents.”

“By rebuilding and reletting to lately come tradesmen with more money than lineage,” countered Den Murivance. “Perhaps Den Fisce’s concerned about the tenants you threw on to the streets when you tore down their houses.”

Temar kept his mouth shut and wondered who these families were, what their quarrels might be and whether or not he should make some effort to find out. A girl on the edge of the group tittered behind a fan shading from black to palest grey and Den Thasnet coloured unpleasantly. “At least I’m not begging charity round the coat hems of my betters. You’ve made quite the fool of old D’Olbriot with your nonsense, haven’t you?”

He thrust his face belligerently at Temar, who realised everyone close by was waiting with interest for his response. He wondered if punching the lout in the mouth would split the seams in this tight-sewn coat.

“Believe me, friend,” he laid ironic emphasis on the word, “with the wealth of Kel Ar’Ayen behind me, I need no one’s charity.” He smiled winningly at Den Thasnet but his heart was pounding. Was someone going to challenge that idle boast?

“Surely you’ve heard of Nemith the Last’s colony?” said Resialle sweetly.

“I doubt it,” chimed in Den Murivance. “Firon’s as ignorant of history as he is of manners.”

“Is it truly as rich as they say?” breathed the girl who’d been giggling behind her fan.

Saedrin save me from clever ideas, thought Temar with a sinking feeling, realising all eyes were fixed on him.

“This is hardly a very edifying display of your breeding.” The entire group started like children caught in mischief and parted in front of Temar to reveal a stout woman well beyond her middle years. Her rose gown, covered with a grey lace overdress, belied its cost with simplicity of cut. But there was nothing simple about her heavy necklace, bracelets and rings, and her hazel eyes were as bright as her diamonds, her plump and kindly face taut with displeasure. “When will you grow out of making cheap taunts to show how clever you are, Maren? As for you, Firon, if you must indulge in stableyard habits you should stay there till the effects wear off.” Den Thasnet’s hand moved involuntarily to his mouth.

“Temar, Esquire D’Alsennin, may I make known Dirindal, Relict Tor Bezaemar,” said Resialle nervously.

“Esquire, I’ve heard a great deal about you.” She linked her arm through Temar’s unresisting one and led him inexorably away from the group. “Were they being very childish?” Her voice was sympathetic but loud enough to be heard by the abashed group.

“They all know each other and I do not. Awkwardness is inevitable.” Temar realised he was still the centre of attention.

The Relict smiled at him. “You got Firon’s measure soon enough. He chews thassin of course, which addles the little wits he was born with and gives him a quite unwarranted confidence in his attractions. You can load an ass with gold but he’ll still eat thistles, won’t he?”

Temar laughed. “My grandsire used to say things like that!”

The Relict patted his arm with a comforting hand. “Doubtless a great deal has changed in all the time you slept, but some truths remain constant.” She looked beyond Temar’s shoulder and nodded to someone he couldn’t see. A moment later a trio of double pipes struck up at the far end of the long room and curious heads turned away. “Let’s take some air.”

She led Temar out on to a smoothly paved terrace where precisely trimmed trees in elegant pots shaded two couples sitting not quite close enough together to be in an actual embrace. “As the sun moves, we move from terrace to terrace,” the Relict explained to Temar in a deliberately carrying voice. “This northerly one for the afternoon, to the west for the morning, to the east for the evening. That way we always have shade, a most rational scheme. Zediael, Tayha, Fair Festival to you.” She smiled benevolently on the closest couple who nevertheless took themselves inside, quickly followed by the other pair.

“Do sit down, my dear.” The Relict tucked a cushion at her back with a sigh of pleasure. “My ankles swell if I have to stand for long in this heat.” She waved at a lackey peering anxiously out of the door. “We can have a quiet glass of wine and get to know each other a little better.”

Temar perched on the edge of a bench. “You have the advantage of me, my lady Tor Bezaemar.”

“Call me Dirindal, my boy, she urged him. “Ah, there’s Demoiselle Tor Arrial. Avila, my dear, do join us!”

Temar wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not to see Avila emerge on to the terrace but he found himself grinning as she manoeuvred the train of her overdress past a table. Creamy lace laid over dove grey satin suggested Avila had found a maid well informed as to the colours of the Tor Kanselin gallery.

Temar bowed. “You look most elegant, Demoiselle.”

“I must be wearing a year’s worth of work for a lacemaker.” Avila sat next to the Relict. “But at least it covers me up. I would look like a plucked chicken in a neckline like those girls are wearing.”

“Which is why we matrons have set the fashion thus,” chuckled Dirindal. She smoothed a hand over her discreetly draped bosom, where a little black bird held her lace secure in golden claws. “Now, my dear, has Lady Channis been introducing you to the people you wanted to meet?”

“Indeed.” Avila smiled with unfeigned pleasure. “I had a most interesting conversation with the current Maitresse Tor Arrial.”

“Did she introduce her brother?” Dirindal twinkled. “Esquire Den Harkeil is quite a charmer, so be on your guard against his flattery.”

“Camarl did say Tor Arrial was a House that survived the Chaos.” Temar wasn’t sure that he wanted Avila to find herself a whole new array of family, leaving him as alone as he had ever been.

“We have come down in the world, Temar,” Avila told him without visible regret. “Tor Arrial’s little more than a minor Name around Zyoutessela, but the Sieur has hired a house here for Festival. He has invited me to dine tomorrow and says he will invite Den Domesin’s designate.”

“Another minor Name but well enough esteemed,” Dirindal said judiciously. “You’ve a son of Den Domesin over in Kellarin, I believe?”

“Albarn.” Avila nodded. “But he decided to stay behind and help with the harvest.”

“Well, I don’t suppose he wanted to come and see all the changes reminding him of everything he’s lost,” said Dirindal shrewdly. “And I don’t suppose that’s any too easy for either of you. If you need to ask who’s who, what they warrant by way of notice or caution, don’t be afraid to call on me. That’s doubtless one of the reasons I was invited here today. I’m usually quite idle these days.” She looked from Temar to Avila and back again. “And I don’t suppose you came all this way just to make merry at Festival.”

Temar and Avila exchanged a glance. “That is very good of you, my lady Tor Bezaemar—” began Temar.

“Dirindal, my dear,” she chided him gently. “We’re related, so I think I can allow it.”

Temar was startled. “Related?”

Dirindal smiled, delighted. “Of course, my boy. My grandmother on my father’s side was born Tor Alder.”

Temar stared, his mind scrambling frantically to make sense of her words. “My mother? She married Rian Tor Alder not long before we sailed—” His voice cracked.

“Oh, now I’ve upset you.” Dirindal took his hand between her own soft beringed ones and held it tight. “How thoughtless of me. I’m so sorry, my dear.” She snapped her fingers and a lackey with a glass appeared at Temar’s elbow.

A long swallow of wine did much to restore his composure. “So it’s a marriage connection of how many degrees?”

“A blood connection, my dear,” Dirindal assured him. “Your mother bore Rian Tor Alder two sons. She was widowed very young, after all.”

Temar choked on his wine. “I had no idea!”

“Well, I don’t suppose young Camarl’s had a chance to discuss such matters with you. But it’s true, you have plenty of connections you can pursue if you want to settle fools like Firon.”

“Been getting yourself into quarrels, Temar?” asked Avila with a touch of asperity.

“Not of my making,” he retorted.

“One of Den Thasnet’s sons was making himself offensive.” Dirindal defended Temar.

“Saying I am here to beg charity or steal property from D’Olbriot,” said Temar grimly. “And no one contradicted him.”

Dirindal looked at him, eyes alert in her plump face. “It’s a fact you’d have a legal claim on your mother’s dower, even after all this time. Tor Alder would be honour-bound to grant you something, and that would undeniably give you some standing, some independence from D’Olbriot. But no matter, everyone knows Firon’s a fool.”

“But we do have some begging to do,” said Avila with the first hint of embarrassment Temar could recall seeing in her. “There are valuables we need to trace if we are ever to bring the remaining sleepers of Kel Ar’Ayen back to themselves.”

Temar explained as briefly as he could while the Relict’s eyes grew round with astonishment.

“Vahil, Sieur Den Rannion as he became, he brought all these back?” Dirindal nodded slowly. “Yes, as heirlooms such things would be all the more precious.”

And these modern nobles see no higher duty beyond conserving their coffers of gold, thought Temar sourly.

“How do we request such things without causing offence?” Avila asked hesitantly. “If we are seen as making some improper request—”

“You certainly need to be discreet.” The Relict looked pensive. “Would you be willing to make fair recompense?”

Avila shared a grimace with Temar. “Kel Ar’Ayen is a rich land but more in resources than minted metal.”

“But Camarl will be spending his Festival arranging the very best returns for your trade,” Dirindal encouraged them both. “That’ll soon bring the coin in. The first thing is to find these things you’re seeking. You don’t want to risk an approach until you’re certain where some piece is.”

Temar sat up straight. “I have an idea about that. Heirloom jewels are often shown in portraits, Avila.”

Dirindal nodded. “Indeed they are.”

“If we visit families we believe hold artefacts, we might be able to find them in their paintings,” Temar explained. The uncertainty shadowing Avila’s eyes lifted slightly.

“Let’s see what invitations you and I can accept together over the next few days, my dear.” Dirindal patted Avila’s knee. “At my age, I know everyone. No one will think anything of me showing you round a House’s gallery, to explain dealings between the Names in the generations you’ve missed.” She held up a forefinger. “Let’s find Channis. She can wheedle invitations out of anyone not holding some Festival gathering.”

She got to her feet with a little puff of exertion and Temar hastily offered his arm. Dirindal waved him away with a smile. “No need, my dear.” She rustled ahead of them, small feet in high-heeled shoes tapping on the terrace.

“Who’s this Lady Channis?” Temar hissed with a hand on Avila’s arm. “Camarl’s mentioned her, but I can’t figure out her standing.”

“She’s the Sieur’s paramour.” Colour rose on Avila’s sharp cheekbones. “But it’s not the same as in our day. She’s a Den Veneta with widow’s rank in her own right. She and the Sieur don’t marry for inheritance reasons but they’ve been acknowledged lovers for years. She has her own apartments at the D’Olbriot residence and acts as his hostess for things like this. Don’t make a fool of yourself when you’re introduced.”

“And this isn’t scandal to set the ashes of the dead rattling their urns?” gaped Temar. “And have you seen that painting of the Maitresse Tor Kanselin?”

“And several others just as startling.” Avila fixed Temar with a steely gaze. “We must take the realities of this new order as we find them, my lad. Refusing to acknowledge a truth that’s biting your ankles has always hampered you.”

She shook off his hand and Temar watched her go with rising annoyance. He was about to pursue her, to finish that conversation to his own satisfaction, when he saw the Relict Tor Bezaemar with the original of that scandalous painting, a statuesque woman whose iridescent lace overdress was pinned back to her shoulders. The golden silk of her gown barely covered the milky swell of her breasts, but little could be seen beneath an inordinate display of opals. Her dark hair was piled high with jewelled combs above a face expertly masked by cosmetics, lips painted in a sharp blood red line. Dirindal was introducing Avila, who certainly looked the poor relation beside that wealth and beauty, Temar thought with some satisfaction. It was short-lived. If Avila wove herself into the web of gossip and cooperation that women of every age seemed to perpetuate, she’d be the one returning in triumph to Kel Ar’Ayen. How was Temar supposed to impress Guinalle then?

The music ended with a flourish and muted conversation burst into renewed life on all sides. Temar realised he was the focus of covert attention from more than one group of giggling girls and lifted his chin in defiance.

One maiden, bolder than her companions, moved closer and, catching Temar’s eye, made a low curtsey, her cerise dress whispering on the woven matting. “The musicians are very fine, don’t you agree, Esquire?”

“Most pleasing,” he smiled hopefully at her.

“Do you prefer the traditional style or the more Rational composers,” she asked artlessly, but her eyes were sly behind a fan of frivolous magenta plumes.

“I know nothing of either mode, Demoiselle, so am unable to judge.” Whatever game she had in mind, Temar wasn’t about to play it.

The girl looked disappointed before tossing her head with elaborate unconcern. “No matter.” She turned a dismissive shoulder on Temar, returning to her friends without acknowledging his bow.

He gritted his teeth, seeing expressions of faint derision pass between the girls. He hardly had time for music lessons, not with everything else he was supposed to accomplish in these scant five days. Were there any familiar faces in this room? Did he know anyone here who might help him achieve something to equal Avila’s undoubted successes?

As he looked round the room a knot of girls in a far corner drifted apart for a moment and Temar was surprised to see a familiar face. It took him a moment to place the little mage girl from Bremilayne; Allin, that was her name. He frowned. She had her back to the wall while the other girls pressed round, faces clearly malicious. Temar feared the mage girl was close to tears, face scarlet and hands pleating the front of what even he could tell was a hopelessly unfashionable gown. He made his way though the busy room and arrived without attracting undue attention.

“We were surprised to see you here,” one girl was saying sweetly.

“But you could hardly expect to go unnoticed in that dress,” said another, not bothering to honey her malice.

“I don’t know how these things are done in Lescar,” began another, and from the contempt in her voice she clearly had no wish to know. “But here it’s accepted that wizards leave the concerns of the Names well alone.”

“My father only hopes D’Olbriot is making that clear to you people,” added the one who’d criticised Allin’s dress.

“No House would dream of meddling with Hadrumal’s affairs,” chipped in the first.

“My lady mage!” Temar put all the pleasure he could into his greeting. “How delightful to see you again.”

He bowed low and Allin managed an abrupt curtsey. “Esquire D’Alsennin.” Her voice was steadier than he had expected and he realised it was anger rather than upset colouring her round face.

“Someone else who doesn’t know when he’s not wanted,” murmured one girl behind a canary yellow fan. A sudden lull in conversation all around left her words clearly audible.

Temar inclined his head at her. “You would be Demoiselle Den Thasnet?” A silver and enamel trefoil blossomed at her freckled neckline, twin to one the odious Firon had worn. “I recognise your House’s style.”

“You should be careful with that fan, Demoiselle,” Allin remarked. “You don’t want to get that dye on your gown.”

Satisfied to see the young women all disconcerted, even if he didn’t know why, Temar decided to leave before someone launched some jibe he’d no defence against. “Allin, shall we take some air?”

“Thank you, Esquire. It’s more than a little stale in here.” Allin took his arm and Temar escorted her out on to the nearest terrace. It turned out to be the western-facing one so there was little shade but the sun had spent the worst of its heat.

Allin fanned herself with one hand. “I wish I didn’t blush so much,” she said crossly.

Temar wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Do not let them upset you.”

“I don’t,” snapped Allin.

Temar looked around the terrace. “What did you mean about that girl’s fan?” he asked after an awkward pause.

Allin bit her lower lip. “You know how Demoiselles fuss over getting the best feathers, making up their fans with hidden messages in the colours?”

Temar didn’t but he nodded anyway.

“Well, no one would dream of admitting they dyed old feathers to get the colours they needed rather than buying them new from the most expensive merchants,” Allin explained with contempt.

He really must find out if Kel Ar’Ayen had any birds with suitably lucrative tails, Temar decided. “I see. Anyway, what brings you here today?”

“I’m here with Velindre,” Allin answered in a more moderate tone. “She’s over there.”

Following Allin’s gesture, Temar saw the willowy wizard elegant in unadorned azure silk and deep in conversation with Avila and the Relict Tor Bezaemar. “What is she doing here?”

He was thinking aloud rather than asking, but Allin answered him anyway. “We’re wondering what the other Houses think of D’Olbriot’s links with the Archmage.” She sighed. “I imagine you heard.”

“They were just a gaggle of silly girls.” Temar shrugged.

Allin shook her head. “They’re parroting the prejudices they hear at their own firesides, and if they’re any guide the Sieur’s association with Hadrumal does him no credit at present.”

“What is Hadrumal like?” Temar’s curiosity got the better of him.

“Rather inclined to see itself as the centre of the world and look down on everyone else,” said Allin bitingly. “A bit like here.”

Temar didn’t know how to answer that so squinted uncertainly at some bird perched on a balustrade confining a distant ond. Music, laughter and vivacious conversation spilled out on to the terrace from the animated gathering within and Temar felt very lonely.

“I’m probably not being fair,” said Allin after a while. “I’m tired of new places and new people and being so far away from my home and my family.”

Temar glanced back at her. “You and me both.”

Allin smiled briefly. “And there’s no going back for either of us. Magebirth separates me from mine as surely as the generations have cut you off from your roots.”

Silence fell heavily as a lively new tune struck up inside the house.

“But we just have to get on with it, don’t we?” said Allin bracingly. “What progress have you made so far?”

Temar offered her his arm. “I am developing an interest in art. Let me show you.”

The Tor Kanselin Residence, Summer Solstice Festival, First Day, Late Afternoon

Casuel hesitated on the threshold. “No need to introduce me.”

“Are you expected?” The door lackey looked uncertainly at him. “Sir?” he added as an afterthought.

The wizard bridled. “My name is Devoir, my title Mage. I assist the Sieur D’Olbriot on matters of vital importance to the Empire. There are people here I need to consult.” He peered into the long gallery, searching for Velindre. How had she managed to insinuate herself into such a gathering? He really was unfashionably late but he’d barely had time to dress fittingly for such a House as it was. Velindre might at least have had the courtesy to let him know where she’d be rather than just sending that offhand note saying she’d arrived in Toremal. If he hadn’t got the address of her lodging off the lad, if he hadn’t gone to call, hadn’t demanded the landlady tell him what Velindre was up to, he’d never have found out she’d be here.

The lackey was looking at him with interest. “Are you related to Amalin Devoir?”

Casuel drew himself up indignantly. “He has the honour to be related to me. May I pass?”

The door lackey moved aside with a low bow. Casuel looked at him suspiciously for a moment. Was the fellow just being a little overservile or was that some sarcasm in his gesture? Deciding it wasn’t worth pursuing, he hurried into the broad room, taking a glass of straw-coloured wine from a passing footman’s tray.

He sipped it as he walked to look out on to the terrace.

No, Velindre wasn’t there. The excellence of the vintage brought a smile to Casuel’s face. Perhaps he should take a little time for himself now Festival was here. He’d worked ceaselessly since the turn of the year, after all. A few days socialising with the educated and influential was no more than he deserved. He edged his way through the assembled nobility, careful to bow to anyone looking in his direction, waiting politely until anyone in his way stepped aside.

Temar was deep in conversation with a youth some years his senior, a handsome man in coat and breeches of rough silk as black as the martlet badge repeated on every link of a heavy chain looped around his shoulders. “Yes, it’s an heirloom piece, cursed heavy of course, but one has to dust these things off for Festival.”

“I would swear Den Bezaemar as was favoured an ouzel in my day,” Temar was saying thoughtfully.

“These things doubtless change over the generations. One little black bird is much like another, after all.” The Esquire Tor Bezaemar was sharing his attention between Temar and the rest of the room with practised ease. “I believe someone wishes to speak to you, D’Alsennin.”

“Casuel!” Temar turned to greet the mage with a flattering heartiness that was a little uncultured in present company. “Oh, forgive me, may I make known Esquire Kreve Tor Bezaemar. I have the honour to present Casuel Devoir, mage of Hadrumal.”

“We are honoured,” Kreve said politely. “I can’t imagine when any Festival reception last entertained three wizards.”

“Good day,” Casuel said stiffly. “Hello, Allin.”

“I’m here with Velindre.” The girl blushed, as well she might. What did she think she was doing, aping her betters in her ill-styled dress?

“If you’ll excuse me,” Kreve Tor Bezaemar bowed deftly. “There are other people I must speak to.”

Casuel bowed to his departing back before turning on Allin. “And what is Velindre’s business with Tor Kanselin?” he demanded. He looked around the room again. How could such a gawky, ill-favoured woman be so hard to find among elegant ladies?

Allin smiled sweetly at Casuel. “She’s here at the personal invitation of the Maitresse. They met at a feather merchant’s.”

“Quite by chance?” Casuel’s sarcasm made it clear what he thought.

“Hardly,” Allin shrugged. “Velindre made it her business to fall into conversation.”

“Does Planir know what she’s up to?” snapped Casuel.

“You’d have to ask her that,” said Allin with a touch of spirit. “She’s talking to the elder Demoiselle Den Veneta at present but I’m sure she’ll give you a few moments.”

“I have too many calls on my time to wait on Velindre’s convenience,” said Casuel sourly. “Tell her to call on me later and explain herself.”

“So what did you come here for?” asked Temar brightly. “Apart from showing everyone your new haircut.”

Casuel raised an involuntary hand to wiry brown hair cut and brushed in a close approximation of Camarl’s style. “Naturally, as Planir’s envoy to D’Olbriot, I have a duty to represent Hadrumal to the nobility during Festival.”

Temar laughed loudly, the hearty chuckle turning curious heads. So much for archaic noble manners, Casuel thought crossly. Didn’t the boy realise he was letting down the dignity of Kellarin just as surely as Allin was disgracing Hadrumal in that frumpy gown? How was wizardry ever to achieve due recognition in Toremal if it couldn’t even manage to dress decently?

Allin was looking over at the other side of the room. “Excuse me, Velindre wants me.”

Casuel watched the close circle of lace-covered shoulders in the far bay open to admit the girl before closing against curious glances from a fair few people. “What are they talking about?” the mage wondered, frustrated.

Temar hesitated.

“You know something?” Casuel narrowed his eyes. “What is it? Keeping something from me could have serious consequences, Esquire. I don’t think you realise—”

“I believe they are discussing someone’s betrothal,” said Temar.

“Yours?” gasped Casuel. That would be something to report to Planir. But what if the Archmage disapproved? He quailed at the thought of conveying unwelcome news.

“No,” said Temar scornfully. His expression turned rueful. “I hardly think these Demoiselles would entertain my suit, not for all the gold in Kel Ar’Ayen, not as long as I know nothing of their fashions and fancies.”

“I could have told you such things,” sniffed Casuel. “But it was rather more important to teach you at least the barest bones of all the history you slept through.”

“True enough,” agreed Temar. “I owe you an apology for my inattentions.” He waved aside Casuel’s hasty demur. “But it seems which Emperor reigned when and the badges of all these Houses is merely the start of what I need to know. Can you explain all this business with feathers and fans to me?”

“Oh, yes,” Casuel assured him. “My sisters—”

Temar smiled. “Good. Let us go back to the D’Olbriot residence and we can go over it together.”

Dismay had left Casuel’s mouth hanging open and he shut it hastily. “But I only just got here.”

Temar fixed Casuel with an unblinking stare. “Unless you have some means to force your way through that rampart, you are hardly going to find out what Velindre is discussing.” He gestured at the intimate circle in the far bay. “But I asked Allin to call on me this evening, to share a supper or something. If you are helping me with my studies, you can see what you can get out of her then?”

“You don’t want to encourage her,” said Casuel bitingly. “She’s of no consequence in Hadrumal, and hereabouts she’s quite below your notice. If Velindre had any sense, she’d never have brought the girl. That Lescari accent alone—”

He saw Temar wasn’t even doing him the courtesy of listening. “Let us make our farewells.”

Casuel wondered how Temar’s expression could seem so warm while those pale eyes stayed as cold as ice. “But I only just got here.”

“I have been here since just after the sixth chime of the day,” said Temar crisply. “Which is quite long enough for these girls to treat me as if I were missing half my buttons and for these elegant Esquires to hint tactfully I have no real business here as long as I have barely a copper to scratch my stones with.”

“There’s no need for mercenary vulgarity,” Casuel said plaintively. “Where’s Esquire Camarl?” He’d make Temar see sense, the wizard thought.

“Making the better acquaintance of the younger daughter of the House out in the grounds.” Temar smiled thinly. “Interrupting would hardly be tactful.”

“We can’t leave without him,” Casuel protested uncertainly.

“Everyone keeps telling me how informal this gathering is,” insisted Temar. “We will make our bow to Resialle and she can inform Camarl. Come, Master D’Evoir.”

“Don’t call me that,” Casuel hissed urgently. “It’s not appropriate.”

“What’s not appropriate?” asked an unwelcome voice. “Some beggar the ocean washed up pretending to rank and title, or D’Olbriot infesting the place with wizards?”

“And who might you be, sir?” Casuel turned indignantly. “Ah, Den Thasnet, I see.” He tried for a more conciliatory tone. “I think you mistake the nature of magic—”

“Esquire,” Temar interrupted. “Do as my shirt tail does.” He caught the wizard’s elbow in a grip like steel pincers and moved him forcibly away.

“What did you mean by that?” asked Casuel in confusion.

“You prefer I tell him plainly to kiss my arse?” Temar let go of Casuel’s arm and glanced back at Firon, who was frowning as he tried to work out Temar’s insult. “And I will not play lickspittle to some fool who puts an afternoon of wine on top of a morning of thassin. I wager his head will collapse when he next visits the privy.”

“We’d better make our farewells.” Casuel shuddered at the spectre of such coarseness being overheard, leaving him to excuse Temar to Planir or the Sieur D’Olbriot. “And I think you’re spending too much time with Chosen Tathel if that’s your notion of politeness.” Casuel stopped to let a stout youth past him and had to hurry to catch Temar up. How was the boy to learn decent manners if he never listened to anyone, the mage thought crossly.

“Demoiselle,” Temar was bowing low before the eldest daughter of the Name. “I thank you for a most pleasant afternoon and regret that other duties call me away.”

Naturally Casuel recognised Resialle Tor Kanselin. He’d spent several days of Spring Equinox walking outside those Houses closest to the D’Olbriot residence. The wizard made his most respectful bow to the pretty girl. He hadn’t actually managed to fall into conversation with anyone of rank, but he should be able to do so, if he was Temar’s guide over the next few days. “Casuel Devoir, my lady, mage of Hadrumal.”

She nodded a polite acknowledgement. “You’re Temar’s tutor, I believe?”

Casuel smiled. “More of a friend, really.”

Resialle’s mouth quirked prettily and Casuel smoothed the front of his coat with some satisfaction. He’d certainly made an impression there, and if Temar could only recall D’Evoirs of his own day Casuel would have rank to socialise in these circles as of right, not merely through association with D’Olbriot. This business of feathers could wait until he’d jogged the lad’s memory about more important matters.

“Please make my farewells to your mother and to the Relict Tor Bezaemar,” Temar was saying. “And let Esquire D’Olbriot know I have gone home.”

Out in the cool of the marble corridor, Casuel hurried to catch Temar up. “You met the Relict Tor Bezaemar? I hope you were polite!”

“She was the nicest person there,” said Temar with some force. “And she and Avila look set to be firm friends.”

“That is good news,” Casuel said with satisfaction.

“How so?” Temar looked at him. “I mean, I take it the title Relict still means she is the widow of the late Sieur, but is there more to her rank than that?”

“You really must study the annals I lent you,” said Casuel severely. “She’s the widow of the late Sieur who was brother to Bezaemar the Generous. If the Convocation of Princes hadn’t opted for Den Tadriol, she’d have graced the Imperial throne. No one’s better connected in Toremal.”

Temar smiled. “A useful ally to have won.”

When they got outside Casuel looked appreciatively at the methodical design of gardens and house. “My father has rebuilt in the modern style,” he remarked. “We have rather less space, obviously, but the effect is very much the same.”

The boy still wasn’t listening, the mage realised with irritation, seeing Temar’s curious face turned to rising noise beyond the gatehouse. “What’s to do?” he asked Casuel.

“It’s beggars and hawkers hoping to wheedle coin out of the nobility.” The wizard drew Temar aside beneath the broad arch as the gate-wards opened to a coach. “Riff-raff always comes flocking up from the lower town at Festival.”

“I have no coin with me.” Temar looked regretful. “Do you?

“Not for the likes of these,” retorted Casuel.

Temar peered through the barred and studded double gates and saw people thronging the broad road outside. Liveried men-at-arms cleared space for a portly Esquire and his lady to depart in their carriage and Temar saw two scrawny girls entertaining the crowd with a pair of battered wooden puppets, hands deft on sticks moving jointed wooden limbs. “Come on.”

“We’ll send word for D’Olbriot’s carriage, if you please,” said Casuel indignantly.

Temar raised his eyebrows. “We kick our heels while a boy runs to D’Olbriot’s stables and wait still longer for the coach to be readied and arrive? We can walk back in less time.”

“Persons of rank do not walk in the common road,” Casuel told him severely.

“As several people have told me this afternoon, my rank is by no means established,” said Temar sarcastically. “And I would like to get some exercise.” He nodded to the sworn man on the gate, who looked rather doubtfully at Casuel.

“Let’s at least keep out of the dirt.” He guided Temar towards the welcome shade of trees that edged the road, scowling fiercely at a tattered ne’er-do-well who raised a grubby hand to Temar. White and yellow flowers dotting vines that were threaded round the trees perfumed the air but Casuel’s nostrils still twitched, apprehensive of some stink of poverty. “What are you doing?” he exclaimed as Temar accepted something from a tousle-headed child in ragged motley.

Temar studied the coarse piece of paper. “What is a rope dancer?”

“Some foolish mountebank risking life and limb to entertain the uncouth.” Casuel tried to take the handbill off Temar.

“Exotic beasts can be seen at Vaile’s Yard, birds of the Archipelago and a great Aldabreshin sea-serpent,” Temar peered at the crudely printed text, smudgy promises of delights cramped close together. “Or there are any number of puppet shows, a wine-drinking contest, a display of tumbling and feats of strength, it says here. I see the Houses still put on plenty of entertainment for their tenantry.”

“None of this has anything to do with the nobility.” Casuel pushed away the arm of a lass trying to give Temar some other piece of rubbish stamped out with lamp black on a woodcut. “The rabble amuse themselves gulling each other out of their coin with such stuff.

Temar had taken one anyway. “An infallible cure for green wounds, yellowing of the eyes, disorders of the brain and the scald. What is the scald?”

Casuel coloured to his hairline. “Not something you’re likely to encounter if you steer clear of the brothels.”

“A tincture formulated according to the most recent Rational principles to combat the effects of summer heat by promoting effective perspiration.” Temar whistled mockingly as he studied the apothecary’s list. “As opposed to the ineffective sweat we manage without its help.”

Casuel beckoned to a crossing sweeper as they reached a sandy lane leading off the main highway to the rear of the Tor Kanselin residence. “You might as well throw your coin in a pond.”

The grubby boy brushed the debris on the road aside with his battered broom and they crossed, the mage forging ahead with a forbidding expression for hopeful beggars pressing closer.

“Casuel!” Temar’s indignant rebuke turned the wizard’s head.

“What now?”

“It must be customary to pay the lad?” Temar was waiting by the woebegone child who hugged the handle of his brush with arms scarcely thicker than the wood.

“Of course,” Casuel fumbled in the inner pocket of his breeches for some pennies. “There you go.”

The child’s pitiable expression turned rapidly to scorn and he spat at Casuel’s highly polished boots before disappearing into the crowd.

Casuel raised an indignant fist but Temar’s astonished expression halted him. “Oh, let’s just get home.”

People crowded close on the strip of flagway skirting the huddle of houses that served Tor Kanselin. Carts forced a determined path in the late sun, drivers shouting curses at a handful of tumblers spilling out of an alleyway between two tall storehouses, but the weary horses simply plodded on, blinkered to the clamour all around.

“Are those masqueraders?” Temar turned to Casuel with delight. “The mercenaries speak highly of them.”

“I’m not surprised; after all it’s Lescaris we’ve to thank for bringing them here.” Casuel scowled at the tatterdemalion figures with battered wooden masks covering the upper half of their faces. “The better troupes can be quite entertaining if you’re used to nothing better, but what you want to see are proper Tormalin marionettes worked with real skill.” He looked up from trying to identify the soft foulness he’d just stepped in. “Temar? Esquire D’Alsennin?”

Stolid faces met Casuel’s searching gaze, some with faint question, more uninterested and turning back to the masqueraders’ impromptu display of dance and song.

“D’Alsennin?” Casuel yelled, voice cracking on a sour taste of dust and just a little panic tugging at his coat tails.

Commotion suddenly stirred beside a portico jutting out from one of the larger houses of the hamlet. A low-voiced murmur of shock and surprise ran beneath the high-pitched clamour of the throng.

“Send to Tor Kanselin!” A shout went up close by the pillars topped with improbable stone leaves that held up a flat stone slab. The lone voice was soon joined by others and a confused surge of people nearly knocked Casuel clean off his feet. He struggled for balance; this was no time to get caught up in some disturbance, and where was Temar? Anger tightened Casuel’s lips. If the foolish boy had gone off after futile amusements offered by some inky-fingered pamphleteer, noble birth or not, he’d tell him—

The mage’s indignation tailed off into incoherent horror as the crowd in front of the portico cleared. A prone figure lay beneath the protecting arm of a doorkeeper. The man wore a pewter coat dark with dust. As the prostrate figure lifted his head for a moment, he realised it was Temar! Hard on the heels of that horror-struck realisation, Casuel saw an ominous stain spreading across the lad’s back. “Here, let me through, let me pass!”

Most of the bystanders were following the masqueraders who’d packed up their instruments and props as soon as they realised a bigger drama was overtaking their own. Those looking to watch it were only too happy to let someone else take charge of the calamity but the doorkeeper glared ferociously at Casuel. “Are you an apothecary? A surgeon?”

“What?” Casuel stared at the man. “No, I’m a wizard and—”

But the doorkeeper was leaning over Temar, who was deathly pale in the shadows. With a surge of relief, Casuel saw the lad’s eyes were open and he knelt hastily. “What’s this mishap? Did you trip?” He strained to understand Temar’s mumble, his archaic accent thick.

“I hurt myself.” His eyes were disorientated and vague. Casuel was appalled to see a huge bruise on Temar’s temple, the swelling a finger thick and the colour of a ripe plum. He was shocked to realise the brutal lines mimicked the moulding at the base of the pillar.

“Bide still, boy,” instructed the doorkeeper, blunt face concerned.

“What happened?” demanded Casuel.

“I hurt myself,” repeated Temar in puzzled tones. “How did I hurt myself?”

“Temar, what happened?”

“I hurt myself

“Can you hear me?” Casuel reached for Temar’s shoulder, thinking to shake some sense into the boy, but snatched his hand back from blood soaking the outstretched sleeve. Where was that coming from?

“Has someone gone for Tor Kanselin’s sergeant?” the doorkeeper bellowed, scowling bushy black brows at Casuel, stark contrast to his shaven, balding head.

“We must get him to D’Olbriot’s surgeon.” Casuel snapped his fingers in front of Temar’s wandering eyes. “Temar, answer me, what happened?”

“It hurts,” the boy mumbled again. “How did I hurt myself?”

“No one’s moving him,” the doorkeeper growled at Casuel. “You lie steady, boy.”

Casuel fumbled nerveless fingers beneath his shirt for the D’Olbriot amulet he wore as a courtesy to the Name. “I have the authority to insist.”

“No one moves the lad till Tor Kanselin’s surgeon says.” The burly man looked hard at Casuel while one gentle hand stroked Temar’s head in mute reassurance, thick fingers light on the fine black hair. “I’ll not answer to my Sieur for letting you kill him with mishandling, whoever you are.”

“Kill him?” Casuel sat back on his heels, aghast.

“There’s a knife in his back, you fool!” The doorkeeper moved his protective arm slightly.

Casuel saw the dagger, unadorned hilt shuddering and catching the light as Temar drew a shallow breath. “We should press something to the wound to stop the blood.” Cold sweat beaded Casuel’s brow and he felt sick to his stomach. Screwing his eyes shut he fought to quell the nausea and terror threatening to overwhelm him.

The doorkeeper looked at the wizard, puzzled. “Are you all right?”

Casuel was ashamed to find himself trembling like some mute animal. Who’d done this? Some low-born scum out to rob their betters, treacherous knives greedy for coin they couldn’t bother to earn like honest men. That would be it, surely? No need to fear anything more sinister.

The rhythmic tramping of heavy boots distracted the grateful mage from the terrifying possibilities forcing themselves upon him. Casuel scrambled to his feet. “Stand aside! Clear the road!”

“Let’s find out why you’re making this your business, shall we?” The doorkeeper’s grip on Casuel’s arm was like a watchdog’s bite and he barely needed to tighten the muscles in his broad shoulders to hold the helpless mage immobile.

Casuel’s indignant protests went unheard as ten men in Tor Kanselin livery forced the crowd back with staffs held level to make a solid ring of iron-bound oak, swan medallions at their throats proclaiming their unquestioned right to do so. The sergeant strode towards the portico, uncompromising in metal-plated hide. “What’s happened here?” He looked down from well over Casuel’s height, black hair cropped above a mobile, pockmarked face, dark brown eyes intense.

“I thought the lad had just stumbled,” explained the doorkeeper. “Then I saw he’d taken a blade in the back.”

“By the looks of that bruise, someone was out to break his head on the pillar.” The sergeant knelt to study Temar, whose repetitive mumbles had faded to faint whispers, eyes vacant.

“Don’t touch the dagger!” yelped Casuel when the chosen man drew a knife and carefully slit the back of Temar’s coat. He shut his mouth, horrified to hear shock forcing his words into a girlish squeal.

“Who’s this?” The sergeant glanced at the doorkeeper.

“Says he’s a wizard.” The doorkeeper gave Casuel a shake of unconscious emphasis. “Seems to know the lad.”

“Who’s he to you?” The sergeant carefully cut Temar’s shirt to reveal skin white beneath scarlet smears, blood pooled in the hollow of his spine.

Casuel swallowed hard on his nausea. “He’s my—my pupil. I am Casuel Devoir, mage of Hadrumal.” He wondered why that sounded so inadequate.

The sergeant peered beneath the fold of linen and wool held fast by the blade. “So this lad’s a wizard?”

Casuel tried to shake off the doorkeeper’s hand to no avail. “His name is Temar D’Alsennin, a guest of Messire D’Olbriot, recently arrived from Kellarin.” His indignant words carried through the rapt silence to the onlookers and a buzz of speculation took flight.

The sergeant gave Casuel a sharp look before getting to his feet. “Anyone with something useful to say, make yourselves known,” he shouted at the crowd. “Otherwise, be on your way before I call you to answer for blocking Tor Kanselin’s highway!”

This uncompromising declaration had people hurrying away immediately, scattering as a second detachment of armoured men arrived with a curtained litter carried shoulder high. A slightly built man with a shock of hair like grizzled sheep’s wool followed. His deeply lined face was jowled with age but his brown spotted hands were deft as he knelt to peel back the bloody cloth on Temar’s back.

“You have to staunch the blood!” insisted Casuel.

The surgeon ignored him. “Are you still with us, lad?” After a cursory examination of the wound he seemed far more concerned with the bruise still swelling at Temar’s temple.

“I hurt myself. How did I hurt myself?”

“Get him back to the barracks, quick as you like,” the surgeon said briskly. Casuel protested weakly as four well-muscled men lifted Temar to lay him gently in the padded litter. For all their care, Temar let out an agonised cry that broke into racking sobs. The surgeon tightened a strap to hold him secure before drawing the curtains close and nodding to the men to pick up the poles.

Hot distress blurred Casuel’s own vision. “Where are you taking him? I want him taken to the D’Olbriot residence, at once, do you hear? He’s a guest of Messire D’Olbriot, the Sieur himself! I want him informed, at once, and I want your names. Your Sieur will hear about this, I assure you.”

The wizard hurried after the litter, repeating himself in futile fury.

D’Olbriot Font Lane, Summer Solstice Festival, First Day, Evening

I hold a good collection of markers of one kind or another after twelve or more years spent in Messire’s service. Most of my duties in recent years have taken me away from Toremal but I’ve still got favours owed and small debts never repaid clear across the city. Spending this credit against redeeming Temar’s people seemed the best use I’d ever find for it, and as I walked up past the conduit house satisfaction with my afternoon’s work warmed me like the sinking sun at my back. There was a chosen man of Den Cotise I’d sparred with over the years; we’d shared a superior flagon of wine at the Popinjay inn down on the Graceway. Intrigued by the puzzle, he’d introduced me to a giddy under-dresser to the Demoiselles Tor Sylarre. Once we’d worked out which women of Den Rannion and Den Domesin had married into Tor Sylarre over the generations, we reckoned upwards of twenty artefacts could well be safe within that family’s jewel coffers.

I’d left word in a myriad other places that might bring back useful answers and had a double handful of chance remarks to follow up besides, so I was wondering whether to go out again that evening or to wait until morning as I began the long haul up the hill towards the residence. A tailor who’d been grateful to D’Olbriot since a troop of us sworn had stopped some chancers robbing his sewing room had introduced me to an elderly valet raised in Den Muret’s service. That Name had long faded into obscurity but the daughters of the House had married widely and well and with the help of the tailor’s ledgers, and the valet’s memory, we’d identified where. Better yet, the valet was now serving the newly nominated Sieur Den Turquand and pointed out several judicious marriages that had bolstered that Name’s rise. He reckoned the young Sieur would be delighted to ingratiate himself with D’Olbriot and Kellarin for the price of a few discarded antiquities.

Shadows beneath the fringed trees cloaked the road, oppressive rather than cooling, and a heaviness seemed to hang in the air. I looked up but saw no sign of the thunder in the deepening blue of the sky. Walking faster, I still found myself unable to shake a sense of foreboding.

It’s all very well Livak teasing me about feeling responsible for everything and anything, I thought, but Dast’s teeth, I’m the closest thing Temar has to family on this side of the ocean. Perhaps I should have stayed close at hand; something might have upset or confused him. After all, he was new to the city, and there are always a few young nobles we men-at-arms privately agree would improve after a thorough kicking round the back of some stable block some dark night.

Outright dismay hit me like a slap in the face when I saw the commotion outside the D’Olbriot gatehouse. Sentries who’d been idly displaying their crossbows to impress passing maidservants now stood stern-faced and vigilant. The vast travelling coach the elder ladies of the House used was being wheeled round from the stables, a full contingent of sworn men ringing it, swords drawn. As I ran towards them I drew my own blade, elbowing through the confusion as I saw a familiar face. “Stoll! What’s going on?”

Stolley was sworn long before me and chosen a few years since. One of Messire’s most effective sergeants-at-arms, he’s a well-muscled brawler whose ears still stick out like mill sails, even after the punishment they’ve taken over the years.

“Rysh, get over here!” He shoved a gawping vagabond aside, and raised swords admitted me within the ring of steel. I swung myself on to the running board of the carriage as the horses were whistled into a trot.

“Your boy’s been stabbed,” said Stolley shortly, jogging beside the carriage with the rest of the troop.

“D’Alsennin?” I looked down on him in disbelief. “At Tor Kanselin’s reception?”

“Dunno.” Stolley shrugged massive shoulders beneath a coat of plates. “Stabbed and needing the gentlest ride home, that’s all we’re told.”

“How bad?” I demanded, feeling a catch of apprehension in my throat.

“Rumour’s got him on the threshold to the Otherworld,” growled Stolley. “But then they’d be saying that if he’d grazed his knees.”

As soon as the coach reached the sweep of gravel inside Tor Kanselin’s gates, I jumped down. It was quieter inside the walls but the air still crackled with suppressed curiosity, little knots of wide-eyed servants speculating behind raised hands.

I sheathed my sword and kept walking, not about to add grist to the rumour mill before I had a few solid facts to chew on myself. A sentry nodded the D’Olbriot badge on my armring into the residence and I looked around the lofty hallway for someone who could tell me what had happened. The best I could come up with was Casuel, forlorn on a side chair, velvet coat and shirt ruffle in disarray, his wiry brown hair hanging lank at his temples.

He jumped up as soon as he saw me, eyes hollow with fear. “What’s happened to the boy?” Miserable uncertainty lengthened his face in place of the self-importance that habitually tightened his weak chin.

“That’s what I’m asking you.” I tried to restrain my anger.

“It wasn’t my fault,” stammered Casuel. “The fool insisted on walking back. He wouldn’t wait for a carriage. He wouldn’t stay close to me—”

The sharp click of a lady’s shoes turned my head to the marble stairs. Abandoning Casuel to his ineffectual self-justification, I hurried to meet the Demoiselle Tor Arrial with a perfunctory bow. “How is he?”

“Temar?” Avila tried for her usual terse manner but her heart wasn’t in it. “The morning will most assuredly bring him an aching head and a sore shoulder but a day or so in bed should see him well enough.” I gave her my arm and she leaned heavily on me.

“I thought he was dead.” Casuel struggled for a further response; the relief in his face would have been comical if the whole matter weren’t so serious. Then the mage’s knees gave way and he landed gracelessly on his chair.

“They said he was stabbed?” I enquired as gently as I could.

Avila rubbed her face with a hand that trembled in spite of herself. “Talagrin be praised, the blade went awry. It hit the shoulder blade.”

“I’ve been waiting for the courtesy of some word.” Casuel managed to look both woebegone and petulant.

I wasn’t about to waste time consoling Casuel’s imagined grievance. Anyone with a pennyweight of common sense would have gone looking for news.

“The head wound had me most concerned,” Avila continued, ‘but the House surgeon deems it none too serious.”

A sober-faced man coming down the stairs in his shirt sleeves, fastening cuffs that had rusty smears.

“Chosen Man Ryshad Tathel,” I introduced myself politely. “How’s Esquire D’Alsennin?”

“You’ll have seen worse on the training ground,” the surgeon sniffed. “He’d his wits knocked clean out of him, but that’ll pass, and the knife wound looked worse than it was.”

I nodded my understanding, relief closing my throat too tight for words.

Avila nodded. “A little blood goes a long way.”

“The Demoiselle here says there’s no crack in the skull, according to her arts,” continued the surgeon with a slightly wary look at Avila. I remembered with relief how healing was a major part of her Artifice.

“If he’d waited for a carriage, we’d have got home without mishap,” protested Casuel with a mildewed expression.

“You were with him?” The surgeon fixed the wizard with a look as sharp as his scalpels. “Proven Man Triss will need to speak to you.”

“This wasn’t my fault,” said Casuel hastily. “Why does he need to see me?”

The surgeon ignored him, turning to me. “Take him along to the barracks, will you? Esquire Camarl left word you were to talk to the Cohort Captain.”

Finding I could speak again, I looked at Avila. “I’ll be at your disposal when you wish to return to D’Olbriot’s residence, Demoiselle.”

“Go on,” she said a little wearily. “I will be with the Maitresse and Lady Channis.”

“Come on, Casuel.” I caught the visibly reluctant wizard by the elbow to urge him along.

“I wish people would stop doing that,” he exploded, shaking off my hand in sudden rage.

I grabbed him again and had him out of the residence with his feet barely touching the steps. “Stop behaving as if you’ve no interest in what’s going on!” I rounded on him. “You tell the guards whatever you saw and we might get some idea who did this. I want to know, even if you don’t!”

Casuel’s objections withered under my scorching glare but his back stayed rigid with protest as I escorted him to the barracks on the far side of the enclosure.

“Take a seat in the bower,” the sentry replied to my explanation of our arrival. “I’ll send word to Proven Triss.”

I nodded and turned on my heel, Casuel hurrying after, muttering crossly. Luckily for him he’d run out of indignation when we reached a vine-covered bower shading a ring of low benches. At least that meant my continued good reputation was safe because I couldn’t have stood much more of his nonsense without shutting his mouth with a fist.

With evening drawing on, cool, dark leaves swathed the little yard with moist, green fragrance. I sat and closed my eyes and forced myself to take slow, even breaths as the blood pulsed in my head. Noises from the stable yard over in the distance and from the crowd in the road just beyond the wall contrasted with the stillness within the empty bower.

It didn’t last. Casuel started talking again. “I want a runner sent to D’Olbriot, to the Sieur himself. Ryshad, I want paper and ink, do you hear? And sealing wax, at once. No, wait, Esquire Camarl must still be here? Yes, that’s it. I need to see him. No, you need to ask if he’ll see me. Ryshad? Are you listening? Esquire Camarl will vouch for me, won’t he? But what will the Sieur think? Why did that foolish boy go dragging the D’Olbriot Name into some needless turmoil?”

Just as I was thinking I’d better sit on my hands I heard boots falling in measured tread on the gravel.

“Good evening to you.” A scar-faced man with sharply receding hair stepped into the bower, face impassive as he bowed to the wizard and gave me a brief nod of acknowledgement. “I’m Oram Triss, proven man to Tor Kanselin and by the Emperor’s grace Captain of the House Cohort.”

I hoped Casuel knew enough to realise this was Tor Kanselin’s most senior soldier, the man who would answer to the Emperor if the Cohorts were ever summoned to fight a war for Tormalin. Judging by his strangled murmur, the wizard did.

“Raman Zelet, chosen man,” continued Triss, indicating his companion. The tall man had skin tanned a deep copper brown and I noted leather oil deeply ingrained around his fingernails as he set a lacquered tray on a broad stone trough planted with bright summer flowers. He poured wordlessly from a jug of water beaded with condensation and Triss handed Casuel a greenish glass. The wizard drank in hasty gulps, hand shaking to spill cold drops that spotted his shirt.

The proven man smiled reassurance at Casuel. “May I know your name?”

“Fair Festival to you.” Casuel cleared his throat with a creditable assumption of ease. “I am Casuel Devoir, mage of Hadrumal, at present envoy from Archmage Planir the Black to Messire Guliel D’Olbriot, Sieur of that House.” He brushed at the droplets bright on his shirt front but still spilled more water as he put his glass back on the tray.

Zelet raised an eyebrow as he passed me some welcome water. “You’re a wizard.”

Casuel lifted his chin defiantly at the faint distaste in the other man’s face. “And a rational man of good family and disciplined habits.”

Proven Triss laced long fingers with work-hardened joints together. “So what happened?”

“I really have no idea,” Casuel protested. “We got separated in the crowd. I’d been telling him to stay close—” he reached for his glass and took another sip of water. “Then I saw the commotion by the portico. When I got through the mob, I saw Temar had been stabbed.” He appealed to the expressionless Zelet. “You saw that for yourself.”.

“The doorkeeper reckoned someone smashed the lad’s head against the stonework deliberately,” Zelet said to Triss.

The proven man ran a pensive finger along a fine cicatrice beneath his cheekbone. “If this was some cutpurse losing his head and using a knife that’s straightforward enough. We’ve sent word to every barracks, and with Raeponin’s grace someone’ll string the cur up on the nearest gibbet before he uses his blade again.” He turned to me. “But who’d want to dash your boy’s brains out? If this is some private quarrel, some personal grudge, it’s D’Olbriot’s right and duty to deal with it. Tor Kanselin shouldn’t interfere.”

“Why would some cutpurse stab him?” Zelet’s dark eyes bored into Casuel. “In that crowd he could’ve taken the lad’s money and been gone before you drew breath. Why break the lad’s head? Do you know more than you’re saying, master wizard?”

“Your companion certainly seems apprehensive,” Triss remarked to me.

“The sight of blood distresses me,” Casuel’s eyes darted between the two men, making him look more weaselly than ever. “I’m a mage and a scholar, no swordsman.”

What to do for the best, I wondered. “It’s just possible that an enemy already known to the Sieur D’Olbriot might have attacked D’Alsennin,” I said slowly.

“Who?” demanded Zelet.

“Blond men, shorter than common height, enemies of the Empire from across the Ocean,” I began.

“Then it was them ransacked D’Alsennin’s goods in Bremilayne? Why didn’t you warn me? But they’re killers, merciless, evil—” blurted out Casuel before I silenced him with a glare.

“Yellow-haired men?” Zelet’s dark eyes were fixed on me. “Mountain Men?”

“Not as such, though perhaps they were once of the same blood,” I said slowly. “Elietimm they call themselves, Men of the Ice. They live on islands far out in the northern ocean and they’ve ambitions to better themselves by kicking the colonists out of Kellarin or maybe even grabbing land in Dalasor.”

“How would killing Esquire D’Alsennin help them?” Proven Triss wasn’t going to unleash his men until he was good and satisfied this was a true scent.

“He’s the closest thing Kellarin has to a leader.” I’d been thinking about that. “There were precious few nobles on the original sailing, just D’Alsennin, Den Fellaemion and Den Rannion.” I wasn’t about to complicate matters by mentioning Guinalle and Avila. Both were noble born but primarily valued for their skills in Artifice. “Den Fellaemion and Den Rannion were killed, so D’Alsennin’s the only one left with rank to deal with the Names on this side of the ocean.”

“What happens if someone gets a blade through his heart next time?” asked Zelet with frank curiosity.

I shrugged. “I don’t know, and I don’t suppose anyone else does. But the Elietimm will take full advantage of any confusion, Dastennin curse them to drowning.”

“But you don’t know this was these Elietimm,” Proven Triss reminded me.

“Who else could it be?” cried Casuel. “They use knives all the time, lurking in corners to leave innocent men bleeding in the dust.” As the mage clutched unconsciously at his stomach I remembered he carried a twisted line of vivid scarring on his soft pale skin, memento of an Elietimm attack that had left him for dead. Perhaps I should have more sympathy for his panic.

“Did anyone see anything out of the ordinary?” I asked.

Zelet shook his head, acknowledging my grimace of frustration. “The streets were packed like a market stockyard.”

“Of course no one saw anything! Elietimm use enchantments to baffle and deceive.” Casuel turned on me with a weak man’s fury born of fear. “You should’ve pursued them in Bremilayne when you had the chance! They got away! They followed us here! Saedrin’s stones, it could have been me with a knife in my back—”

He threw out a hand in emphasis, sending the tray crashing to the ground where jug and glasses broke into glittering shards, the water spreading dark on the pale gravel. Zelet grunted with faint disdain as he knelt to pick up the pieces.

“Permit me,” said Casuel tightly. The mage snapped his fingers and emerald light flared in every drop of water. The shattered glass glowed golden along each broken edge and the fragments slid noiselessly over each other, fitting themselves into their remembered places. Whole, the jug righted itself as a tracery of magelight glowed with a furnace intensity that seared the eye before suddenly blinking into nothingness. Trickles of spilled water were gathering themselves around the base and rolled into a glistening braid that twisted up and around the swollen belly of the jug. The water reached up and poured itself back over the lip, swirling into an aquamarine spiral, bubbles of green fire sparking from the surface. Casuel plucked a newly mended glass from the floor, refilled it with surprisingly steady hands, and toasted the two liveried men. “Perhaps the reality of my magic will make you take the possibility of Elietimm sorcery more seriously.”

Triss and Zelet looked steadily at the mage without answering.

“I’ll see you back at the D’Olbriot residence, Chosen Tathel.” With a tide of colour rising from his collar, Casuel got to his feet. “I expect your full report since I have a duty to keep the Archmage informed.”

Triss nodded to Zelet. “Get Master Devoir a carriage. If there are knives with a purpose out there, I don’t want a second D’Olbriot guest stabbed on my watch.”

I stood too, ready to be dismissed, but Proven Triss waved me back into my seat as Zelet escorted Casuel away. “I’m not asking you to break confidences, but there are all manner of rumours about this supposed colony D’Alsennin’s from. Are we really supposed to believe enchantments held this people in sleep over countless generations after some unholy magic wrecked their hopes in Nemith’s day? But there’s no question the Archmage took an interest last year, and D’Olbriot’s had mages like your friend there in his confidence ever since. Now I’m a rational man; I don’t believe a tenth of what I hear, but there’s no denying the truth of magic. I’ll hunt thieves and bandits from one side of the Empire to the other, but I won’t send my men up against fire called to melt the flesh from an honest man’s bones. If D’Olbriot chooses to, that’s for him to justify to his oath-bound.”

“The Elietimm have a style of magic all their own.” I picked my words carefully, thinking rational probably described Proven Triss’s philosophy as well as his character. “It’s not fire and lightning but tangling the wits inside your head. But wise women among the colonists can match it; one’s here with D’Alsennin, the Demoiselle Tor Arrial. She’s been using her skills to heal his wounds.” If Avila could demonstrably cure illness and mend injury, the sooner we’d persuade men like Triss that Artifice wasn’t some dark enchantment to be either feared or banished. I looked him in the eye. “If it was Elietimm did this, we can use mages and Artifice both to draw their teeth without any of yours or D’Olbriot’s risking their neck.”

“If they’re in the city at all,” commented Triss.

“Do you recall Esquire Robel D’Olbriot being attacked the year before last?” I said slowly. “That was the work of those whore-begotten Elietimm.”

Triss scowled. “I heard they didn’t even kill him cleanly.”

“Left him blind and helpless as a swaddled infant.” Anger sharpened my voice. “That was the first of their offences against the Name and they’ve earned our enmity thrice over since. The Sieur D’Olbriot wouldn’t be dealing with wizards otherwise.”

“D’Alsennin wasn’t carrying a purse,” mused Triss. “The knife could just have been spite because there wasn’t any coin.”

“I’ll buy wine for your whole Cohort if you find me some cutpurse with the boy’s blood on his cuffs,” I assured him.

“It’ll empty your purse,” Triss warned me with a grin.

“Coin well spent,” I replied. “Of course it could be happenstance, I know that. It’s Festival after all, there’s always trouble in the lower city, and it wouldn’t be the first time vermin climbed higher.” And the way Casuel’s luck ran, my mother would say he’d get hit by a bowl if it was raining soup. “Does the knife give some hint?”

Triss drew a blade from his belt with a private smile.

“So do you owe Zelet or is he buying the wine tonight?” I turned the cheap blade in my hands, feeling a peculiar frisson at the dark lines of Temar’s blood caught in the binding of the handle.

“I said you’d want to see it,” admitted Triss. “Zelet called no wager.”

“Let me guess, half the Festival hawkers are selling these?” If this were a puppetry tale, I thought ruefully, the blade would be unique to the knifeman and some innocent bystander would helpfully recall seeing him with it. But real life is never that straightforward.

“Three peddlers out of five.” Triss shrugged. “I expect we could find whatever back-alley smithy is knocking out that particular style by the barrel full, but we’d learn no more than that.”

“Of course,” I said lightly, handing the useless blade back.

“I’ll send word if I hear anything, but frankly I doubt there’ll be news.” Triss pursed his lips.

“You and me both.” I nodded ruefully.

“Keep your eyes and ears open, though. Let me know if you learn anything.” Proven Triss got to his feet and I followed him out of the little bower. “We’ll catch the cur if we’ve a scent to follow, and I take it very personally when a guest of my Sieur can’t walk hereabouts in safety.”

“You and me both,” I repeated curtly.

Movement by the residence caught my eye and I saw a blanket-covered litter being gently carried down the steps.

“Permit me to take my leave, Proven Triss?” I said formally.

Triss nodded and turned towards the gatehouse. Avila was walking beside the litter and beckoned to me. “On the other side, if you please, Ryshad.”

I helped steady the burden as Tor Kanselin’s servants and D’Olbriot’s footmen eased the unconscious Temar inside the wide-bodied coach. His face was white as bone in the dim interior and I saw an angry bruise at the edge of a poultice strapped to his temple.

I turned to Avila. “Is he going to be all right?” I asked with a qualm at his stillness.

“He sleeps deep in the shades, by grace of Arimelin’s Artifice,” said Avila calmly. “That will do much to restore him. Tor Kanselin’s surgeon knows his herbs well enough, so I have everything I need for the night.”

“You’ll be sitting with him?” I’d been wondering if I should do that; head injuries can turn nasty in a hurry.

Avila nodded. “So you can find out who did this,” she ordered sternly.

“Casuel thinks it must be the Elietimm,” I said, still looking at Temar.

“Just because the master mage is one part flash and nine parts foolish, do not assume he must be wrong,” Avila commented brusquely.

“True enough.” And if the wizard were right he wouldn’t let me or anyone else forget it this side of the Otherworld.

“Ryshad!” I turned to see Esquire Camarl standing by the door at the top of the steps. He summoned me with a snap of his fingers.

“Esquire.” I bowed as I arrived on the step below him.

“Where were you, Ryshad?” he demanded without preamble.

I hesitated. “Temar wanted me to make some enquiries around the Houses he thinks may have these artefacts he’s searching for. We thought it would save time if I made a start while he was here.”

“D’Olbriot holds your oath, Ryshad, not D’Alsennin.” There was an edge to Camarl’s voice. “Your place was at his side.”

“He should have been safe here. Tor Kanselin’s men are on a par with our own,” I said before realising I was sounding like Casuel trying to excuse himself. I shut my mouth.

“He was hardly safe outside, was he?” snapped Esquire Camarl.

“No.” I admitted with honest regret. “Your pardon, Esquire. I was at fault.”

“There’s more than enough blame to go round, Ryshad. I shouldn’t have spent so much time listening to Irianne’s plans for her wedding dress.” Camarl sighed and his face relaxed a little. “And Temar needs to understand the dignity of his rank these days, that he can’t just go wandering around like some junior son of a cadet line. He should’ve taken a carriage or at least requested a proper escort.” He raised a reprimanding finger at me. “And you need to understand chosen duties a bit better. I know you’re used to using your own initiative when the Sieur sends you on a task halfway across some backward province, but this is Toremal. You send sworn men out on errands, five at a time if you need to, and when they bring back the word you come to me with what I need to know. You’re an upper servant now, and it’s time you acted like one.”

“Esquire.” I waited a moment before speaking again, trying to strike that fine line between dutiful respect and the assertion that would get me my own way. “But we have no sworn men who know anything about the Elietimm. Surely the most important thing now is to look for any trace of them in the city? I’m the only man you can send to do that.”

Camarl looked at me with narrowed eyes. “I suppose that’s true enough. But if you get any sniff of them, you come back and rouse the entire barracks, do you hear?”

“I won’t take any Elietimm on without a full Cohort at my back, on Aiten’s oath,” I promised him.

Camarl smiled sadly. “You learned that lesson the hard way, didn’t you? He was a good man, Aiten, too good to lose to those bastards, and the same is true for you, Ryshad. Be careful.”

“I will,” I assured him. “Do you want me to report to you as soon as I get back?”

“Whatever the chime,” Camarl confirmed. “Wake me if you need to.”

“Watch your back,” Stolley called as I passed him on my way through the gatehouse. I spared him a wave and broke into a jog trot, ignoring the protests of my weary feet. If anyone in the lower city had the answers, I’d take them on the point of my sword if need be.