The Warrior's Bond

Preface to the Chronicle of D’Olbriot,

Under the Seal of Sieur Glythen, Winter Solstice

in the 13th Year of Decabral the Virtuous

The Convocation of Princes was a fraught affair this year, and even allowing for the defences of wax and honour I wonder quite what I should record within these leaves. But I have my own duty to discharge, to leave an accurate record for those that take up the guardianship of our House after me. Raeponin be my witness and let the truth shame any hostile eyes that read this.

The proximate cause of the uproar among the Princes was an intemperate declaration sent to the Adjurist from the city of Col in the erstwhile province of Einar Sai Emmin. It has long been a treasured hope among the sons of Decabral that Col might be the first lost outpost reclaimed from the ashes of the Chaos and thus a foundation on which to build a new Empire among those ragged lordlings of the west. I would say any such expectation is now irretrievably dashed by the hostility provoked by Decabral“s highhanded actions over this last year. This parchment over the seal of the Elected firstly confirms that the leading citizens of Col have revived their bygone forms of governance, and secondly vigorously refutes our Emperor’s assertion that any such rule based on Old Imperial practice must acknowledge his suzerainty. The snub implicit in addressing this document to the Adjurist Den Perinal was unmistakable and served only to rouse Decabral”s ire still further.

The Sieurs Tor Kanselin and Den Sauzet roundly rebuked the Emperor’s behaviour in making such a declaration, particularly given all the Convocation’s advice to the contrary last winter. Den Perinal agreed, saying hasty actions in times of uncertainty seldom prosper, making reference in the same breath to the confusion among the Princes after the unexpected death of the Emperor’s late brother the Nervous. I dared hope such an attack might provoke Decabral into some folly but he restrained himself, choosing to argue in angry defence that securing Col is crucial to restraining the aspirations of the self-declared Dukes of Lescar and resurgent ambition in the Caladhrian Parliament. The Sieur Tor Arrial agreed that Tormalin strength in arms to east and west might well give both provinces pause for thought. This prompted widespread astonishment before Tor Arrial turned his speech to scathing condemnation of Decabral’s fantasies. He speculated whether such nonsense was the result of overindulgence in strong liquors, aromatic smokes or apothecaries’ nostrums, to wide amusement.

I had thought Tor Arrial might call for a formal censure but he sees as well as the rest of us that those Sieurs he has so hastily ennobled over the past ten years still slavishly support Decabral. Since these lapdogs know full well their place by the fireside depends solely on their master throwing them his half-gnawed bones, they will certainly defend him. We had thought Den Ferrand and D’Estabel were wavering over the summer but the Emperor bought their loyalty afresh with grants of monopoly rights to tax salt and lead production.

My sole consolation is that such typically shortsighted behaviour has only served to alienate the differing factions within Tor Decabral still further. The Empress’s supposedly temporary departure for the Solland estates is now widely seen as a permanent move and her house there is taking on the air of a court in exile. Now that her eldest son is of age, he is of increasing interest to those scions of the Name who have been content to suffer Decabral the Virtuous’s tactlessness for the sake of keeping the Imperial throne within the family. The Emperor’s elder brother, Messire Manaire, has held himself aloof, and his own estates in Moretayne have long been a sanctuary for those hostile to the present regime. He was present in Toremal for Festival for the first time in some handful of years and made no secret of the extensive Solstice gifts he had sent his sister by marriage. Messire Manaire is past the age where he could reasonably expect elevation to Imperial honours, but his own sons would be well placed to succeed any son of the Empress who could succeed his father in short order. More significantly his trusted advisors have been hinting Manaire has finally forgiven his sister Maitresse Balene for her oppositon to his own ambitions on the death of their father, the Patient. Her marriage into Den Leoril could prove highly significant as her covey of daughers is now so widely married into so many influential families.

While many of us would prefer to see a complete change of dynasty, we might settle for a change of Imperial incumbent, since that would at least enable those newly ennobled Houses so dependent on Tor Decabral patronage to cover their treachery with a modest veil of continued loyalty to the Name. The year that opens with the dawn so rapidly approaching promises to be an interesting one.

The D’Olbriot Residence Gatehouse, Summer Solstice Festival, Fourth Day, Morning

Shapeless horrors crushed me, faceless and formless, weaving a nightmare of inexorable, suffocating foulness out of my inarticulate terror.

“Chosen Tathel?” The soft but insistent knock at the door was repeated. “Ryshad?”

I woke with a start, and for one choking moment it seemed the torment had come too, breaking out of my dreams to smother me. Then I realised someone had come in during the night and drawn the bed curtains closed around me, doubtless meaning to be kind. My heart slowed from its chest-bursting race.

“Yes?” I wished a silent pox on the uninvited curtain puller and for whoever was waking me up.

“There’s a note.” The door muffled the voice.

Ripping back the curtains, I went to untie the latchstring. One of Stolley’s newer lads held out a neatly sealed letter addressed in sloping Lescari script. He hovered hopefully, waiting for me to open the subtly fragrant folds.

“That’ll be all, thanks.” I took the note with a grin and shut the door on his disappointed face. Leaning against it, I closed my eyes. Just at that moment, all I really wanted was one morning when I could sleep myself out, when I didn’t have to get up for anything, not fire, flood or Poldrion’s demons raising havoc round the residence.

Snapping the wax seal, I read the few terse lines from Charoleia. She’d be taking the air on the old ramparts between the second and third chimes of the day, would she? I’d better get up there. I threw the window open, welcoming fresh air in to drive out the last remnants of nightmare and made myself presentable, hampered by a hand stiffened to near immobility. Unstrapping it showed me puffy knuckles dark with deep bruises. The cursed thing had kept me awake even after all my exertions, even after that highly uncomfortable interview with the Sieur well past midnight. I’d finally given in and taken a cup of tahn tea from Naer and I was paying for that now with a foul mouth and woolly wits, not to mention the horrors that had got through my sleeping guard.

This was no time for me to be less than fighting fit, I concluded reluctantly, rebandaging it as best I could one handed and resisting the temptation to scratch the stitches that were itching as the cursed things always do. I’d have to ask Demoiselle Avila for some healing. Temar was right, loath as I was to admit it. I couldn’t turn down help I needed just because it came from Artifice. I only hoped the lady would be in a better mood this morning. She and the Sieur had arrived at nearly the same moment the night before, and the last I’d seen of Temar, Avila had been scolding him back to the residence, her consternation at the loss of the artefacts blistering his ears.

But the housemaids wouldn’t even have unshuttered Avila’s windows yet, so that would have to wait. I walked out of the gatehouse, sorely tempted to send round to the stables for a coach. No, the fewer people who knew what I was about the better. At least it was all downhill to the Spring Gate, and once I’d climbed the steps to the walls of the old city I had a cool salt-tinted breeze to clear my head.

As with most things, the old walls of Toremal hold up an example many lesser cities would have been wise to follow. Cities like Solland and Moretayne are both protected by a ring of masonry topped with a parapet three men wide, watch turrets set at every angle. But Solland fell to Lescari raids three times in the days of Aleonne the Resolute, and Aldabreshin pirates sailed forty leagues up river to raze Moretayne to the ground. It took Decabral the Pitiless to burn the isles of the eastern coast to barren ashes and finally drive the Archipelagans out.

The walls of Toremal have never been breached, not even in the worst excesses of the Chaos. On the outer face an immense wall of massive stones carries towers at regular intervals, each big enough to hold a fighting troop and close enough to reinforce its neighbours. They’re backed with a colossal rampart of raised earth, levelled and reinforced in turn by an inner wall, the finest work any mason will see inside a season’s travel. Three men can walk abreast round the walls of Solland or Moretayne; three coaches can drive abreast round Toremal’s rampart.

But I was too early for the elegant gigs and smartly groomed horses that carry the wealthy and fashionable around the walls in these peaceable times. The nobility don’t lead their cohorts in defence of the walls these days, they come to see and be seen, to flaunt their status and compete with their rivals far above the heads of the common folk. The serious business of socialising would start when the heat of the day had passed, so this early in the morning the rampart was deserted but for a few individuals taking a walk. I followed the neatly swept earthen path, grass on either side clipped short around fragrant trees planted to shade benches for discreet conversation or safe flirtation. Passing the sharply pitched roofs of the old city on the one hand and the sprawling mass of newer building on the other, I looked briefly inside the Flemmane tower. Along with several others, it had been transformed into an elegant summerhouse where a lady might take a tisane or perhaps a little chilled wine carried up by dutiful servants.

There was no one inside. Where was Charoleia? I finally found her as the ramparts approached the Handsel Gate, where the Prime way leaves the city for the road to the north. Her elegance was unmistakable even draped in a sedate dun cloak. She was talking to some maidservant clutching a creamy shawl over a brown gown smudged with ash. I walked past, pausing some way beyond to examine a statue. It turned out to be Tyrial, Sieur D’Estabel, Adjurist to the Convocation of Princes under Bezaemar the Canny. I’d never heard of him.

“Good morning.” Charoleia appeared at my side. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at home when your message came.”

I smiled at her. “This morning’s soon enough.”

“Shall we walk?” She looked for me to offer a gentlemanly arm.

I did so with some reluctance. “Please mind my hand.”

She tucked her hand lightly through my elbow. “I heard about your exploits in the practice ground. Most impressive.”

I wondered if she were teasing me. “Have you heard anything? Who put out the challenge in my name?”

“I’ve heard nothing beyond discreet satisfaction that you put Den Thasnet’s man down. That’s not a popular Name at present.” Charoleia shook dark hair dressed loose in glossy ringlets and I caught the same alluring, elusive scent that had perfumed her letter. She wore a light, rose-coloured gown beneath her cloak and a single ruby ring graced her delicate hand. “So what did you want? Your boy told Arashil it was urgent.”

A Relshazri name; that must be the maid. “Thieves broke into the residence last night. We snagged one, the other got away and, Dast drown it, he was the one with the loot.”

“Naturally.” Charoleia’s fingers tightened. “What do you want of me?” She was looking apparently idly from side to side, her shrewd violet eyes marking every individual taking the morning air up here.

“We had valuable artefacts stolen, Old Empire work.” I hesitated. “They’re bound to the colony and its enchantments. We have to find them if we’re to restore those still sunk in sleep.”

“So when you say valuable, you actually mean priceless?” Charoleia turned guileless eyes to me, framed in the flawless beauty of her face.

“To us, yes,” I admitted. “To whoever stole them, well, they may have no idea what they’ve got. The man we’re holding doesn’t seem to know much beyond Master Knife paying him enough gold to outweigh the risks.”

Charoleia laughed. “Master Knife? Who might he be in his own coat? Come to that, who’s pulling his strings? Do you think this was just theft for profit or another move to embarrass your Sieur?”

“All good questions and I want answers,” I said bluntly.

“Without Livak to turn over the stones where these people hide, you’re my best hope.”

Charoleia frowned, a delicate cleft appearing between finely plucked brows. “What’s more important? Catching the thief or recovering the spoils?”

I chewed my lip. “I’ll trade the thief’s neck for the artefacts if I have to. We must get them back. I’d certainly like to get a line on this Master Knife, but I don’t suppose he’ll have left any loose threads.”

“If I help, I want your word you’ll keep my name out of this.” Charoleia sounded dubious. “I mean it, Ryshad. I can’t have your Sieurs or Esquires even knowing I exist, let alone anything more about me.”

“On my oath,” I promised.

“Are you prepared to pay?” Charoleia was all business now. “To ransom the goods?”

“If we must,” I said reluctantly. “I’ll stand surety for anything you spend.” Gold won from my slavery would be well spent securing others’ freedom.

“It all depends who’s got the goods.” Charoleia pursed inviting cherry red lips. “They may have already sold on the decent pieces, to be broken up or melted.”

“Saedrin save us.” Cold knives between my shoulder blades made me shiver with revulsion. What would happen if an artefact were destroyed? Would the hapless sleeper simply fall oblivious into the shades? Would they feel the furnace consuming their mind?

“Are you all right?” Charoleia was looking at me with concern. “You’ve gone very pale.”

“It was a late night,” I offered lamely.

Charoleia pulled at her cloak falling away from one shoulder. “What else do you know?”

“This Master Knife, he recruited our man Drosel and whoever his partner was, in a tavern called the Valiant Flag.” I grimaced. “That’s all. Naer took a troop down there last night and turned the place inside out but all he got was lice for his trouble.”

“Hardly surprising,” commented Charoleia with disdain. “All right, I’ll ask a few questions in the right quarters. I might hear something.”

“Send word to the gatehouse as soon as you do,” I urged her. “Tell them to get a message to me at once.”

She was looking thoughtful. “I’ve heard plenty of murmurs about D’Olbriot and D’Alsennin this Festival. What’re they worth to you?”

I turned to face her. “What have you heard?”

“In a moment.” Charoleia raised a perfectly manicured hand. “I’ll catch you up.”

She released my arm, giving me a gentle push, so I went to pretend an interest in a plaque on a crenellation. It celebrated the life of some D’Istrac long since ashes in an urn, who’d managed to kill himself falling off his horse.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a thin-faced youth approach Charoleia. Glancing furtively around, he couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d been carrying a scarlet pennant. Charoleia looked unconcerned, walking slowly with the boy, her elegant curls close to his cropped scalp. Charoleia reached beneath her cloak and passed the boy some coin. As he scurried off, still looking in all directions, she tucked a tightly folded bundle of letters securely within her cloak and came to join me looking out towards the sea.

“What was that?” I asked as she took my arm with easy familiarity.

“Information.” She smiled serenely.

“So you do have some game in play?” Had she been lying to me?

“Not as such.” Charoleia shook her head airily. “I always walk here first thing in the morning, two full circuits of the walls. I wouldn’t stay trim enough for close-cut gowns if I didn’t.” She flashed a mischievous periwinkle glance at me and I tried not to think of the slender figure beneath her cloak. “Servants with something to sell soon learn I’ll be interested and this is the time and place to find me.”

“So what’s worth your coin this morning?” I demanded. “Anything to do with D’Olbriot?”

“No.” She took a step and I had to go with her or look churlish. “At the moment it’s nothing of any importance. But I’ll keep this little bird in my coop, and when the time is right I’ll send it flying out. One way or another, gold comes winging back.”

I decided that was best left unchallenged, like so many aspects of Livak’s life. “So what have you heard about D’Olbriot or D’Alsennin?”

“That the Name D’Alsennin will soon be as dead as ashes. That this colony over the ocean is a fool’s smoke dream. But there’s a hint of something more than gossip and spite.” Charoleia chose her words carefully. “If I can find the right threads to pull, I might get a tug back from someone with word about that attack on your Esquire.”

“It’ll be gold in your purse if you do,” I assured her.

She smiled. “As for D’Olbriot, the chimney corner gossip says take his silver before you give him credit, because however high his flag flies at present, it’ll be struck before long.”

“How?” I demanded.

Charoleia shook her head. “That’s where people get vague, which often means there’s no substance to a rumour. Then again, there’s this business with the courts fascinating everyone. There’s gossip that the Sieur’s fallen out of favour with Tadriol, that Lady Channis has returned to Den Veneta, that Tor Kanselin have broken Camarl’s betrothal because D’Olbriot won’t confirm him as Designate.” Charoleia’s face was serious and all the more captivating for that. “Which could all be the usual scum on a boiling pot, but someone’s stoking the fire beneath it. I’ll stake my stockings on that.”

“Can you find out who?” Dastennin save me, but she was beautiful.

She gazed at me with those entrancing eyes. “If you make it worth my while. If you get me a card to the Emperor’s dance tomorrow.”

I let slip a grunt of frustration. “I told you before, I can’t promise that.”

“Not even to save your Sieur’s skin?” She held my hand tight.

I winced and shook her off. “Dast’s teeth!” I tried to flex my injured fingers and hissed with the pain.

“What have you done here?” Charoleia began undoing the bandage, ignoring my protests.

“I took a bad blow but I had to keep on using it,” I explained curtly. “I’ve had worse.”

“I’ve no doubt, but this doesn’t hurt any less, does it?” She sniffed in delicate reproof at the mottled bruising patterned by the pressure of the bandage. “Halice and Livak are the ones used to patching up mercenaries; I prefer to stay within call of a decent dressmaker. But I’ve learned a few of their salves and tinctures. Come and have breakfast with me and I’ll see what I can do to ease this.”

I was tempted, no question. “I can’t,” I said with real regret. “The Sieur will pass judgement on that thief this morning and I have to be there.”

“Why don’t you call on me this evening?” Charoleia’s mouth curved in an engaging smile as she competently rebound my wrist. She stroked one finger across the hairs on my arm beside the tender line of the stitches. “I can tell you if I’ve any news and you could stay for supper.”

“Some time around dusk?” I stood there awkwardly as she rebuttoned my shirt cuff.

“I look forward to it.” She tilted her head on one side, but just as it occurred to me to kiss her she turned swiftly, walking away, cloak floating lightly round her in the summer breeze.

I shoved my hands in my pockets as I headed for the nearest stair down by the Handsel Gate. Dastennin drown me but Charoleia was a piece of perfection. A man might do something really stupid in the face of such loveliness if he wasn’t careful.

I reminded myself of all the reasons I had to be careful all the way back to the residence. Then I reminded myself of all my reasons for staying faithful to Livak, not least because she’d probably carve my tripes out with a dagger if I strayed—and I’d deserve it. I groaned with exasperation. Where was Casuel when I needed him? I still hadn’t found time to persuade the mage to bespeak Usara for me, to get some news of my absent beloved.

A coach with the D’Olbriot lynx on its door panels was slowing for the incline as I reached the conduit house so I jumped up on the running board beside the footmen, ignoring their frowns of disapproval. I swung myself down when we reached the gatehouse and watched as the coach turned down the lane to the stables.

“Ryshad!” Verd was the duty guard hailing me. “We’ve just had word to send the thief over for the Sieur’s judgement. You’d better get over there or you’ll be neck deep in it!” His anxiety was mixed with justified reproof.

I hurried over to the residence, combing my hand through my hair and pulling shirt and jerkin straight, using my cuff to buff up my armring.

The sworn man guarding the audience chamber gave me a warning look. “You’re late.” He eased the door open just enough for me to slip inside the room.

The great audience chamber of any House is both a public space and a private one. It must welcome the supplicant while subtly reminding the importunate that rank should always be observed. The heart of D’Olbriot’s residence reminds any and all coming before the Sieur that this Name has lasted more generations than most and still leads at the forefront of fashion and influence. It’s an airy chamber, light pouring through tall windows with muslin drapes softening the sun. The room rises clear through two storeys and high above the white plaster ceiling is an orderly pattern of interlocking circles and squares, where borders of discreet foliage frame the D’Olbriot lynx and insignia of every House married into the Name. The walls are panelled with soft ash, the floorboards a welcoming gold, softened still further with a thick green carpet patterned with yellow flowers.

This sympathetic modernity has been carefully chosen because the fireplace harks back unashamed to antiquity. The massive hearth is framed by dark marble pillars and a great overmantel in grey stone reaches almost to the lofty ceiling. The central panel is inlaid with every colour of rock, crystal and semi-precious gem that those long-dead craftsmen could command. Marbles in every shade mimic the living blush of flowers, the vibrant green of leaves, marbled gold, smoky grey, lustrous blue, rich brown and smouldering orange. At the top, in the centre, Saedrin wears robes as bright as the morning sun, keys in hand with the door to the Otherworld closed behind him. Poldrion holds his ferry pole on one side, outstretched hand in inky black demanding his fee. Raeponin stands on the other side, gowned in blue, hooded in white, scales raised in mute warning. Below these three stern deities, Arrimelin is a girl dancing in a dream of delight, movement in every line of her white stone arms and scarlet skirts. Next to her, in a simple tunic the colour of rich brown earth, Ostrin holds out bread and wine, wheat and grapes springing around the feet of Drianon standing beside him. She smiles with motherly warmth, one hand resting lightly on the fecund belly beneath her harvest-gold gown. The whole is framed with black stone inlaid with every symbol of the gods, a riot of animals, leaves and tools in creamy marble relief.

The Sieur’s face was as impassive as those of the stony-faced gods and he looked about as cheerful as Poldrion. He had the only chair, a heavy oak throne with a high-canopied back. Camarl sat beside him, upright on a cross-framed stool of reddish wood. The Sieur’s brother Fresil stood to one side, glowering with Myred, who was carefully cultivating the stern indifference of his elders. Temar was straight-backed on a stool over by a window, face pale but determination in every line of him. Avila sat beside him, hands folded decorously in her lap, ankles crossed beneath her skirts, face emotionless. All the D’Olbriot men were in sober green, Avila wore a muted blue and Temar was an ominous figure in unrelieved grey, the great sapphire on his finger the only note of colour apart from his icy blue stare.

Stolley and Naer stood either side of the prisoner, polished and liveried, and I could see Stall’s collar cutting cruelly into his fat neck. A good number of other sworn and chosen were crowding the room along with most of the lesser Esquires of the Name. The air was tense with expectation and I could hear more feet scuffing above. A gallery rings the upper half of the room, and plenty of visitors had come to see the Sieur administer justice in their Name.

“You’re late,” Casuel murmured, all but inaudible as he appeared at my side.

“What’s happened?” I breathed.

“Naer and Temar explained how he was taken.” Casuel wavered on tiptoe, trying to see past a taller man. I took his elbow and we moved discreetly to get a better view.

“Was I called?” Not being on hand would be a mark against my name and no mistake.

Casuel shook his head but whatever he whispered was lost in the expectant shuffle of the crowd. The Sieur was speaking.

“You were taken within these walls uninvited. You have robbed us.” Messire’s voice was calm. “The only thing that could improve your situation is naming your accomplice and returning the goods you stole.”

Manacled behind his back, the prisoner’s hands were shaking. “Can’t be done, my lord,” he said hoarsely, chin on his chest.

The Sieur raised sceptical eyebrows. “Then you will be hanged and your head displayed on my gatehouse.”

A frisson ran through the room and the gallery above. The prisoner’s chains rattled as he jerked upright.

“Can he do that?” gasped Casuel in a strangled whisper.

“He can if he wants to. He’s the Sieur.” But I was as startled as the rest. I’d have to ask Mistal the last time any Head of a House used his ancient rights of life and death without deferring to the Convocation’s privilege of ratifying such sentences.

“We will not pollute the sanctity of Festival. You will be hanged on the first day of For-Summer. This audience is concluded.” The Sieur nodded and Stolley and Naer seized the prisoner by the elbows. As they hustled the man to the door, all three with equally startled expressions, the onlookers parted to let them through. As the doors closed behind them, we heard chains rattling as the shock of condemnation wore off and the prisoner fought against his fate.

The sworn and chosen took themselves briskly off to their duties and the Esquires of the Name hurried away, avid to debate this unexpected turn of events. I stood, waiting, Esquire Camarl looking at me, displeasure mixed with disappointment in his eyes. He pointed silently at me and at Casuel before following the Sieur through a discreet door hidden in the panelling beyond the fireplace. Fresil ushered Avila through with stately courtesy and Myred did the same for Temar.

“Come on, mage,” I said grimly. “We’re wanted for a private reaming.”

The door led into the Sieur’s sitting room where comfortably upholstered chairs were set out around a writing desk.

“Please sit, all of you. Where were you, Ryshad?” Messire asked without preamble. He didn’t sound cross but then he seldom did.

“I know someone who might help us find the other thief,” I explained politely. “I went to explain the little we know and to ask for help.”

The Sieur looked at me steadily. “It really is time you reacquainted yourself with life in Toremal, Ryshad. By all means use your initiative to make suggestions, but when we’re in a mire like this clear any such plan with myself or Camarl before acting upon it. A chosen man is far more visible than one from the nameless ranks of the sworn and his actions will be noted. Do you understand?”

“I apologise, Messire.” I dropped my gaze obediently.

“We need to keep a tight rein on who knows what, until this business before the courts is settled,” growled Esquire Fresil. “We can’t give anyone the means to make mischief.”

“Which is why the man will be hanged?” Esquire Myred just failed to stop his words turning into hopeful question rather than firm statement.

“I see two possibilities here.” The Sieur caressed the patina on a bronze paperweight securing a sheaf of letters. It was shaped like a sleeping cat. “The man was either put up to the theft by someone hostile to us and to Kellarin, or the criminally inclined think this House is somehow weakened by all these recent assaults. Either way, the thief’s death will send a clear message.”

I saw Temar and Avila exchange an uncertain glance. “What of the stolen artefacts?” the Demoiselle asked carefully.

The Sieur shrugged. “He has, what, nearly two days and two nights. He may yet decide to tell us what he knows.”

“Will you release him, if he does?” Temar was looking concerned.

“Hardly,” scoffed Fresil. “The man must die and that’s an end to it.”

“Then what reason has he to cooperate?” demanded Temar. “You think he will tell all in the hope of Saedrin’s clemency?”

Myred opened his mouth to laugh, thinking Temar had made a joke. He hurriedly covered a feigned cough with one hand.

The Sieur spared his younger son a faintly reproving look before turning to Temar. “We can’t show any weakness, D’Alsennin. We must appear confident in the exercise of every right we hold. I don’t think you quite realise the seriousness of our situation.” He invited his brother to speak with a courteous gesture.

Fresil scowled. “Every third man coming up to me yesterday was a tenant working on our lands or a merchant contracted to our mines or shipping. All of them wanted to know if our patronage was still secure. I had to smile down men who’ve been buying from our estates for half a generation, who were worried about continued supply and quality. I had creditors politely hinting they’d appreciate early settlement of our accounts.”

“What did you say?” Esquire Camarl asked, voice tight with emotion.

“I told them they could have their money and be done with us,” rasped Fresil. “If our word has no value, we’ll take our business elsewhere. Most were only too happy to assure me they meant no insult, protesting every confidence in the House, but who knows who they met after me, Den Rannion, Den Thasnet or Den Muret? All doubtless undermining our House with Saedrin knows what lies!”

“Confidence is everything in Toremal.” The Sieur looked straight at Temar. “If we show any lack of assurance, all those people who depend on us, whom we depend on in turn, they’ll start to believe these lies. Our lands may be as fertile as ever, our ships as seaworthy, our mines as productive, but if the trust that shores up this House starts to crumble we’ll be crippled like a penniless beggar.”

“But people will be outraged by this death,” Casuel interrupted with sudden consternation. “What about the Rationalists? They always oppose the waste of a life and plenty of the Names approve of Rational philosophy. Oh, but maybe that’s the point. Do you think the man meant to be taken? To test the Sieur like this?”

“I think we’re hedged about with quite enough problems without seeing conspiracy under every bush, Master Devoir.” The Sieur smiled to soften his rebuke.

“What of the artefacts?” demanded Avila with rising colour. “How do you propose to recover them?”

“Perhaps the thief could escape?” Casuel suggested with inspiration. “He could be followed, back to his partner, back to wherever they’ve hidden the spoils!”

“Are you a complete fool, wizard?” Fresil’s tone was scathing. “What would that say for the House if we can’t even keep one sneak thief securely locked away?”

“We’ve already had that lately come Den Turquand trying to get a hand in our strongboxes in return for whatever valuables he holds.” Messire D’Olbriot was still talking to Avila. “While I don’t think this conspiracy reaches as far as Master`Devoir might believe, I’d say it’s a safe wager some other House put these men up to this theft. I think we wait for our unknown enemy’s next move. With luck, they’ll offer us the artefacts and we’ll be able to agree a price. The worst that can happen is Den Whoever-It-Is locking the things away, to keep them from being used to help Kellarin rebuild. I’m sure they’ll stay safe until we can tie someone’s Name to this crime. Once we do that, the return of the artefacts will be the price of our silence.”

“So much for honour in this era,” said Avila with contempt.

“If we’re dealing with dishonourable men, Demoiselle, the best we can hope for is pragmatism,” replied the Sieur steadily.

“So you will do nothing?” There was no mistaking Temar’s anger.

Messire met his challenge head on. “What would you have me do? Paste bills all over the city asking for the return of the artefacts? What measure of weakness would that show? Have you the means to pay five times their worth to whatever gutter thief manages to get his filthy hands on one?”

“Is it a question of coin?” Avila snapped. “Like so much in this day of yours? What amount can weigh in the scales against the value of a life, a future?”

“What future will Kellarin have for anyone if the House of D’Olbriot falls?” retorted the Sieur. “Without us to aid and defend it, your colony will be cast adrift across the ocean at the mercy of any looking to plunder it.”

Avila had no answer to that. She simply glared at the Sieur, lips tight, outrage hooding her eyes.

I stared fixedly at the carpet, hoping no one was going to ask me just what I’d said to Charoleia.

“But if we can’t be seen to be searching for these artefacts, that doesn’t mean others can’t act for us.” Messire clasped his hands in front of him. “Master Mage, Planir’s been searching out these artefacts for years now. Surely he has some magical means of tracing them?”

Fresil snorted with contempt, Esquires Camarl and Myred exchanging sceptical glances as the wizard struggled for a reply. “We have some techniques, some scholarship in Hadrumal—”

“Is there nothing you can do yourself, man?” demanded Fresil.

Casuel smiled weakly. “I wasn’t the mage who brought the things here. The girl Allin, she might have had some hope of finding the coffer, if the whole thing had been taken, but since it was emptied—”

“Is there any Artifice you can use?” Temar turned a beseeching face to Avila, who was studying her hands.

“Perhaps.” She looked up. “I will send word to Guinalle and see what she advises. At least, I find no hint of Artifice being worked in the city, so I do not think we need fear Elietimm connivance in the theft.”

Myred looked as if he were about to speak but evidently remembered that Avila could use Artifice to send Guinalle her message rather than have to rely on a ship taking half a season to cross the ocean.

“If you’re bespeaking the Archmage, ask if Livak’s found any old lore that might help,” I suggested. Casuel looked as if he’d bitten into a quince.

“A good notion, Ryshad.” Messire looked thoughtful. He’d backed Livak’s journey with coin and a measure of the House’s prestige to secure a claim on anything she learned. That was primarily to give him the right to demand recompense for sharing the lore with Planir, be it coin or wizardly violence against any Elietimm landing on Tormalin shores. Now he might just get an earlier return on his investment. He smiled reassurance at Avila. “Another resource we can call on.”

“Meantime, we simply do nothing?” Temar’s frustration was building and I felt my own neck tense in sympathy. “We allow all these enemies to ring us round? Can we never strike back?”

“It’s clear enough Den Thasnet’s deeply mired in all this.” Myred looked hopefully at his father.

The Sieur shared a look of silent understanding with Fresil. Both faces were hard with ominous determination. “We’ll see to Den Thasnet, never fear, and all the others snapping at our heels from the safety of the court. But we need time to get all our pieces in play, so your task is to show how confident we are by enjoying this Festival along with all the other youth of the House. You all have invitations for today, so I suggest you go and make merry, as if you haven’t a care in the world.”

Camarl and Myred obediently rose to their feet but Temar’s jaw set in a stubborn line. “I will be needed to help Demoiselle Tor Arrial.”

“She can have the wizard,” said the Sieur with the first hint of irritation he’d shown. “Think about those you have living and breathing in Kellarin, Temar, not merely the ones who still sleep. This Festival is the only opportunity you’ll have this side of winter to meet the people you need to keep your colony afloat. So far you’ve attended one reception, got yourself stabbed and spent an illuminating evening drinking wine at a sword school. Making useful acquaintance must be your main concern today and tomorrow if you’re to have any hope of raising your House again.”

“We’re going to a garden lunch with Den Murivance,” said Camarl, looking first to placate his uncle and immediately after to suppress Temar.

“Perhaps I could—” The Sieur silenced me with a look.

“You’re going nowhere beyond barracks and gatehouse, Ryshad. For one thing, whoever wanted to stick a sword in you yesterday might send someone for a second try. More importantly, the House opens to the commonalty tomorrow, had you forgotten? Imagine the opportunity for mischief that offers. After last night’s disgraceful exhibition, I want you putting the fear of flogging into every man-at-arms who’ll be on duty.”

“Stolley and Naer—”

“You’ve rank to equal theirs now, and in any case neither’s shown himself to advantage over these last few days.” The Sieur smiled thinly. “You’re known but you’re just unfamiliar enough to keep sworn and recognised on their toes. I want every man wearing my badge alert for the least thing out of the ordinary tomorrow. You’re the man to make that happen.”

This was part compliment and part order. I bowed my head. “Yes, Messire.”

“When does Ustian arrive?” Fresil turned from staring pensively out of the window to bark his question.

“Some time this afternoon,” said Myred hastily. “And Uncle Leishal should be here later this morning.”

“Your brothers?” Avila looked to Messire for confirmation.

“Indeed, and we’d better have a plan to show them we’re meeting this challenge to the House.” The Sieur looked at the rest of us with unmistakable dismissal as Fresil loosened the collar of his shirt, faded eyes distant with malice as he took a seat beside the Sieur.

Camarl led us out into a corridor. “Are you coming to Den Murivance?” he asked Myred.

The younger man shook his head. “I’m promised to a musical morning with Den Castevin—and I’m already late, so I’ll see you this afternoon.”

Camarl nodded. “Temar, I’ll see you in my chamber.” He walked away without further ado.

Avila watched him go, thin lips pressed together. “The library, now.”

She stalked off, skirts swishing angrily. Temar and I followed, Casuel catching up after hovering indecisive for a moment.

Dolsan Kuse, busy shelving books, was surprised to see Avila sweeping into his library as if she owned it. “Leave us,” she commanded with scant courtesy. “I need privacy to work Artifice.”

That sent the Archivist on his way with a hasty bow as Avila drummed impatient fingers on a jewelled purse chained at her waist. “The Sieur can manage D’Olbriot’s affairs as he sees fit but we need to discuss our own strategy. Guliel is right in part at least. Temar, you had best spend your day raising D’Alsennin’s standard, for the sake of all in Kel Ar’Ayen. But you can keep your eyes and ears open all the same. Just avoid too many clumsy questions for Raeponin’s sake.”

She turned to me with an irritated shake of her head. “I was hoping to send you to watch Den Thasnet and follow that odious boy Firon for a start.”

“I can talk to the men as well as setting them weapons drills,” I offered. “Someone may recall something from last night, someone might have heard a rumour worth following up.” Going beyond the Sieur’s immediate commands wasn’t the same as breaking them, was it?

“Master Mage.” Avila rounded on Casuel, who was examining the lamentably empty coffer. “You will have to keep watch on Firon Den Thasnet. He is stupid enough to be indiscreet.”

The wizard’s jaw dropped. “Me?”

“Who else?” demanded Avila. “You were put at my disposal and that is what I wish you to do. The Sieur’s orders for everyone else were plain enough and you will have your elemental talents to assist you.”

“You’re the best man for the job, Casuel,” I pointed out. “No one knows your face, unlike me and Temar.”

“But how am I supposed to find him?” protested the mage. “It’s Festival, he could be anywhere in the city!”

“Scry for him,” said Avila briskly. “That is the correct term, I believe. Or do you need me to use my arts?”

“No, no,” said Casuel with ill grace. “I can manage that.”

“But what of the artefacts?” Temar began pacing in front of the fireplace. “You cannot believe that fool of a Den Thasnet will simply lead Casuel straight to the thieves?”

“No,” agreed Avila, unperturbed. “But I want to know to whom he speaks and, if possible, of what. I refuse to believe all this is just happenstance. If we can track some part of this malice back to its source, perhaps we can put a stop to the whole. Your magic enables you to listen from a distance, wizard, does it not?” That wasn’t a question; Avila had clearly been keeping her eyes open around the mages Planir sent to Kellarin.

Casuel coloured slightly beneath her searching gaze. “Technically, yes, but there are ethical considerations—”

“Take your scruples to Planir, when you ask if he has learned any lore that might help our search. Then apply yourself to Den Thasnet. I will contact Guinalle through Artifice,” she continued, oblivious to Casuel’s outraged expression. “Then, if I can get the Sieur’s permission, I will ask that thief some questions myself. Artifice can loosen an unwilling tongue where threats prove ineffective.”

“No, my lady. That is, Temar—” Nausea thickened in my throat as I recalled the Elietimm enchanter searching my memory, breaking open cherished recollections, scattering hopes and fears to be crushed beneath brutal sorceries. Bluffing a man with fast talking and Temar’s modest skills was one thing, truly setting Artifice on the man was quite another.

“I beg your pardon?” Avila looked at me in astonishment. Behind her I could see Temar looking aghast, frantically signalling me to silence.

“Only if there’s no other way,” I amended my protest hastily. “Word would be bound to get out and with the prejudice there is against magic, the notion that Artifice forced a man to talk—forgive me but most people would find that repellent. If Artifice is to rise above popular prejudice about magic—”

“Ryshad Tathel, let me tell you—”

A knock at the door saved me from the wrath building in Avila’s face. Dolsan Kuse stuck his head into the room and looked at Temar. “Excuse me, but Esquire Camarl’s valet is looking for you and he’s not in the best of tempers.”

“Camarl or the valet?” asked Temar sarcastically, but he was already on his way to the door. I followed him, bowing to Avila but avoiding her eye.

“Very well, go on, all of you,” she said ominously. “Do not come back until you have something of use to report. No, Ryshad, on second thoughts, wait.”

I halted reluctantly. “Demoiselle?”

“I want to see that hand.”

I walked over to her slowly, undoing the bandage as I went. “It’s not so bad.”

“Nonsense,” she said tartly. “And there is neither virtue nor heroism in suffering unnecessary pain, my lad.” She held my hand between her palms, flat above and below, crossways in an oddly formal gesture. Her eyes softened and she seemed to be staring right through me as she whispered a soft incantation under her breath. A chill ran down my back as I heard echoes of ancient rhythms in the arcane syllables.

My arm and hand grew warm, not painfully but with the unmistakable, unnatural thrill of magic. A tingling throbbed briefly deep within my arm, as if I had slept crooked on it, waking to blood reawakening protesting flesh. I waited with growing dread for whatever shock of enchantment all this heralded.

But all that happened was the slow evaporation of the aching tenderness that had been catching me unawares with sharp jibes of pain all morning. The tingling sensation faded to nothing and the heat in my knuckles subsided to no more than a healthy glow, as if I’d been working the hand sparring. I looked down as Avila released me with a satisfied nod. The bruising had faded to no more than a faint discoloration and all the swelling was gone. I picked at the redundant stitches with a curious fingernail. Anyone would have sworn the cut was ten days healed.

“The Sieur’s surgeon can take those out,” Avila instructed.

“Thank you,” I managed to say with a fair degree of composure.

“When we have leisure, we must discuss your own prejudices about aetheric magic, never mind those of the populace,” Avila said softly, her eyes searching mine.

“I had better go,” said Temar from the threshold. “I’ll come and find you when I get back.” Casuel hovered, unable to decide if he could go or stay.

“Is there something else?” Avila settled herself at the table. “If not, I will contact Guinalle.”

“Come on, Casuel.” I ushered the wizard out of the room and shut the door firmly behind us.

“We have perfectly effective healing magics in Hadrumal, you know,” he said with faint envy.

“I’m sure you do.” I realised I was rubbing the healed knuckles into my other palm and stopped. “But do you have anything to find the stolen artefacts?”

“What exactly did she do? What did you feel?” Casuel was still looking at my hand so I shoved both in my breeches pockets.

“She stopped it hurting, which is good enough for me. Hadn’t you better bespeak Planir? Find out what he suggests—and find out if Livak’s discovered anything useful on her travels.” I spared a moment for a fleeting regret that I hadn’t gone with her. A summer spent peaceably tramping through forests and mountains would surely have been preferable to all this confusion.

Casuel sniffed and stalked off down the corridor, back stiff with indignation. I watched him go then went off to make myself unpopular with the men I’d so recently been serving with. In some lights, this new rank was starting to look a rather tarnished prize.

The D’Olbriot Residence, Summer Solstice Festival, Fourth Day, Morning

Casuel walked slowly up to his bedchamber, so absorbed he quite neglected to bow to an elegant Demoiselle hurrying down the stairs. Shocked at the realisation he turned full of obsequious apology, but all he saw was a retreating head bright with a jewelled net encasing coiled braids. The girl had taken no more notice of him than of the maid on the landing below, a mere servant with arms full of linen and head empty of anything.

Goaded by complex dissatisfaction, Casuel locked his door behind him and picked up the bedside candle. He snapped his fingers at the wick, feeling little of the usual thrill at bending inert substance to his bidding. As he set the flame in front of his small mirror, he forced the burnished metal to submit, to reflect the image he wanted rather than the room around him. What Prince of Toremal could do as much, he thought. What Emperor? Constraints of distance were nothing to those who could manipulate the very elements of the physical world. Hearth-Master Kalion was right; such power deserved due recognition. He deserved recognition, him, Casuel D’Evoir.

An image snapped across the surface of the mirror as answering magic bolstered Casuel’s own. “Yes?” Planir looked up from tending a crucible on a charcoal stove. “Oh, it’s you. Good morning.”

“These people have no notion of courtesy to a mage,” Casuel spoke without thinking. “How can they, when they don’t meet a true wizard from one year’s end to the next?”

“Is there some reason you’re disturbing me to tell me this?” The Archmage stirred the contents of his pot with a metal rod.

Casuel missed the warning note in Planir’s distant voice. “No one in Toremal thinks a mage is any more than these tricksters Velindre’s wasting her time with.”

Planir set down his rod with a rattle striking a faint echo from Casuel’s mirror. “You’ve something to say about Velindre?”

Casuel looked surprised. “No, not as such. Just that she’s doing herself no credit chasing round the city after every charlatan who claims the least sniff of an affinity.”

“Then perhaps you’ll wait until you do have something to tell me before you bespeak me again.” Planir’s displeasure came ringing through the shining metal.

“Oh, no, Archmage, I’ve plenty to tell you.” Casuel hesitated. “Well, quite a lot. Messire D’Olbriot faced an array of accusations before the Imperial Court yesterday. That’ll tie him up in argument until Equinox at least, the other senior Esquires of the House too, probably. Four other Names are claiming rights in Kellarin, there’s been argument to declare D’Alsennin’s House extinct, and someone or other has raised accusations of bad faith against D’Olbriot, using an advocate claiming to be a friend of the court.”

“Then find out who’s behind it and let me know,” Planir said in exasperation. “D’Olbriot defeated before the Imperial Court would have appalling consequences! It’s been hard enough convincing Guliel and Camarl we’re not all overbearing autocrats like Kalion, and they’re the most open-minded nobles we could find. We have to have Tormalin cooperation over Kellarin, Cas, never forget that.”

“It’s Kellarin I wanted to mention,” said Casuel reluctantly. “You know those artefacts, the ones D’Alsennin somehow managed to find—”

Planir raised a hand. “The ones Allin Mere helped him find? Which wouldn’t have been recovered without her quick thinking?”

“Yes.” Casuel’s lips narrowed. “Well, they’ve managed to lose them, D’Alsennin and Ryshad. Thieves took the lot last night.”

The ochre light of the spell flared for a moment, heat palpable on Casuel’s face. Planir’s words were lost, but when the disturbance cleared Casuel could see the crucible beside him had cracked to spill molten metal over the slate-topped table.

“What are you doing to find them?” Planir demanded. “We’ve pledged ourselves to support Kellarin. We may well need their Artifice against the Elietimm, don’t ever forget that!”

“Allin didn’t think to familiarise herself with the actual artefacts,” stammered Casuel. “They didn’t take the box, so she can’t scry for that—”

“Did you make any study of the items?” asked Planir sharply.

“I wasn’t able to,” said Casuel hurriedly. “Demoiselle Tor Arrial sees such things as her business and no one else’s.”

“Has she any aetheric means of finding the thieves?” Planir looked forbidding. “Is there any hint that the Elietimm are involved?”

“Demoiselle Tor Arrial says no one’s using Artifice in the city.” Casuel was relieved to have something definite to say. “She’s no way to trace the thieves herself but she’s contacting Demoiselle Guinalle. I was wondering if Usara had found any lore among the Forest Folk that might help, or something from the Mountain Men? The book that girl of Ryshad’s fussed over had ballads about following lost trails, didn’t it?” he added hopefully.

“The book you gave so little credence?” Planir smiled for an instant before his face turned grim. “No. There are some interesting leads for Mentor Tonin and his scholars to pursue, but nothing of any immediate use.”

“A shame,” said Casuel, trying to quell an inner satisfaction.

“Quite,” said Planir dryly. He looked at Casuel, and even as a small image reflected in magic his eyes were uncomfortably piercing.

“Doesn’t Master Tonin have some means of identifying Kellarin artefacts?” Casuel asked hastily.

The Archmage shook his head. “He can pick them out of an array of unenchanted objects, but only if they’re to hand.”

A tense silence fell. “Perhaps Guinalle will have some aetheric magic to find them,” Casuel repeated hopefully. If she did, he’d be the one giving the good news to Planir, wouldn’t he? He would be suitably gracious to Usara when he had occasion to mention how much more use he had been to the Archmage.

“Perhaps and perhaps not. What are you doing in the meantime?” Planir demanded.

“I’ve an idea who might be behind this,” said Casuel rapidly. “There’s a scion of Den Thasnet I’ve my eye on. I was going to send Ryshad to follow him but I’d better do it myself. Obviously, as a rule I wouldn’t dream of using magic to eavesdrop, but I think in these circumstances it’s permissable?” He looked hopefully at the Archmage.

“Your high-mindedness does you credit,” Planir remarked with a flatness that made Casuel wonder if his spell was faltering. “Be discreet.”

The mirror blinked to emptiness and Casuel looked blankly at it for a moment. He set his jaw, pleased to see the well-bred resolution in his reflection.

He poured water from the ewer into the basin on his washstand. This was an excellent opportunity to be of service both to D’Olbriot and to the Archmage, he realised with growing pleasure. D’Alsennin and Tor Arrial would be grateful as well when Casuel proved Den Thasnet was their enemy. Both Houses might have limited standing at present, but with the riches of Kellarin backing them the future was looking promising.

Casuel poured a little ink into the water and absently summoned emerald radiance to suffuse the bowl. A new notion warmed him. As and when D’Alsennin succeeded in reviving his long-extinct Name, Casuel would have an excellent precedent to argue before the Court of Prerogative when the time came for him to resurrect the House of D’Evoir.

But first he had more immediate matters in hand, he reminded himself hastily. He drew on his memory of Firon Den Thasnet, projecting his recollection of the uncouth stripling’s sneering face into the ensorcelled water. An image coalesced in the green-shaded obscurity, clearing to show the youth reclining on a daybed in a conservatory.

Casuel looked down on Firon. There’d be none of this contempt for wizardry when even Names like Den Thasnet had to acknowledge D’Evoir, seeing a mage of indisputable noble rank was an ally of the Archmage, a confidant of men such as Hearth-Master Kalion.

Casuel looked up from the bowl. Perhaps it was time to consider how best to phrase a direct approach to Kalion? The Hearth-Master made no secret of his conviction that the mundane powers of the mainland must be made to recognise the resources wizardry offered an astute ruler. Kalion would certainly see the advantages of having one of their own to liaise with the Tormalin Names, and who would be better placed than Casuel? Once a few Princes acknowledged Hadrumal’s influence, well-born girls would certainly consider joining him in renewing the Name of D’Evoir, wouldn’t they?

Casuel glanced down and was startled to see his scrying dimming to a mossy dullness. Chagrined, he summoned the magic anew and the image sharpened. Breathing with exquisite care, Casuel drew the picture out, expanding the magic until he saw the Esquire was in a hothouse pavilion at the rear of the Den Thasnet residence. He frowned. The Den Thasnet residence was halfway to the northern heights above the city. There was no way Casuel could be expected to walk that far, not in the full heat of a summer noon. Arriving somewhere all sweaty and dishevelled would undermine the dignity both of wizardry and of D’Olbriot for one thing. But taking a gig from the stables would hardly serve the Sieur or Planir’s insistence on discretion.

He lost his grip on the slippery scrying and the image floated into fragments on the water’s surface. No matter. Casuel shook a remnant of green light from his hands and congratulated himself on visiting so many Houses when they’d last opened their gates at Equinox. He wondered in passing how best to mention this forethought to Planir as he built Den Thasnet’s residence in his mind’s eye, picturing the wide central block, new stone clean and white in the sun, the sloping roof bright with the finest tiles coin could buy, the wings on either side linked by corridors framing courtyards where sparkling fountains reflected in costly expanses of window glass.

Casuel reached for the substance of the breeze that drifted lazily through his open window. He made himself one with the air, feeling its paths and currents and travelling them with the ease of instinct honed with practice. In an instant of brilliant light he crossed the city and found himself standing in the midst of an elegant chequerboard of low-hedged flowerbeds.

“Hey, you!” A gardener shouted, outraged, letting his laden barrow fall to the path with a thud. “Get off my summersilks!”

“I beg your pardon,” Casuel said hastily, trying to avoid doing any more damage as he struggled to the nearest path. He realised with dismay that his expensive boots were covered in some ominous-smelling mulch.

“Where did you spring from?” The gardener approached with growing perplexity. “I thought the gates were closed to visitors today.”

“Don’t concern yourself, my good man.” Casuel tried for a suitably noble tone as he walked off towards the residence. This was the kind of house he would build, Casuel thought, clean, Rational lines matching form and function in precise layout of grounds and building. No, his house would be even finer, given the way architects shared the same ridiculous prejudices against judicious wizardry as everyone else. After all, Casuel’s sympathy with the earth made him the obvious person to judge the best stone to keep a house warm in winter and cool in summer. Even Velindre would find it simple enough to chart the flow of air through a house, and who better to consult about siting a hearth than a mage with a fire affinity? But no, all anyone ever wanted a mage for was shifting quantities of earth, for all the world like that nursery tale of Ostrin and the enchanted shovel. It simply wasn’t fair that wizards were denied any genteel profession by Tormalin disdain for magic.

Conversation behind him interrupted Casuel’s musing and he glanced over his shoulder to see the gardener walking slowly after him. Curse the fellow, he was talking to a man in livery, halberd in hand. Casuel looked from side to side for some discreet corner but Den Thasnet’s desire to shape his gardens to the same height of fashion as his house meant there was precious little growing above knee height. A summerhouse offered the only sanctuary from the inconvenient underlings and Casuel hurried into it.

But what now? The little eight-sided shelter would barely hide an indiscreet kiss, and anyway the man had seen him come in here. Casuel looked out of the window to see the halberdier walking purposefully towards the gazebo. How was he to explain his presence if the House was closed to visitors?

Casuel drew a deep breath and summoned a shimmer of blue light between his hands. He hurriedly drew water from the earth beneath him and fire from the heat of the sun, wrapping himself inside a veil of magic to baffle prying eyes. He stood motionless, breathless as the puzzled man-at-arms looked into the summerhouse, the gardener behind him, brows raised in good-humoured curiosity. “Where’d he go then?”

“Cursed if I know.” The gardener brushed earth off his hands. “I’d have sworn he went in here.”

“Sure you’ve not been tending Esquire Firon’s thassin too closely? Pruning it without opening the windows in the conservatory?” The sworn man laughed.

The gardener smiled thinly. “But he went this way, some sour-faced chap all tricked out like a draper wanting to jump the counter and mix with his betters.”

“I’ll pass the word,” the sworn man shrugged.

The two men walked away slowly, leaving Casuel all but throttled by indignation. What would some muddy day labourer know about fashion anyway? He was about to dissolve the blend of elements when a sudden thought stopped him.

The Archmage had told him to be discreet, so why not stay invisible? Casuel tightened his grip on the elements he was manipulating and added a complex lattice of air to baffle any sound he might make. Walking with agonised care, he went up stone steps to a broad paved terrace, searching for the pavilion where he’d seen Den Thasnet lounging.

There it was, an airy framework of white ironwork sheltering glossy citrus trees and a few unsightly pots of ragged ferns. Casuel peered through the windows to see Den Thasnet taking his ease, sipping from a glass in a silver holder. That was all the increasingly thirsty wizard had to see for what felt like half a season. Finally, as six chimes sounded from a distant timepiece, Firon slammed his drink down on a metal table, impatiently ringing a handbell. A lackey appeared, immediately sent away with brusque gestures and reappearing with a coat that Firon pulled on, tugging at his lacy cuffs with edgy hands. He shoved open a door to the terrace, slamming it back on hinges that squeaked in protest. Keeping firm hold on the sorcery sheltering him, Casuel followed as close as he dared as Firon ran lightly down the steps and through the gardens to the extensive stableyards. The mage’s heart sank as he realised Den Thasnet wore riding boots and was carrying a whip.

“Get me the sorrel gelding.” The Esquire snapped his fingers at a lad carrying a basket of grain. “At once, boy!”

The stable lad ducked away as if he feared a cuff round the ear. Casuel watched in an agony of indecision as the horse was brought out and saddled, Firon all the while tapping his switch impatiently on one boot.

“I’ll need you to bring him back.” Firon swung himself into the saddle and reached a hand down to the boy. “If you let him pick up a stone, I’ll flay your back for you, understand?”

The lad tried and failed to take a pillion seat on the restive horse, getting a smack from Firon’s whip across his shoulders for his pains.

Casuel moved forward slowly as the boy managed to mount. Invisible or not, he didn’t like horses at the best of times and this beast was certainly not going to like what the wizard was about to do. He pulled a handful of wiry hairs from the horse’s mane, sending the startled animal backwards in a clatter of hooves. The hapless stable boy slid off the sorrel rump and this time Den Thasnet’s lash raised a scarlet weal on his raised hand.

“You’re not worth your bed and board,” sneered Firon. “Get up or I’ll have you begging in the gutters.”

The lad clung on grimly to the saddle as Firon whipped the horse to a punishing trot. Casuel ran forward as two liveried men immediately began closing the tall gates behind the Esquire. Slipping through the narrowing gap just in time, he watched the retreating rump of the horse until it was lost in the busy traffic filling the route to the lower city.

But all was not lost, was it? Casuel looked with satisfaction at the ginger horsehair wrapped round his fingers. Ryshad would have been utterly at a loss, wouldn’t he? D’Alsennin wouldn’t have known what to do. Den Thasnet would have been lost to anyone without a mage’s skills. Casuel walked round the corner of the residence wall, looking in the gully behind the shade trees. There had to be a puddle somewhere hereabouts? But no, not in high summer, not in Toremal. Casuel belatedly remembered years when no rain had fallen in either half of summer. How was he to scry for the cursed animal?

“If you want to take a piss, go and use the drain by the dung heap!” An old woman stood up from behind a low row of pease in the garden of a grace house, squinting belligerently at the wizard. “I don’t care what your Name is, we don’t need you spraying round here like a filthy tom cat!”

Casuel realised his spells had come unravelled and coloured with embarrassment.

A younger woman appeared from behind an outhouse. “Oh, do excuse Mother, your honour, she’s not in her senses.” She bustled the old woman away, scolding her in a low, frightened voice.

Casuel walked hastily down the lane, smoothing his coat.

His gaze lit gratefully on a well, a horse trough beside it and a lower one for dogs. A few women were filling buckets with a desultory air, sparkling drops falling to be swallowed instantly by the thirsty dust. Casuel slowed his pace until they had slung their yokes across their shoulders and hooked on their pails.

He would have to work fast. Casuel hurried to the horse trough, hoping no one interrupted him. He dropped the horse hairs into the water, wrapping the coarse strands with verdant brilliance. A skein of emerald light coiled and twisted in the water, indistinct and blurred. Casuel wished helplessly for some ink to support the translucent image, laying his hands carefully on the surface of the water. The clear green took on a muddy hue. The image wavered but Casuel saw the sorrel horse making its way through a crowded street. Sweat beaded his forehead and he forced himself to draw unhurried, even breaths. Even the best scryers of Hadrumal couldn’t be expected to hold a spell together long in these conditions, he thought with growing apprehension.

The horse slowed to a walk, and Firon Den Thasnet raised his whip to clear a few passers-by and pulled the animal up with a cruel jerk on the reins. The groom slid off the animal’s rump, hurrying to hold the bridle as Firon dismounted. Casuel fought to still a growing tremor in his hands, watching breathless as the Esquire left horse and groom without a backward glance. He went into a tall building of brash orange brick, decorated with unashamed frivolity, an array of pipes fanned out over the double doors and stone swags beneath the windows heavy with fruit and flowers.

One might almost be tempted to credit the tales of Ostrin’s warped sense of humour at times, thought Casuel, shaking the horse trough water from his hands with distaste. Of all places in the city, why did Den Thasnet have to go there?

The wizard began walking crossly in the direction of the lower city, heavy with fatigue. Firon Den Thasnet had better be staying a while in that theatre because Casuel needed some time to recover himself before working any more magic. No one had better try blaming him if the noble youth was gone before he got there.

A jangle of harness turned Casuel’s head, and seeing a hireling gig coming up at the trot he waved it down authoritatively.

“Your honour?”

“The puppetry theatre on Lantan Straight,” Casuel curtly ordered the driver. He closed his eyes as the man whistled up the horse and tried to draw back some of the energies he’d used to manipulate the elements. It was all very well everyone expecting him to use wizardry to help them, but no one not mage-born knew what it cost, yet another injustice mages had to bear.

He opened his eyes as the gig stopped with a jolt and saw the driver turning expectantly. “Is this the place?”

“Yes.” Casuel looked with displeasure at the tasteless façade as he climbed out of the gig.

“Fair Festival, but that’ll be a silver Mark to you,” said the hireman indignantly.

Casuel tugged the D’Olbriot amulet out of his pocket. “Apply to the gatehouse for your payment.” He dismissed the man with a gesture, ignoring disgruntled muttering as he walked slowly inside the lofty building.

The narrow lobby was empty but for some discarded flowers wilted in the dust and a chair with stuffing spilling out of a split seat. Casuel hurried past a detailed depiction of Ostrin embracing a maiden with his hands in most impertinent places. Had the artist deliberately chosen the most unsavoury legends he could find for these garish murals?

Beyond brightly painted double doors, laughter and chatter echoed round the vast windowless room that took up most of the hollow edifice. The stage at one end was busy with craftsmen hammering, sawing or painting. Their efforts fought with snatches of ragged music from somewhere beyond and a faint ache tightened across Casuel’s temples.

“Come to see your brother?” A man clutching a bone-topped double pipe stopped on his way past.

“Yes, of course.” Casuel smiled weakly at the musician.

“Up there,” the man nodded at the stage. “Go on up, no one’ll mind.” The piper walked out, shirt tails loose over dirty breeches.

Casuel ignored the man, scanning the room for Den Thasnet, hissing with exasperation as he tried to find the Esquire in the constantly shifting crowd. Knots of people gathered and broke apart, dragging chairs out of ragged rows to make circles abandoned moments later. Cries of greeting cut through screeches of laughter as girls in dresses far too immodest for public display embraced in an excess of giddiness. The men were no better, coats and cuffs unbuttoned, lace collars untidily askew. Bottles of wine were being purchased from a side room and passed from hand to hand. Casuel sniffed with disapproval as he caught the sharp aromatic scent of stronger spirits. No wonder no one was wearing any insignia to identify the House they were disgracing with such behaviour.

The throng parted just long enough for him to see Firon Den Thasnet but in the next instant a giggling girl pulled her companion across the wizard’s view. She turned her flushed face for a kiss that the youth was glad to supply before another lad folded the girl in a smothering embrace. Casuel gaped, horrified at such promiscuous indecency until a passing musician dug him in the ribs with a chuckle. “She’ll be letting more’n her hair down by sunset, won’t she?”

Casuel turned abruptly to the narrow steps leading on to the stage. Watching warily as the busy craftsmen moved half-finished scenery around, he found a vantage point behind a curtain and looked for Den Thasnet again. There he was, sitting on a solitary chair, booted feet outstretched, scowling at people he tripped, his disgruntled expression deterring anyone thinking of including him in their conversation.

“Cas? Someone said you wanted me?” An impatient voice at his shoulder made the wizard jump.

“What? No, not particularly.” Casuel turned to see his brother looking askance.

“Then what are you doing here?” demanded Amalin.

“I’m about the Archmage’s business,” said Casuel loftily, glancing back at Den Thasnet, who was still sitting alone. “And Messire D’Olbriot’s. Nothing to do with you.”

“It is if you’re doing it in my theatre,” Amalin retorted robustly. “Is this something to do with all those questions you had the other day? I told you, I’ve no idea which noble House is slandering another, and I’ve less interest. All that concerns me is which ones pay prompt.”

Casuel sniffed. “Ever the merchant. You peddle your music like a wandering harpist.”

“At least it’s a honest trade, Master Mage,” sneered Amalin. “Mother’s not ashamed to tell her sewing circle about my latest triumphs. Did I tell you I’ve written a new round dance for the Emperor’s entertainment tomorrow?”

Casuel looked resolutely back at Firon, who was chewing a thumbnail and looking around sourly.

“So who are you spying on, Cas?” Appreciably taller, Amalin peered easily over the wizard’s shoulder. “The charming Esquire Den Thasnet?”

“Do you know him? Why? How?”

Amalin chuckled unpleasantly. “Oh, you’ll talk to me when you want to know something?”

“Don’t play the fool, Amalin,” snapped Casuel. “This is important.”

“So’s rehearsing my musicians.” Amalin turned to leave.

“What would it do for your career if I told Messire D’Olbriot how uncooperative you’re being?” threatened Casuel.

“Not much harm,” Amalin shrugged. “They’re saying the old Sieur’s out of favour with the Emperor anyway.”

Casuel gaped. “Who’s saying?”

“Him, and his cronies.” Amalin nodded at Firon Den Thasnet. “Not that I pay much heed. Den Thasnet owes more money to more entertainers than any other House in the city. Say what you like about D’Olbriot, the stiff old stick pays up by return messenger.”

“You’d go a good deal further in your chosen profession with a little more respect for your betters,” said Casuel bitingly.

“Bowing and scraping to anyone entitled to call themselves Den Something?” scoffed Amalin. “Why should I? Half of your so-called nobles live on credit and wishful thinking. It’s honest traders like Father brought me the coin to build this place. They pay in full the moment the last note sounds at their banquets.”

“Paying for lewd masquerades danced by girls no better than common trollops, you mean,” retorted Casuel. “I’m surprised to see you still bothering with proper puppetry.” He waved a hand at the marionettes hanging high above their heads, each as tall as a child, a masterpiece of woodwork dressed with a tailor’s finest skill.

“I’ll stage whatever pays, Cas.” Amalin’s smile was mocking. “Same as I’ll let these wastrels use my place for their meetings and intrigues just as long as they pay with both hands for the privilege of drinking cheap wine while they do it.”

“It’s all just counting coin with you, isn’t it?” Casuel did his best to look down his nose at the taller man.

“At least I don’t need Mother sending me money to put the clothes on my back.” Amalin winked at him. “And my boots don’t stink of horseshit either.”

“Then why do you look as if you fell out of some charity guild’s ragbag?” countered Casuel.

Amalin brushed a negligent hand down his faded shirt, frayed at collar and cuffs. “Work clothes, Cas, but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Amalin? Where do you want this?” The summons from the far side of the stage saved Casuel from having to find a suitable retort. Amalin’s arrogance really was intolerable, he raged silently. He had no respect for rank, wrapped up in his petty concerns and this tawdry sham of a world he’d built for himself. Casuel watched Amalin walk away with a faintly familiar-looking dark-haired man. No stomach for continuing the debate, little brother? Well, it wasn’t the first time Casuel had set him right on a few things.

He looked back into the crowd to see Firon Den Thasnet deep in conversation with someone. Who was it? What had he missed? Cursing Amalin for distracting him, Casuel struggled to calm himself sufficiently to float an invisible stream of magic drawn from air and light over the heads of the revellers. Concentrating hard, he waited impatiently for words to drift down the spell.

“—this, that, the other,” hissed Firon. “I do it and what do I have to show? That fool of a boy got his arse well and truly kicked by D’Olbriot’s man, so that dog won’t hunt again. And your so-called advocate made a piss-poor showing over the Land Tax. What have you got to say about that?”

“I recommended the best advocate for the coin you were willing to pay,” shrugged the newcomer. “I fail to see how you can blame me when D’Olbriot hires a more experienced man. Anyway, even if they’re not being taxed on Kellarin for last year, there’s been no judgement about next, has there? That game’s still in play.”

Casuel moved as far as he dared beyond the shelter of the curtains, trying to work out who the man might be. Of an age with Firon’s own father, and Casuel’s come to that, he was a good height, iron grey hair soberly cut, face unremarkable in its placid pleasantness. He wore no identifiable colours, merely a plain brown coat and breeches well tailored from good cloth. Casuel frowned; the clothes were styled like livery and that was no merchants’ fashion. Something about his manner was reminiscent of an upper servant as well.

“You said I’d find plenty of backing against D’Olbriot.” Firon’s complaints were rising. “Where is it? Any time I said yesterday they’re just getting what they deserve, all I got was the cold shoulder.”

“Keep your nerve and people will come over to your way of thinking,” said the newcomer firmly. “Bringing all the rewards we discussed. Look at the cases brought before the Emperor yesterday. At least one of them will trip Burquest, no matter how fast he dances round the truth. Your side of the scales will rise, just as soon as D’Olbriot’s sinks.”

“Oh, will it?” Firon looked sceptical. “High enough to match me to a girl of rank who can still bring a decent coffer of coin? My father’s talking about selling me off to some fat-arsed merchant’s ugly daughter, he’s so desperate for some ready gold—”

The other man slapped a light backhand into Firon’s mouth. “Watch your tongue,” he said with genial warning. “Show a little respect.”

Shock sent a shudder through Casuel’s magic that nearly scattered the spell and he stepped back into the concealing curtains. Who was this man to dare such insult?

The blow hadn’t been hard enough to leave a mark but Firon’s face was scarlet all the same. “Show respect, have more patience, set yourself up for a mighty fall if this all goes rancid! All our dealings go just one way, don’t they?” he sneered. “When will I see some return on this venture?”

The newcomer smiled thinly before reaching into the breast of his well-cut coat. He brought out a leather pouch and folded Firon’s hand around it.

“Here’s a little on account.” The man held Firon’s fingers tight and Casuel saw pain chase perplexity across his spotty forehead. “Spend it wisely for a change and don’t let wine or thassin loosen your tongue. There are enough stupid whores, so don’t bother with another one canny enough to pick some truth out of your boasting. Some girl you had down by the docks came knocking on my door a few days ago, looking for an open purse to shut her mouth.” The man’s tone was amiable but the threat was unmistakable.

“What did you—” Firon looked sick.

“I paid her, what do you think?” As Firon smiled in hesitant relief, the man leaned close, voice cruel. “Just enough to pay her way with Poldrion, then I made sure that’s the last price the slut’ll ever bargain.”

“I’m not frightened of you!” The sweaty pallor Casuel could see soaking the colour from Firon’s face plainly contradicted his shaking words.

“Well said, your honour.” The other man released the Esquire’s crushed fingers. “Anyway, you needn’t be afraid of me. I just follow my orders, after all. It’s my principal you should worry about, who’s not best pleased, truth be told.”

“I’ve done everything asked of me,” Firon protested.

“So you have,” smiled the newcomer. “So go home and chew your thassin or find some warm little whore to cuddle. I’ll let you know when we want something else. As long as you don’t get greedy we’ll all win out in the end, won’t we?”

Firon fiddled with the purse in his hand, avoiding the other man’s eye. “When will I hear from you?”

The other man stood up. “Soon enough.” He moved away as Firon was hailed by another young noble, whose expansive movements suggested he’d already drunk more than was wise so early in the day. Casuel tried to split his magic to follow both men but only succeeded in breaking the spell beyond repair, splinters of ensorcelled air darting invisibly in all directions.

The mage shifted from one foot to the other in an agony of indecision, trying to keep both men in view while staying within the protective shadow of the curtain. He drew back as Firon came closer to the stage, now intent on a girl with brassy blonde hair and a torn flounce to her gown. She was flirting with another young noble who Casuel couldn’t quite put a Name to. Firon caught the girl by the shoulder and she turned with a well-rehearsed expression of delight that faded as soon as she recognised him. Firon raised the hand holding the purse and the girl smiled again.

“That’s the only music sweet enough for her ears.” Amalin was a few paces away, studying a sheaf of music.

“Who is she?” Casuel asked.

“Too expensive for your purse, Cas.” Amalin looked up from his score. “That’s Demoiselle Yeditta Den Saerdel.”

Casuel’s face reflected the question he hadn’t dared ask.

“You thought she was a whore? No, she’s far more choosy and far more expensive. You need an old Name and a fat purse before that one spreads her frills for you. Still, you’ll get an education you’ll never find in Hadrumal if you go sniffing after her.” Amalin went to stop a dispute between a carpenter and a painter.

Casuel watched an eager knot gathering round Firon and Yeditta, reckless youths in grimy linen and girls with cosmetics clashing brutally against the hectic colour rising on their cheeks. With brash boasts and extravagant gestures they all talked at once in an unintelligible muddle. At some signal from the brazen blonde the whole collection moved towards the door.

There was no way he could follow without being noticed, Casuel decided hastily. Nor was there anything to be gained watching whatever debauch they were planning to disgrace their Names. D’Olbriot already knew Den Thasnet was hostile. What Casuel needed to find out was who was pulling Firon’s strings, as deftly as any puppeteer working Amalin’s gaudy marionettes. He sighed with relief when he saw the man in brown talking to a dissatisfied maiden with heavily shadowed eyes trailing a wine-stained shawl from one hand.

A lutanist walked past and Casuel tried to match the musician’s nonchalant saunter down the steps. Keeping that brown coat in sight was no easy task down on the crowded floor of the theatre, but this was neither the time nor place to work magic. Overlavish perfume and stale sweat caught at the back of Casuel’s throat and he coughed. At least that made those closest step away with distasteful glances and Casuel caught a glimpse of the sombrely dressed man among the bolder colours all around.

This was no time for civility, Casuel realised, with these wastrels paying no one any heed, shoving and jostling without a by-your-leave. Biting his lip, Casuel used elbows and shoulders to worm his way between laughing embraces and belligerent disputes, ducking a retaliatory swing of some Esquire’s arm, scarlet with embarrassment as he inadvertently set a covey of girls fluttering apart with shrill rebukes.

Finally gaining the fresh air outside with a gasp of relief, he couldn’t delay to recover his composure. The man in brown was heading towards the old city, steady pace suggesting some specific destination. A gap opened up ahead of Casuel and he moved to outflank a goodwife laden with packages but a sturdy dray rattling past made him think again. Better to suffer the jostling on the flagway than risk being squashed flatter than a frog’s foot. Casuel forced his way on through the crowd, apologising, tripping, heart pounding and hoping against hope the man in brown wouldn’t hail a passing gig.

Den Murivance Residence, Summer Solstice Festival, Fourth Day, Afternoon

Are you enjoying the music?” Camarl offered Temar a crystal goblet of pale pink wine.

“Is this what they call the Rational style?” Temar asked cautiously.

Both men looked at the elegant quintet playing under a rose-garlanded bower in the middle of an immaculate lawn. Smartly dressed and richly jewelled nobles walked past, pausing here and there to admire the precisely patterned flowers. A riot of summer colour around the serene grass was confined within strictly clipped box hedges, an arc of orange here, a square of scarlet there, framed by sprigs of gold and green. Tall yew hedges rose dark behind the flowers, and beyond Temar could hear polite laughter. The musicians finished their piece with a decorous flourish, rewarded with appreciative applause.

“No, this is something new, reworking country tunes in the style of old shrine liturgies.” Camarl sounded a little vague. “Adding counterpoint, harmonies, that kind of thing.”

“It is very pleasant.” Temar sipped the scented wine to hide his disdain. The gods couldn’t even hold their music sacred any more.

Camarl was still talking. “Amalin Devoir’s one of the leading composers in the new style.”

Temar looked up. “Casuel’s brother?”

“Yes,” Camarl chuckled. “Not that you’d ever know it from our mage. He’s made quite a name for himself, Amalin that is. He started as a double-pipe player, I believe, but was soon hiring out his own troupe. He must have an eye for business because he built one of the biggest theatres in the city from the ground up a year or so ago.” He looked at the slowly circulating Esquires and Demoiselles. “We should go down there one evening, once Festival’s over. It’s all very informal, just light-hearted nonsense.”

“That would make a pleasant change,” agreed Temar.

“Festival’s all entertainment for the commonalty but that kind of leisure’s a luxury our coin can’t buy,” Camarl said frankly. “There’s so little time to see everyone. But you can take a little more time to enjoy yourself. The Sieur and I will secure Kellarin’s interests.”

“For which you have my thanks,” said Temar politely. He looked round the myriad unknown faces and insignia. He’d still far rather be managing Kel Ar’Ayen’s concerns himself, if only he had the faintest idea where to start.

“There’s Irianne Tor Kanselin.” Camarl’s tone brightened.

“Go and talk to her,” urged Temar. “Unless you think I need a chaperone.”

Camarl’s laugh surprised Temar. “I’ll see you later.” Camarl walked briskly towards his affianced and Temar watched as the girl’s face lit up.

Temar sighed; Guinalle had never greeted him with that kind of delight, even during the brief dalliance that had meant so much more to him than to her. He began his own leisurely circuit of the Den Murivance gardens, exchanging polite nods and smiles. Whenever someone looked as if they might do more, Temar picked up his pace. He couldn’t face trying to remember Names and families, more questions about his unexpected injury, his hopes for Kellarin, subtle enquiries as to his precise standing with D’Olbriot and what he thought of the arguments before the Emperor. A growing sense of inadequacy aggravated Temar. He hadn’t spoken to a fifth the people Camarl had, arranging later discussions about ships for Kel Ar’Ayen, suggesting merchants who might link the distant colony’s riches to a given House’s resources. The knowledge he should be grateful to Camarl exasperated Temar still further, so he walked away through an arch of well-trained yew.

Shallow turf steps ran up to a broad terrace at the northern frontage of the house. Den Murivance’s home had little of the harsh angularity of Tor Kanselin’s, every brick and stone unmistakably ancient. But as Temar has been taken on a suspiciously extended tour, he’d noted all the furnishings looked brand new, quite the height of fashion.

Servants were still clearing away the remains of the recent elegant meal. Temar watched liveried footmen deftly piling plates and serving bowls, maidservants rolling table linen in neat bundles for the laundresses. Lackeys in workaday clothes waited to carry trestles and boards away while more outdoor servants dismantled the garlanded canopies that had shaded guests from the uncaring sun.

Temar castigated himself with painful honesty. You wouldn’t know where to start organising an entertainment like this, never mind running the affairs of a House in this new Tormalin. So why was he here? This wasn’t his place, and never would be. Why wasn’t he out doing something to save those people still senseless in Kel Ar’Ayen, where he really belonged?

“D’Alsennin! You’ll escort a lady into the maze, won’t you?” A fresh-faced Esquire hailed Temar from the entrance to a circle of green hedge. He and a friend were gently teasing a group of Demoiselles somewhere between Temar’s own age and Camarl’s.

Temar identified the Esquire’s marten mask badge as Den Ferrand. “If she wishes.” He bowed politely to the girls. The closest giggled, hazel eyes huge behind her fan of black and azure feathers, but Temar couldn’t identify the malachite insignia inlaid on the silver handle.

“I’m less concerned about escort in than escort out,” said a taller girl. Her chestnut hair was braided in a no-nonsense style and a tiny jewelled sword pinned her lace veil decorously to either shoulder. At least Temar could identify her as Den Hefeken.

“There’s a summerhouse in the centre,” volunteered the youth, brushing unruly black curls with a hand beringed with a sizeable cameo of a rearing horse. “There’s always a steward there with directions out.”

“I’ll go with Meriel,” Den Ferrand took the giggling girl’s hand. “Esquire Den Brennain, will you do me the honour of escorting my sisters?” He bowed extravagantly to the lad with the horse ring and then to two of the girls. One swatted her brother with her grey-and pink-feathered fan but the other blushed prettily as Den Brennain offered his arm.

“Demoiselle Den Hefeken?” Temar bowed.

“My pleasure, Esquire.” She smiled in friendly enough fashion.

“Which way do we go?” The girl Meriel looked around as they moved inside the ring of hedges.

“Do we split up or stay together?” Den Brennain paused as they reached a junction.

“Split up,” said Den Ferrand promptly. “First ones to the middle win—”

“Head of the set at the Emperor’s dance tomorrow?” suggested Demoiselle Den Hefeken.

The general approval suggested this was a prize worth winning. Temar didn’t much care but he followed the Demoiselle obediently as twists and turns took the others down different pathways, conversation muffled by the tall hedges.

“Is this a popular form of entertainment?” he asked the Demoiselle, trying to get his bearings.

“More than listening to our elders and betters negotiating access and revenues and leaseholds,” the girl said cheerfully.

“Indeed,” said Temar with feeling. “So, Demoiselle, do we turn or continue?”

“Call me Orilan.” She considered their options with a slight frown. “Turn, I think.”

Temar followed, but after an abrupt corner the path delivered them into a dead end. Orilan Den Hefeken looked apologetically at Temar, but before she could speak a voice sounded from the far side of the hedge.

“Are you seriously thinking of marrying D’Alsennin, Gelaia?”

“My father’s very keen to point out all the advantages.”

Orilan Den Hefeken smiled tightly at Temar before trying to step past him. He smiled back but didn’t move out of her way.

There was more than one girl giggling beyond the wall of green. “What advantages? He’s handsome enough but he’s four parts foolish! Ressy Tor Kanselin said he hasn’t the first idea about anything.”

“I have, which is what matters to the Sieur D’Olbriot.” Gelaia sounded unconcerned. “D’Alsennin can go back to digging ore and lumber out of his wilderness and I can turn it all into coin this side of the ocean.”

“So you wouldn’t be going with him.” This new voice sounded relieved.

Gelaia was startled into laughter. “Jenty! Have you had too much sun? No, he can keep all the delights of exploration and bad sanitation. I’ll stay here with decent servants and some real influence to play with at last.”

“My Sieur says that D’Alsennin won’t ever be more than a bastard line of D’Olbriot.” It was the first girl again, sounding dubious.

“That depends what I make of it,” countered Gelaia. “And there are worse places to be in D’Olbriot’s shadow. I’ll still be Maitresse of a House, which is more than any of my other suitors can offer.”

The murmurs of agreement were coloured with envy.

“It’ll be a mighty small House, just the two of you,” commented Jenty slyly.

“He’ll need to come over for Winter and Summer Solstices for the first few years,” Gelaia said airily. “It shouldn’t take too long for him to get me breeding. In the meantime, I’ll be entitled to a married woman’s consolations.”

“Don’t get caught wrong-footed,” Jenty warned. “Everyone’ll count the seasons when your belly swells.”

“I’m sure Lady Channis will advise me.” Scandalised laughter drowned the rest of Gelaia’s words.

“But, Gella, taking him to your bed—” A young voice hovered between consternation and longing.

“Whatever else’s changed since the Chaos, I imagine that’s done the same way,” giggled Gelaia.

“My sister say a man generally wakes with a keen interest in his wife,” Jenty remarked with spurious innocence. “What must a man be feeling after sleeping away twenty-some generations?”

Temar had heard enough. He offered Orilan Den Hefeken his arm and escorted her back down the path. She glanced at Temar over the orange feathers of her fan, colour high on her cheekbones. “Gelaia wouldn’t have spoken like that if she’d known you were there.”

“That is scant consolation,” said Temar tightly. “I am old-fashioned, I know, but I look for mutual affection to prompt a wedding, not well-matched ledgers.”

“Affection grows, given time and good will on both sides, that’s what my mother taught me. A good match with love to gild it is certainly a blessing, but marrying for passion is hardly rational.” Orilan stopped, forcing Temar to halt. She looked at him, grey eyes searching. “Tell me it wasn’t ever thus, even in your day?”

Temar recalled some his grandsire’s forthright lectures. “Certainly Raeponin always set restrictions in the balance against the privilege of rank.”

“Shall we try this way?” Orilan started walking. “Forgive my frankness, Esquire, but surely you need someone to guide you through the complexities of Toremal, just as surely as we need some way through this maze.”

“Are you offering?” Temar tried for a flirtatious tone.

Orilan laughed. “I was affianced at Winter Solstice. By the turn of the year I will be happily learning to love my husband under Den Risiper’s roof.”

“My felicitations.” Temar concentrated on finding a path through the maze. In fewer turns than he expected, the hedges ushered them onto a small lawn around a little pool where Arimelin stood demure in greenish bronze beneath a tree-shaped fountain. A newly painted gazebo shaded a polite steward holding a jug.

Temar bowed to Orilan. “Some wine?”

Orilan nodded as Den Ferrand appeared with a furiously blushing Meriel. Temar felt uncomfortably excluded by their laughter as he waited for the servant to fill a tray full of glasses. Worse still, Temar realised Gelaia and her friends were sitting behind the summerhouse.

“Esquire?” The lackey was waiting. Temar nodded and followed the man over to his new acquaintances.

“Well done, D’Alsennin.” Den Ferrand congratulated him with a friendly air.

“But you didn’t have mazes in your day!” Meriel looked at Temar with eager inquisitiveness.

Orilan hid a smile behind her fan. “We didn’t have them in our grandsire’s day, Meri.”

“You certainly have much we never knew, but equally it seems you lost much in the Chaos,” said Temar with studied carelessness. “Customs, provinces, Artifice.”

“Is it true magic held the Old Empire together?” Meriel’s eyes were wide and beseeching.

“A form of enchantment,” Temar replied carefully. “Not this elemental magic of the Archmage and Hadrumal. We knew it as Artifice, and yes, it has many uses.”

“My Sieur says that magic is all tricks and fakery.” Den Brennain’s words were half challenge, half curiosity.

Meriel exchanged an excited shiver with the Demoiselles Den Ferrand.

“You’re in deep with wizards,” Den Brennain persisted. “What have you seen?”

Temar sipped his wine. He’d hardly win any trust with tales of monsters spun from raging water, of lightning ripped from clouds to spear men where they stood. He didn’t even want to remember magical fire crawling across empty ground to consume the enemy Elietimm without mercy. “I have seen mages appear and disappear in empty air, crossing leagues in the blink of an eye. They can summon the image of someone far distant and speak with them. They can feel the passage of a river through unseen caves beneath the ground.”

“Or find gold within a mountain?” Den Ferrand looked speculatively at Temar. “A House with such resources to call on would have significant advantages.”

Temar spread deprecating hands. “Mages answer only to Hadrumal and Planir curbs any abuse of power.”

“You know the Archmage?” Meriel sounded disconsolate. “I’ve never seen so much as a hedge wizard make candles dance.”

“No?” Temar ran a nervous hand over his close-cropped hair. “When there are mages in Toremal?” He pulled a closely folded handbill from a pocket and cleared his throat. “This is to give notice to all lovers of the magical arts and admirers of ingenuity that the famous Trebal Chabrin intends to fly from the Spring Gate to the Vintners Exchange at the seventh chime of the fourth day of Festival. This feat will be followed by such diversions as the elements permit. All those attending are invited to make such payment as they are pleased to give.”

“A wizard’s going to fly?” Den Ferrand was incredulous.

“I have no idea,” Temar laughed. “The words are rather too carefully vague, after all. I confess I’m curious though.”

Den Brennain looked up to check the sun. “We could get there if we called for a carriage at once.” He sounded tempted. “But it’s hardly courteous to our hosts.”

“Yes, let’s!” Meriel looked eagerly around. “We’ve all been dutiful enough for one day, haven’t we?”

“I’ve talked to everyone I was supposed to.” Den Brennain jabbed a finger at Den Ferrand. “You wouldn’t have suggested the maze if you still had people to meet.”

“Gelaia’s just over there,” Orilan observed. “We can make our farewells to her.”

She walked swiftly past the summerhouse. Temar heard a note of curiosity rising among the hidden girls. He forced a smile when Orilan returned with Gelaia and the other girls in tow.

“You’re going to see a wizard?” A sallow girl with close-set eyes and a discontented mouth fiddled with expensive lace covering thin and lustreless hair.

“Esquire D’Alsennin, may I make known Demoiselle Jentylle Tor Sauzet,” Esquire Den Ferrand said perfunctorily. “Either that or some charlatan. Either way, it’ll be more interesting than staying here.”

“My thanks, Esquire.” Gelaia pretended outrage. “I’ll convey your compliments on his entertainments to my Sieur.”

Den Ferrand grinned. “My gratitude, my lady.”

“Are we going or not?” demanded Meriel.

“Why not? I take it everyone’s served their Name as they were instructed over breakfast?” Gelaia asked archly.

As everyone nodded, Gelaia led them confidently out of the maze. Outside, she summoned various lackeys with a wave of her fan, dispatching them with messages for her parents, her Sieur and concise instructions for the stableyard. Den Ferrand stepped aside to talk briefly to someone resemblance suggested was an older brother while Den Brennain made a bow to an elegant lady who soon sent him back with an unconcerned smile.

“I had better let Esquire Camarl know I am leaving,” Temar said suddenly.

“I’ve sent word we’re going out together.” Gelaia took his arm with a proprietorial air. Temar managed to smile with apparent pleasure, even when he caught an avid glance from Jenty not meant for him.

Den Murivance was plainly a House with horses and grooms to spare, Temar decided, seeing two waiting carriages with polished portcullis badges on livery and harness as they reached the gatehouse. Gelaia organised everyone with casual adroitness and Temar found himself riding with her, Orilan, Meriel and Den Ferrand.

“Where are you committed this evening?” Orilan turned her back on the crowded streets.

“Tor Sauzet,” Den Ferrand replied promptly. “And you?”

“Den Gannael. Tell me, is it true Den Rannion’s designate spoke to Tor Sauzet about Jenty’s prospects?” Orilan asked.

“Oh, I heard that!” Meriel sat forward eagerly. “Which Esquire was proposed?”

Temar sat in silence as the others speculated good-humouredly. Let them chatter; they’d done what he needed after all. But his friend Vahil Den Rannion wouldn’t have given Jenty a second glance, he thought. No wonder the plain-faced beanpole was envious of Gelaia; no one would ever make her Maitresse of a House. He watched Gelaia laughing and had to admit she was certainly pretty, golden skin warmed by a delicate blush, lips a tempting red. Her long black hair was woven round her head in a luxurious array of curls, a few delicate strands falling to her shoulders. Temar covertly studied the swell of her bosom above a narrow waist and speculated on what kind of legs her flurry of petticoats might hide. Was it time to serve Kel Ar’Ayen by taking his grandsire’s advice, along with an attractive, well-connected bride who knew every turn around these latterday social circles? That would show Guinalle she wasn’t the only berry on the bush.

“Are we there?” Gelaia broke off a convoluted anecdote as the carriage slowed and then stopped, a footman ready to open the door.

Den Brennain, Jenty and the others were spilling out of the coach behind them as Temar stepped down, offering a hand to Gelaia and Orilan.

“Let’s see what there is to see.” Gelaia fanned herself, feathers today still white. “Lemael, wait for us in Banault Yard.” The coaches rattled away obediently.

“Shall we stand over there?” Temar pointed to the steps of the desperately old-fashioned Vintner’s Exchange, where a noticeable knot of nobility were laughing.

“We’re not the only ones taking a break before the evening’s duties,” remarked Den Ferrand with a grin.

“Only one more day of Festival to go,” said Orilan cheerfully. “It’s the Emperor’s dance tomorrow. No one talks business, betrothal or anything serious there,” she added in an undertone to Temar.

He smiled absently at her as he scanned the crowd. With people of all ranks and none pressing close, it was impossible to see very far.

“It’s just a rope trick.” Meriel sounded bitterly disappointed. Temar stopped searching the crowd to follow her pointing finger. They all saw a thin cable strung from a balcony on the front of the Vintners’ Exchange up to the looming bulk of the old city walls.

“At that angle?” Den Ferrand sounded doubtful. “I’ve never seen a rope walker go downhill.”

“I’m keeping my coin until I see something worthwhile.” Jenty clamped a bony hand on the silver mesh and emerald purse chained at her waist.

“When’s something going to happen?” Den Brennain wondered.

“I will go and enquire,” Temar said obligingly. He went down the steps, heading for a doorway where several people were taking advantage of a mounting block to get a better view. “Hello Allin. I got your note.”

“Temar! I’d almost given up on you.” The mage looked up at him with uncomplicated pleasure. “Are you playing truant?”

Temar laughed. “I persuaded a whole handful to come with me. I am relying on them to protect me from Camarl’s wrath.”

“Good day to you, Esquire.” Velindre nodded a greeting.

“So, Allin—”

Velindre smiled as Temar broke off. “She showed me your letter last night, and in any case Planir bespoke me, to let us know what had happened.”

“Can you help find these thieves?” demanded Temar.

Velindre grimaced. “Not with any degree of certainty. Still, once we’re done here I’ll come back with you and we’ll see what can be done.”

“Is this man truly a mage?” Temar looked up at the empty parapet on the far side of the broad street.

“I haven’t been able to meet him to find out.” Velindre frowned. “His handbills are nicely ambiguous, so he could just be some Festival faker willing to risk his neck. If he is a wizard, he’s canny enough to conceal his abilities sufficiently to keep people guessing.”

“Then those who want to believe can, and those who feel threatened can just dismiss him as a trickster,” Allin explained, and Temar realised his confusion must have shown on his face.

Velindre nodded. “And if he’s shrewd enough to work that out, he could be a useful man to ask about Tormalin opinions of magic”

A flurry of activity on the old city walls hushed the crowd to a murmur of anticipation. Temar looked round to see Gelaia staring impatiently at him. “I had better get back.” He worked his way to the Exchange steps as every face gazed up at the lofty rampart.

“Look!” Meriel squeaked, clutching at Den Ferrand’s arm. A man had climbed up on the parapet and was strapping something to his chest.

“What’s he doing?” Den Ferrand squinted up at the man silhouetted against the bright sky.

“He’s going to lie on it,” said Den Brennain slowly.

The man lowered himself slowly forwards, taking first one hand then the other off the rope. His feet still rested on the stonework of the wall but his body reached out over the emptiness supported only by the thin strand.

“That’s some balancing act,” said Den Ferrand.

Gelaia took Temar’s arm, face pale.

“Sliding down a rope is hardly flying,” objected Jenta, sounding pleasantly frightened.

The murmur of anticipation rose to a new pitch as blue-grey smoke appeared around the distant figure.

“Magelight!” exclaimed Meriel.

Hardly, thought Temar dubiously. He waited impatiently for the man to do his tricks, whatever they might be. Once Velindre was satisfied the man was no mage, she’d be free to help him search for the Kellarin artefacts.

The crowd exclaimed with fear and delight as the man launched himself off the walls, smoke still pouring from his outstretched hands, now more white than blue. The wide street was hushed as the would-be wizard gathered speed. A few nervous cries were hastily stifled but consternation swelled as everyone saw the man wobbling precariously.

The sliding figure slowed, tilted and the man slipped sideways. Gelaia screamed, shrill in Temar’s ear along with every other woman in the rapt crowd as the man just managed to grab the rope, left hanging from both hands. Incoherent cries went up on all sides as the crowd beneath the hanging figure melted away.

“Someone should get a ladder.” Den Brennain looked around wildly.

“A blanket, a canvas, something to catch him,” Den Ferrand hugged Meriel, who was frozen in horrified fascination.

“Those cobbles will be the death of him if he falls,” Temar agreed in the same breath.

From the turmoil below other people were trying to put the same ideas forward but the press of bodies was hampering everyone. High above, the man was desperately trying to swing one leg over the rope. An anguished gasp burst from every throat as he failed, and worse, let go with one hand. Temar felt his heart stand still until the showman managed to regain his grip.

“Wait here.” He shook off Gelaia and pushed his way through the dithering crowd to the doorway. Allin was ashen, biting a thumbnail. Velindre in contrast looked as composed as ever, a little pity shading the contempt in her eyes.

“Can you get him down?” demanded Temar.

Velindre looked sardonically at him. “The man claimed magical arts. Let him save himself.”

“You’ll stand by and let him die?” Temar stared at Velindre in disbelief.

“He doubtless knew the risks.” Velindre sounded faintly regretful.

“You have the means to save him! In the name of all that is holy—”

“He’s no reason to expect our help.” Velindre’s stony eyes froze Temar’s rebukes. “If we weren’t here, he’d have no hope beyond his own efforts, so what’s the difference?”

“That fall will kill him!”

As Temar spoke screams erupted on all sides. Temar felt sick to his stomach, seeing the man falling, arms and legs flailing in futile terror. In the instant before anguish closed Temar’s eyes, a flurry of iridescent azure light tangled round the plummeting figure, slowing his descent, toppling the hapless man over and over before he hit the cobbles with a crunch that made the entire crowd wince. A surge towards the man halted as soon as it began, people drawing away from the crumpled figure. As the circle widened, Temar saw the showman lying in a fading pool of radiance that rivalled the blue of the sky above.

“Who did that?” Velindre was keenly curious.

“How badly’s that poor man hurt?” countered Allin robustly. “Come on.”

She tried to force a path through the close-packed crowd but lacked both strength and height to make an impression.

“Clear the way!” Whether it was Temar’s unexpected accents or just obedience to noble command, he couldn’t tell, but at least the people moved. As he ushered Allin through to the wounded man, Temar saw another familiar figure being forced forward as the crowd retreated behind him.

“Casuel?”

“Curse the man for a fool!” The wizard’s dark eyes were wide, almost black against his shocked pallor. “I couldn’t let him die.”

Allin knelt, heedless of the dust and litter. “He’s broken both his legs.” Her hands hovered over a sort of wooden breastplate the man wore, with a deep central groove that Temar realised must have guided the rope. “We need a surgeon. I don’t want to take this off until a surgeon has checked his ribs.” The showman’s head lolled to one side, bruises already darkening beneath his tanned skin.

“Your control was a little lacking, Cas,” Velindre remarked, arms folded as she looked in, entirely composed.

“I did my best. It’s not my element,” said Casuel defensively. “You didn’t lift a finger so you can hardly criticise!” His anger rang loudly through the tense silence.

“That’s D’Olbriot’s mage.” Temar heard a frightened voice behind him start a low current of speculation.

“You get away from him! You get away from him!” A frantic girl was shoving murmuring onlookers aside. An older woman followed with a narrow-faced man dragging a wicker basket behind him. All three wore cheerful motley that mocked their dismay.

“Trebal!” the girl shrieked hysterically. She would have swept the unconscious man into her arms but Allin grabbed her shoulders, forcing her back.

“Move him now and you could kill him.” The girl stared at her in blank incomprehension. “We need a surgeon to splint his legs, to feel what other bones may be broken.”

“And who are you to say so?” the older woman demanded, twisting a gaily coloured kerchief in her work-knotted hands.

“We are mages of Hadrumal, my good lady,” said Casuel with a miserably inadequate attempt at authority. Repetition carried his words away like ripples through a pond.

“What have you done to him?” the girl screamed, trying to break free of Allin’s unexpectedly firm grip.

“Saved him from certain death!” Casuel replied indignantly.

“Didn’t do a very good job,” spat the older woman, kneeling and running gentle hands over the senseless body.

“You would rather he had died?” Temar asked angrily.

The woman looked up, face graven with the marks of a hard life. “This is all your fault, you and this wizard.”

“What?” Temar and Casuel spoke in the same breath.

“You’re D’Alsennin, aren’t you?” The man stepped forward. “You were raised from the dead by some old sorcery.”

A shudder of consternation ran through the crowd. Temar tried for a reassuring smile. “No one was dead, we merely slept beneath enchantments.”

“You used your magics against Trebal, I reckon.” The man stepped close, hatchet face cunning. “That’s what made him fall.”

“He’s only a hedge wizard, no threat to anyone.” The woman gestured at the motionless Trebal, speaking to the crowd. “But mages don’t like to see rivals, do they? Not mages from Hadrumal.”

“No, that’s not true—” Growing unease made the hairs on the back of Temar’s neck prickle.

“That charlatan’s no more mage than a stick of wood,” Casuel objected heatedly.

The man stared at Temar. “Your sorceries ruined his show, that fall could have him crippled or dead. Who’s going to keep his wife and family in bread?”

The girl looked up, face vacant in grief. The older woman silenced her with a hand on one shoulder, fleshless fingers digging in hard.

“Does the House of D’Alsennin make recompense?” The man raised his voice to carry clear to the Spring Gate and to the steps of the Vintner’s Exchange.

The crowd rustled with expectation as the older woman fell to her knees, wailing and holding her head in her hands. “How will we eat? We’ll be turned out, all of us, the children, the baby, we’ll be begging in the gutters.”

Temar wondered if anyone else noticed the pause before the girl joined the lamentations, albeit with slightly less expertise. “This is ridiculous!”

By some quirk of ill fate, he spoke just as the weeping women paused to draw breath, his words loud in the silence. Affront stirred the crowd to new whispers.

“I think we should leave.” Velindre sounded calm enough but Temar could see her concern. “Shall I clear a path?”

“No!” Temar didn’t doubt the blonde mage could do it but he already had enough to explain to Camarl. He looked back at the Vintner’s Exchange. “Aedral mar nidralae, Gelaia,” he murmured under his breath. “Gelaia, can you hear me?” He squinted over the heads of the crowd, seeing a sudden stir convulse the noble group. “No, forgive me, you cannot reply. Please can you summon a coach to get us out of here?” He bowed curtly to the belligerent man. “We will be on our way. You had best come with us, Master Casuel.”

“I can’t,” protested the mage in confusion. “You set me to watch Den Thasnet.”

“But the man’s injured,” objected Allin.

“And he’s their responsibility.” Velindre nodded at the wailing women.

“You don’t get out of it so easy, you cold-eyed bitch. Not when you’re the ones made him fall!” The man whirled round, hands outstretched, appealing to the crowd. “Are you going to let them get away with this?”

“Come on, Allin.” Temar forced her gently to her feet with a hand under her elbow. “If they will not take your help, you cannot force it on them.”

She shut her mouth in a mutinous line but drew close to Temar under the hostile gazes from all sides. Velindre continued surveying the mob with a regally icy gaze while Casuel knotted nervous hands together, looking all around. Temar wondered what he was looking for, but before he could ask the man in motley began ranting at them with fresh anger.

“Got nothing to say for yourself? Leave a man dying in the dirt and don’t even open your purse for his widow and orphans?”

Temar ignored the taunts, looking over to the Vintner’s Exchange, wondering how long it would take for Gelaia to summon a coach for them. She had better hurry, he thought nervously as he was jostled from behind. The restive crowd was drawing in, swayed by the charade being played out by the motley trio.

“Keep your eye on that man in brown, with grey hair, next to the woman in yellow.” Casuel moved to Temar’s side, face intent.

“Why?” Temar found the man after a few moments.

“He seems to have some hold over our young friend,” the mage hissed urgently. “They met earlier and that one was telling our friend what to do.”

Temar acknowledged Casuel with a nod and smiled reassurance he didn’t quite feel at Allin.

“What are you whispering?” demanded the sharp-faced man. “What are you planning?”

The older woman looked up from her repetitive lamentations, dry eyes suspicious. “You don’t leave here without paying us something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Casuel coldly. “You owe me that wretch’s life!”

“Which will be lost,, if you don’t get a surgeon to him,” cried Allin.

“Shut your mouth, whore,” spat the thin-faced man.

“Shut your own before I break your teeth,” retorted Temar without thinking. Hooves clattered on the cobbles behind him and he sighed with relief. The crowd shifted, the mood growing uglier as the coachman’s hoarse shouts urged them out of the way, the brassy note of the horn sounding above rising abuse. When the horses appeared between milling figures, the animals were tossing their heads, eyes rimmed white with panic.

“As quick as you like, Esquire,” the coachman puffed, reins wrapped painfully tight round reddened hands.

Temar found himself hampered by Allin clinging to him and Casuel managing to move precisely in his way every time he took a step. With people trying to leave as well as stubbornly holding their ground, getting to the coach was impossible.

“I’ve had quite enough of this.” Even Velindre’s cool voice cracked a little. A wind appeared from nowhere, no passing summer gust but a sustained, strengthening breeze. People blinked as scraps of straw whirled up around their feet. Temar closed suddenly stinging eyes but opened them again as he heard a horse’s indignant whinnying beside him. A space had cleared all around the coach, everyone retreating from something halfway between summer haze and a dust devil, dancing on a barely visible point of light.

“You see, Cas?” Velindre smiled “That’s control.”

The mage was too busy scrambling into the coach to answer. Temar ushered Velindre inside, then Allin, consternation on her face. “They’re not trying to move him, are they?”

“My dear girl, it is hardly our concern,” Temar said, exasperated. It was uncomfortably crowded inside the coach, since Gelaia had brought both Den Brennain and Den Ferrand.

“Please, do sit here.” Den Brennain tried to stand up to allow Allin his seat but fell back as the coach picked up speed.

Casuel forced his way through the window. “I must see where that man in brown goes.”

“Who?” Den Ferrand looked out at the fast dissipating mob.

“There, next to Den Rannion’s third son.” Casuel clenched his fists in frustration as the coach turned away up a road to the higher ground.

“That was Malafy Skern, wasn’t it?” Den Ferrand looked to Den Brennain for confirmation.

The younger man twisted awkwardly to look before a building blocked his view. “That’s right.”

“Who is he and how do you know him?” Temar tried to make his question no more than idle chat.

“He was personal man to the last Sieur Tor Bezaemar,” Den Ferrand replied.

“The man who knew everything and everyone,” Den Brennain laughed. “That’s what they called him, but he was pensioned off a few seasons ago.”

“Then what—” Casuel subsided beneath a stern look from Temar.

“So who is the mage among you?” Gelaia’s knuckles were pale as she gripped the spinel-set handle of her fan.

“Me.”

“I am.”

“I have that honour.” Casuel’s stiff words fell into stunned silence as Gelaia, Den Ferrand and Den Brennain all tried to edge together, finding themselves unexpectedly surrounded by wizards.

“Three of you.” Gelaia fanned herself rapidly. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“May I make known Velindre Ychane, Allin Mere and Casuel D’Evoir.” Temar bowed to all in turn.

“My duty to you all.” Retreating behind formality seemed to reassure Gelaia a little.

“Our thanks to you, my lady.” Velindre’s smile combined gratitude with considerable charm. “You rescued us from an ugly situation.”

Temar could see both Den Ferrand and Den Brennain bursting with curiosity, but before either could frame a question Velindre stood to knock abruptly on the coach roof. “We needn’t trespass on your hospitality any further. Our lodgings aren’t far and Casuel can escort us.”

He looked as if that was the last thing he wanted to do, but as the coach drew to a smooth halt Den Ferrand and Den Brennain both moved to let him out, smiles politely expectant. Casuel rose to his feet with ill grace, nearly falling over the footman hastily opening the door and letting down the step.

Gelaia looked out of her window. “The other coach is behind us. You two had best see to your sisters, hadn’t you?”

Den Ferrand and Den Brennain both looked as if they would have liked to stay but shared a rueful shrug and followed Velindre out of the coach.

“Call on me later.” Temar caught at Allin’s arm. She nodded, blushing a little as both young noblemen offered her their assistance getting out of the vehicle.

The door closed smartly and the coach resumed its journey. “Are we going back to your residence?” Temar asked.

Gelaia nodded. “I think you’d prefer to tell Esquire Camarl your version of the truth before rumour drops some tattered gossip at his feet.”

“It was hardly my fault. It just all got somewhat out of hand.” Temar disliked the note of childish complaint he heard in his words.

Gelaia was fanning herself again, gripping the handle like a weapon. “If the would-be flunkey with the filthy boots is D’Olbriot’s pet mage, who’s yours? One of the women? The dumpy one?”

Temar tried to identify the emotion threaded through her words, but beyond deciding it wasn’t jealousy he failed. “Neither. I mean, you cannot consider a mage any kind of servant.”

“Which one used magic on me?” Gelaia pulled a loose feather from her fan with a sharp tug.

Temar bit his lip. “I beg your pardon, but that was me.”

Gelaia looked startled. “No one told me you were a mage!”

“I am no wizard.” Temar shook his head. “I simply have a certain facility with minor aetheric enchantments.”

Gelaia looked down at her lap, her hands reducing the stray feather to shreds. She brushed at the fluff with a jerky hand but it clung obstinately to the silk.

Temar searched for something to say. “Do you know this Malafy Skern?”

Gelaia visibly pulled herself together. “Indeed. What of him?”

“You know these arguments persecuting D’Olbriot before the Emperor?” Temar said carefully. “The man seems somehow involved, along with Firon Den Thasnet.”

“It’s entirely possible. Skern always got all the gossip and he knows everyone’s weak points. Firon has got plenty of those, after all.” The uncertainty in Gelaia’s eyes was fading as she found herself on familiar ground.

“Whom does this Skern answer to?” Temar asked.

“The Relict Tor Bezaemar, who else,” shrugged Gelaia. “Pensioned off or not.”

Temar frowned. “But she wishes us nothing but good. She has been helping Avila, making introductions, free with her advice.”

“I’m sure she has.” Gelaia laughed without humour. “You’re the next best thing to a Sieur; she’ll be sweetness from sunrise to sunset as far as you’re concerned.”

“You think otherwise?” hazarded Temar.

“Oh she’s not inclined to cultivate we lesser sprigs of the family trees. She clips us well back if she gets a chance.” Gelaia made a visible effort to seal her lips.

“Go on,” Temar prompted.

“Swear on all that’s holy you’ll not tell?” Gelaia leaned forward, eyes hard.

“May Poldrion loose his demons on me if I break faith.” Temar swore fervently.

“Last summer, Jenty and Kreve Tor Bezaemar got quite fond. He’s the Sieur’s second son and the one being groomed as Designate. That would have been an excellent match for Jenty, no question, but the Relict has other plans for her precious grandson. So she dropped a few hints but Jenty wouldn’t take them, you know what she’s like. Well, take my word for it. Anyway, after the Relict went to her mother, accused her of trying to get Kreve to bed her and get him married that way, Jenty told the old bitch to keep to her kennel.”

Temar winced at the anger in Gelaia’s words. “Which was not wise?”

Gelaia paled and fear tightened her voice. “A few days later, Jenty’s maid was snatched off the Graceway. She was raped in some cellar and dumped in front of the residence at dusk. Now the sworn men on the gate brought her inside before anyone saw, and everyone swore silence, for the girl’s sake as much as anything. But next time Jenty met the Relict, the old dragon was full of sympathy. How could she know, when Jenty had done everything she could to make sure no word got out? Then the Relict just happened to mention, quite in passing, that such a dreadful thing might happen to any young woman if her luck ran out. Take my word for it, that dear old lady has more venom than a pit full of snakes if she’s crossed.”

Temar sat back, not knowing what to say. Would Camarl believe any of this? What did it mean for Kel Ar’Ayen? Did this bring them any closer to recovering the stolen artefacts?

The D’Olbriot Residence Gatehouse, Summer Solstice Festival, Fourth Day, Evening

Ryshad!”

I turned to see Dalmit hailing me, Tor Kanselin’s man.

“You look like a watchdog on a short chain!” he joked, squinting into the sinking sun.

I smiled without replying. It was fair comment though; I’d been pacing up and down in front of the residence since the bell tower had struck nine chimes and a running stationer who’d tried to interest me in his quills, inks and papers had certainly been mercilessly snapped at. The sworn men were studiously avoiding my eye, and given the way I’d drilled their duty into them through the heat of the day I couldn’t blame them. Stoll was sitting inside the watch room, drawing up a roster with a fine display of attention to detail and disdain for my style of bucking up the recognised. I ignored him; it wasn’t my fault the Sieur’s orders had put his nose out of joint. I’d obeyed those orders, to the full, and now I was waiting for the ten chimes that would see me off watch. Then I’d have to decide whether or not to risk Charoleia’s invitation.

“You’ve slipped your leash, have you?” I walked to meet Dalmit beneath a tall tree. “Have you got time for a glass?”

“I’m on guard tonight.” He shook his head. “Thanks all the same, but I’ll be getting back.”

“What did you find out?” I got straight to the point. “And what do I owe you?”

“A Crown or so should cover it,” he shrugged. “Turns out Tor Bezaemar men passed on that bill of challenge to Jord and Lovis both. Different men, one of the sworn and a proven in from Bremilayne, but they were both spinning the same yarn about knowing for certain you weren’t fit, saying you’re carrying some injury from being taken for a slave last year.”

“And why were they passing this on?” I wondered sarcastically.

“No surprise there.” Dalmit grinned. “Both of them were offering to make a wager if Jord or Lovis would put up half the stake.”

“Going shares in the winnings.” I nodded. We’re not allowed to wager on ourselves in promotion challenges, but there are always ways round such rules.

“So, does that mean anything to you?” Dalmit asked guilelessly.

“Could be something, could be nothing,” I said casually. “It’s worth two Crowns at least, and if anything comes of it I’ll let you know.” I wasn’t going to quibble over coppers and if I could fit this piece into any larger pattern it would do no harm to let Dalmit know which way the wind was veering. “Do you want the coin now?” I gestured up to my window.

Dalmit shook his head. “Tomorrow’s soon enough. I’ve nowhere to spend it tonight, have I?” He waved an informal farewell and began walking back towards Tor Kanselin.

As he did so a coach passed him, D’Olbriot’s insignia on the door panel. I drew myself up smartly with all the other men on watch. The footman jumped down with alacrity but Esquire Camarl was already opening the door, getting down almost before the footman had the step unfolded. The Esquire barely turned his head to address me. “Have my uncles all arrived by now?”

“Yes, Esquire,” I bowed. “They’re with the Sieur.”

Camarl nodded and walked rapidly towards the residence, round face uncharacteristically hard.

I looked at Temar, who was looking a little shame-faced, unbuttoning his formal coat by way of pretext to let Camarl get ahead of him.

“What did you do?” I asked. “Step on some girl’s hem and bring her skirts down round her ankles?”

Temar laughed. “That would not have been so bad.” He looked meaningfully at me. “Shall we take a glass of wine?”

“Upstairs?” I led him through the watch room, ignoring the questioning look Stoll shot me behind Temar’s back.

“Do you really want wine?” I ushered him into the narrow room that was a privilege of my new rank. “I’ll have to send one of the lads if you do.”

Temar shook his head as he sat on the bed. “Not on my account.”

“So what’s so urgent? Why’s Esquire Camarl crosser than an ass with a wasp up his tail?” I took the stool by the window, scratching absently at the pinpricks left by the stitches in my arm.

“I talked Gelaia and some others into going to see some supposed mage doing tricks.” Temar looked unrepentant.

“The Sieur certainly wants you and Gelaia to be friends, if not more.” I frowned. “I don’t necessarily see the harm; plenty of nobles go to see such things.”

“My only interest was meeting Allin there,” Temar explained frankly. “I had an answer from her this morning, saying she and Velindre would be watching this man’s display. I had no chance to tell you before we went to Den Murivance.” Temar scratched his head. “There was more than a little trouble. The man was no mage but some mountebank doing a spectacularly dangerous rope trick. He fell and Master Casuel had to save him.”

“Bad luck follows Cas like the reek on old fish.” I was puzzled. “What was he doing there?”

“In a moment.” Temar sighed. “Casuel plainly used magic to save the fellow from death, but the knaves with him immediately claimed it was Devoir’s wizardry had caused their own man to fail. They began demanding money, nigh on turning the crowd on us.”

“Did they recognise you?” I snorted as Temar nodded. “That kind never miss a trick?”

“Gelaia had to rescue us from the mob.” Temar sighed. “Camarl has been telling me all the way back what a meal the broadsheets and gossips will make of it.”

“D’Alsennin and D’Olbriot publicly tied to arrogant wizards hurling careless magic round the city?” I winced. “Perhaps, for a day or so, but today’s broadsheets are tomorrow’s privy paper, aren’t they? It’s the Emperor’s dance tomorrow, and most of the Houses will be opening their gates to their tenants and the commonalty. Last day of Festival always turns up something to tempt the scandalmongers, so I don’t suppose you’ll be the tastiest tittle-tattle for long.” I tried to sound encouraging.

“I hope so.” Temar sounded glum.

“Was Gelaia cross?” Had that pretty face worked its charm on Temar’s susceptibilities?

“More unnerved than cross.” Temar leaned back against the wall. “I had to use Artifice to make Gelaia hear me and then Velindre used some magic of her own to clear a path through the crowd. I think Gelaia suspects any alliance with D’Alsennin will leave her hemmed in by sorcery on all sides.” He sounded more sarcastic than regretful so at least I didn’t think he’d be breaking his heart over Gelaia.

A question prodded me. “Did you get a chance to ask Allin or Velindre if they could help?”

“It seems not, sadly.” Temar sighed.

As he spoke ten chimes began sounding above us, the signal for the end of the day. I rose to my feet. “Then if you’ll excuse me I’ll go and see this friend of Livak’s, the one with a finger on the darker pulses of our fair city. I might just learn something useful.”

Temar pushed himself up. “Let me get my sword.”

“Oh no,” I disagreed. “You’re committed to dine with Den Castevin.”

“To what purpose?” Temar’s lip curled. “Esquire Camarl will be talking, dealing, explaining. All I will do is to smile, look pleasant and make polite conversation.”

“Which reassures the nobility that they’re being asked to deal with one of their own in Kellarin,” I pointed out. “Proving you’re not some grubby-handed mercenary or worse. Not turning up is an insult you don’t want to give lightly.”

“I would not know any Den Castevin if I tripped over one in the street.” Emotion clipped Temar’s words. “The people whose lives depend on those artefacts are my friends, my tenants, my responsibility.”

“Which means they need you to look after their longer-term interests by not giving unnecessary offence.” I ushered him down the stairs again.

Temar glanced at the steps to the cellars as we walked through the watch room. “Did Avila learn anything more from the thief?”

“She hasn’t had a chance to try. As soon as she came out of the library Lady Channis whisked her away for a full day’s engagements with Tor Arrial.” I tried to hide my relief; I still didn’t think I could stand and watch a man undergoing such assault. “Then they were going on to Tor Bezaemar, for tisanes with the Relict before coming back here to change for dinner.”

“Dirindal?” Temar’s eyes were icily intent.

“You sound like you smell rats in the granary,” I commented quietly.

“What do you know of Tor Bezaemar?” Temar demanded, drawing a little way into the gardens, beyond the curious ears in the gate arch. “Has that House any reason to bear a grudge against D’Olbriot?”

“You want Cas for this, not me.” I rubbed a hand round the back of my neck. “It’s no secret Tor Bezaemar took losing the Imperial throne hard, but that was nigh on a generation ago. Messire backed Tadriol the Prudent from the first, I remember that.” I thought back to my early days in D’Olbriot’s service. “There was some talk about Sarens Tor Bezaemar putting himself forward, but with so many Names following D’Olbriot’s lead it never came to anything.”

“Sarens was the Relict’s husband?”

“The Sieur as was,” I confirmed.

Temar scowled. “The reason Casuel was on hand to save the rope trickster was he had followed Firon Den Thasnet only to see him meet a man whom Gelaia tells me still answers to Dirindal, for all he has been pensioned off. Casuel was following this man who was talking to some of the other nobles come for the spectacle.”

“Anyone in particular?” I asked, my own hackles rising in response to Temar’s tension.

“Den Rannion’s third son, for one.” Temar spat.

“You didn’t arouse any suspicion?” I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth.

“Hardly,” said Temar scornfully. “I can ask all the stupid questions I want; everyone expects me to be ignorant of everything and everyone. But Saedrin be my witness, I swear this man is Dirindal’s ears and eyes.”

“And he was seen with Firon Den Thasnet?” Perhaps there was a larger pattern to fit Dalmit’s seemingly innocent news. “It could still be nothing, Temar. We’d best wait until we can get a full tale from Casuel. Where is he?”

“Velindre wanted him.” Temar dismissed the mage with a gesture. “What if Tor Bezaemar are part of this hostility? Gelaia was telling me the charming Relict can show a very different face if she is crossed, even vicious if it serves her turn.”

“How so?” I asked.

Temar shook his head. “It is another’s secret. I swore I would not tell.”

I opened my mouth and then shut it again. Trying to get Temar to break his word belittled us both. “Did you tell Esquire Camarl about this? Is there any way we can send word to warn Demoiselle Avila?”

“We can let her know to be on her guard as soon as she returns.” Temar looked through the postern at the long shadows and the splendid sunset beyond. “She cannot be much longer, she is due to dine with Den Castevin with me.”

“I wonder if she learned anything useful from Guinalle. You can tell me when I get back.” I was ready to go, Charoleia’s letter tucked in the breast of my jerkin, my sword waiting in the gatehouse.

“Avila can make my excuses to Den Castevin—” Temar began.

“Messire will have my hide—”

“Ryshad!” Stolley was beckoning by the postern, a figure beyond him indistinct against the darkening rose and gold of the sky.

I hurried over. “Yes?”

“Message for you.” Stolley moved aside to let the newcomer enter. It was Eadit, Charoleia’s Lescari-bred lad.

I picked up my sword from its peg inside the watch room door. “Outside.” We stepped out through the gate to lose ourselves in the shadows under the trees. Temar came too, but short of slamming the postern in his face I couldn’t think of a way to stop him.

“I thought I was to call on your mistress?” I queried Eadit.

“Some news came that changed her plans.” His eyes sparkled. “I’ll take you to her.”

“Is this something to do with the matter I raised with her this morning?” I wasn’t sure how much Charoleia was in the habit of confiding to this boy.

He grinned. “She’s run your quarry to ground for you and she’s watching the earth as we speak.”

“Then I most assuredly will come with you,” Temar insisted.

“No,” I told him, exasperated.

“I come with you or I follow you,” he told me bluntly. “Or will you tell Master Stolley to chain me alongside the thief? Nothing less will stop me!”

“It’d serve you right if I did,” I said grimly. But then I’d have to explain to Stoll where I was going and why Temar couldn’t come too. Then I’d have Stoll rousing half the barracks to back me. He wouldn’t miss a chance to succeed where Naer had failed and redeem himself in the Sieur’s eyes.

“We should go,” Eadit said, looking uncertainly between us.

And bringing half a Cohort down on her wouldn’t endear me to Charoleia either, not when she’d been so insistent on the need for discretion. Stoll would certainly want to know where I’d got my information, him and Messire.

“All right, you can come,” I told Temar. “Go and get a sword from Stolley. Look haughty enough so he won’t ask you why you want it. But you do exactly as I say, you hear? If that means hiding under a barrel until all the fighting stops, you do it, understand me?”

“Of course.” He was as eager as a child promised an evening at the puppet shows.

“The Sieur’ll wipe that smile off your face,” I warned him. “He’ll be furious when we own up to this.”

“We had best make sure we have something to show for it,” Temar replied. “Success can gild the most brazen act, after all.”

“I don’t know about that,” I muttered as I watched him go back to the gatehouse. As soon as he reappeared we followed Eadit down the road.

He paused by the conduit house. “Got your purse, chosen man?”

As I nodded, he flagged down a hireling gig and we all climbed in. “Where to?”

“The shrine to Drianon down this end of the Habbitrot,” Eadit told the driver.

“Is that not—”

Eadit shot Temar an angry look and I silenced him with a sharp nudge. We all sat mute and expectant as the gig took us to that uncomfortable quarter between the southern docks and the lowest of the springs. A great swathe of the city is given over to making cloth hereabouts, dyeing it, printing it, cutting and sewing. Over to the east, where the land begins to rise again, pattern drawers and silk ribbon weavers live in comfort and prosperity. Down in the hollow where damp leaches up from hidden streams, women go blind knitting coarse stockings by firelight while their men search the refuse of the rich, knifing each other over bones to sell for bookbinders’ glue or rag for the paper mills. The Habbitrot is the main road cutting through the squalor and I noted the Valiant Flag as we passed. Quite some distance past, Eadit turned to our driver. “Anywhere here, thanks.”

I paid the man off and we watched him whip his horse into a brisk trot to get them both back to safer streets unmolested.

“Down here.” Eadit led us down a rutted lane, the summer-parched earth beaten hard underfoot, which was one blessing. Identical row houses faced each other, doors and windows cramped together beneath an unbroken roof ridge, all built many generations since by landowners eager to cram as many households as possible on to the smallest piece of land.

The lad moved confidently, gaze flickering constantly from side to side, lingering on any shadow that might conceal an unexpected threat.

“Parnilesse or Carluse?” I asked him suddenly. That was the most recent fighting that would have offered a lad like him the chance to serve with a mercenary corps.

“Parnilesse, up near the Draximal border. Where my people are from.” Disillusion clouded Eadit’s eyes so I didn’t pursue the matter. As long as I was sure he knew which end of a sword has a point, I was content. He turned into an irregular yard between two terraces, the gates open and ready.

“Good evening, Ryshad.” Charoleia was sitting in a shiny gig, an elegant bay horse idly chewing in its nosebag.

My blood ran cold at the thought of such a beauty waiting alone out here, with a horse worth more coin than the wretches round here would handle in a lifetime. Then I remembered how Livak had admired Charoleia’s ability to take care of herself, and I’d met proven men more apt to need rescuing than my beloved. “I thought I was to call on you.”

“I decided to save time.” She tilted her head. “There’s chatter running all along the gutters about this theft, given your Sieur’s going to stretch the man’s neck on the strength of it. The braver scum are egging each other on to try stealing a little magical power for themselves, the cowards just want to get their hands on the gold and melt everything down.”

Temar made a retching sound beside me.

“Fortunately, none of them know where to go sniffing for it, as yet.” Charoleia gestured casually with her whip. “I, on the other hand, do. It’s all a matter of knowing whom to ask for what.” Her voice turned serious. “When this is done, you’ll both owe me, and I don’t mean just a card to the Emperor’s dance, Ryshad.”

“This is my responsibility.” Temar was pale beneath the lesser moon still facing down her slowly waxing sister.

“I answer for my own debts.” I tried not to contradict him too flatly.

“Glad to hear it,” Charoleia said dryly. “That’s the house where your man’s hiding.” She pointed some way down the narrow, foetid street.

“How do we know he’s still in there?” I looked at the shuttered house, a candle glowing in a garret the only light. “I wonder who owns this district, come to that.”

Temar whirled round as a door opened behind him, his sword rasping in its sheath. Charoleia’s maid Arashil pressed back against the doorpost, hands clasped to her cheeks, and I swallowed an oath.

“Is our friend still at home?” Charoleia enquired.

Arashil nodded rapidly.

“Has he gone out at all today?”

“Has anyone left carrying anything?”

Temar’s urgent question followed hard on the heels of my own. Arashil shook her head to both, evidently a woman of few words.

“We’d hardly have brought you here if the man had gone elsewhere.” Charoleia’s rebuke was mild but unmistakable. “A gang of luggage thieves live in the lower half of the house. They’re gone for an evening’s drinking, but I don’t know how long you’ll have before they come back.”

Temar moved towards the gate but Charoleia barred his way with her whip. “Let Eadit unlock the door first.”

The Lescari-bred lad winked at Temar before sauntering idly out of the yard, head back and whistling. As he drew level with the house we were watching, he stopped, eased his breeches and stepped into the doorway. It was a quiet night hereabouts and we all heard the trickling sound.

I glanced at Charoleia as the noise stopped and Eadit remained in the entrance. “How good is he?”

“Good enough.” She sounded confident. “Livak taught him.”

I stared into the darkness. Charoleia presumably bought letters or any memoranda recovered by these thieves who cut chests and coffers from any carriage slowing long enough to be robbed. For all her beauty, Charoleia was deeply mired in this nether world of dishonesty, just as Livak had been for so long.

“There he goes.” Temar gripped my arm. We watched Eadit walk casually down the street until he turned into an alley.

“We cannot leave you ladies here unprotected,” Temar said with sudden concern.

“He’ll be back soon enough. That ginnel comes around the back of here.” Charoleia pushed me. “Go on. The game’s all up if someone in there finds the door unlocked.”

I walked confidently out of the yard, hand on my sword hilt, Temar doing the same at my shoulder. As we walked openly up to the door I mimed a pull at the bell rope. After waiting a breath, I took a step back, hand raised as if greeting someone opening the door to us.

“What are you doing?” Temar whispered.

“Looking as if we’ve a right to be here. Get inside.”

The house seemed empty but had an expectant air, as if its rightful masters would be back at any moment. The door opened straight into a wide room, a simple curtain half pulled across an entrance to a filthy kitchen beyond. Pewter plates smeared with the scant remnants of a tripe and pease dinner were scattered across the greasy table, a few dry crusts of bread on the floor. The low fire was banked with small coal, ready to be stirred up to heat the battered kettle hanging above it.

“Up there?” Temar was already moving towards the rickety stair.

I nodded and touched my figure to my lips.

Temar walked carefully, weight on his toes, heavy boot heels making no noise on the bare wood. I followed, keeping a watchful eye first below and then on the upper rooms as we emerged on to a narrow landing. Two doors faced each other over a stained pallet heaped with filthy blankets. The place reeked of urine, sweat and decay, laths showing through the grey and crumbling plaster.

Temar looked a question at me. I chewed my lip, thinking. Ideally I’d want to know if anyone was in those rooms, but we might open the door on a man who’d fight or a woman who’d scream. Then our quarry in the garret would be instantly on his guard, whether or not this reeking place was in the habit of nightly fights. I took a slow breath and regretted it as the stink nearly made me cough. Shaking my head I gestured towards the sagging ceiling and drew my sword taking pains not to make a noise. Temar did the same, wielding a workaday blade not worth a hundredth of his heirloom sword.

Something halfway between a ladder and a stair ran up to the garret, turning back on itself to an open trapdoor. Temar climbed slowly up, ducking down as he reached the turn, hiding until the very last moment possible.

“What the—” As the man above swore in consternation, Temar sprang up the remaining stairs. I was after him, two and three steps at a time, into the garret and slamming down the door.

Temar had the thief up against the blind chimney breast rising up from the floors below, one hand gripping the man’s throat, the other holding up his sword in silent warning.

“The house is empty,” I said in low tones. “Start yelling and we’ll gut you.”

Temar reinforced my threat with a tighter grip and the man raised futile hands to his purpling face. He was older than me, wild curls retreating fast from temples and crown, face thin from a hungry life.

“Enough,” I warned Temar. We’d taken the man by surprise, but that wouldn’t last long and I didn’t want him fighting back any sooner than necessary. “Have you got him?”

“Like the rat he is.” Temar leaned all his weight into holding the man as I searched him rapidly for weapons. Knives at his belt and boots were easy enough to find, and thinking of Livak I also found them strapped to his forearms and one hanging from a thong round his neck. I slid all of them into a brimming chamber pot in the furthest corner of the room.

“Bring him here.” A broken-backed chair was piled high with unwashed clothes that this villain had never paid good coin for. I tossed them to the floor and Temar forced the man to sit. The shock was starting to wear off and he swung a kick at me, hands trying to break free of Temar. It was a valiant effort for a slightly built wretch, doubtless born and bred in these meagre streets. He’d probably have been scraping a living from hand to mouth until someone realised his stunted form was better suited than most for climbing in through narrow windows. That would have meant better eating, but nothing would restore his lost growth.

I slapped the thief hard across the face to stop his nonsense and found a belt among the litter of clothes. I bent back a little finger to distract him from his struggles, and, as he winced, had his hands tied behind his back. “Temar, see if the goods are here.”

Dismay flickered in the thiefs face as I was securing his legs to the chair but he didn’t betray any hiding place with any instinctive look, trying to spit at me instead. I slapped him for that insolence, not with all my strength but an open hand was enough to split his chapped lip. I stepped back and laid my own sword across his shoulder, smiling with all the menace I could muster.

“Here!” Temar was on his knees, dragging a leather bag out from under a rope and plank frame supporting an infested straw mattress.

The thief couldn’t hide his consternation. I snapped my fingers in his face. “Is that everything? Have you passed anything on?”

“No.” The man was looking from me to Temar, eyes always returning to the bag.

“I think all is here.” Temar sat back on his heels, unable to hide his relief and surprise. “That was easy.”

“It had better all be there.” I pressed the flat of my blade down hard and stared unblinking at the thief. I didn’t fancy trying to track down anything already lost, not if it meant more evenings in cess pits like this, not to mention a deepening debt to Charoleia. “And now we’ve got our goods back, we want to know who put you up to this.” We could spare just a little time to see if we could kill two birds with our stone.

The thief clamped obstinate lips tight shut. I set my sword down and drew gloves out of my pockets, putting them on with exaggerated care. “You’re going to tell me, you do realise that.” He was wearing a black velvet jerkin, the soiled pile rubbed bare across the shoulder. I ripped it down to pin his elbows to his sides. The man screwed his eyes shut, waiting, tense for the first blow. I obliged him with a smack around the ear, sending him rocking sideways. He grunted and recovered himself, opening his eyes to stare directly ahead, jaw set.

There was defiance in this studied blankness. I looked at Temar who was holding tight to the leather bag and then to the trapdoor. That had been open. The scoundrel had only cried out when he realised Temar wasn’t whom he expected. So who was he expecting, and how soon?

I punched him at the base of the breastbone, a practised blow that stops the breath and causes agony out of all proportion to the damage it does. We may not beat up malefactors with the relish of some less honourable cohorts, but D’Olbriot’s men are all taught how to use our fists. He gasped, tears starting from his eyes, falling on to his grey breeched knees as he hunched over. I grabbed a handful of matted hair and pulled him upright.

He tried to spit at me again so I shook him like a terrier with a rat, slapping him fore- and backhanded. “Who put you up to this?”

He tried to twist his head out of my hand, determined defiance still nailing his mouth closed. This bastard had some hope to cling to, which meant beating the information out of him would take three times as long and we didn’t have that time to spare. Perhaps we could wait to see who was coming to take the artefacts, but only from a safe vantage point.

I let go and patted the thief gently on the cheek, taking a pace backwards. “So you’ve more backbone than Drosel.”

He opened scornful eyes. “You can forget that bluff, bought man. Drosel wouldn’t talk, and anyway, he doesn’t even know this place.”

“He said enough,” I shrugged. “How do you think we found you? Still, my congratulations; you’re holding up well for a man hip deep in horseshit.”

“Save it for someone who cares, bought man,” he sneered. “Turning friendly won’t help you.”

I laced my fingers together and stretched them thoughtfully. “How about ducking you in that a few times?” I nodded at the noisome chamber pot.

“I would not do so. He might pick out a knife with his teeth, he is so brave a man.” It wasn’t Temar’s mockery that made uncertainty fleet across the thief’s eyes. What was it?

I looked at the thief. “So, I can’t be bothered to waste my time beating it out of you, and I don’t fancy dabbling my fingers in your piss. All right, what’s it worth?”

Surprise flared in the man’s eyes. “What are you offering?”

I pretended to consider the question. “What about Drosel?”

“Don’t make me laugh.” The thief recovered a little self-possession. “Dro knew the risks. He wouldn’t lift a finger to save me if the runes had rolled the other way.”

“And if we traded him to you, you’d only have to split the gold you’re hoping to get for that little lot.” I sighed. “If his life’s of no value, what about your own? Do you want to share a ferry ride with him and argue over who pays Poldrion for the privilege?”

“My life won’t be worth shoe buckles if I talk to you. They’ll kill me, and where’s my profit then?” He wasn’t joking.

“You could flee the city,” suggested Temar, walking round to face the man, the bag secure on his hip. “Perhaps with a fat purse for your trouble?”

The thief looked nervously down at the floor when I’d have expected the offer of coin to give him pause for thought.

“The Esquire has coffers as handsome as his linen.” I gestured at Temar’s elegant lace collar. “He’d have paid a bounty for those treasures in any case.”

“Tell us who put you up to this, to whom they answer, if you may, and you can be well rewarded.” Temar offered with honest sincerity.

The thief’s tongue poked at the oozing split in his lip but fear was still tarnishing the greed in his eyes. There was something about Temar that really unnerved him, I realised. I knew something else as well. This was taking too long. I had one ear cocked for any sound below and wouldn’t have bet a Lescari Mark on the silence lasting much longer. I studied the thief’s face; he wasn’t just looking warily at Temar, his glance kept sliding to the leather bag and not because it held his spoils. “You’ll be glad to see the back of those things, whoever takes them, won’t you?”

It was drawing a bow at a venture but the thief’s sharp intake of breath and involuntary hunch of his shoulders told us both I’d hit between the joints of his harness.

“How well did you sleep, with all this under your bed?” Temar balanced a battered silver goblet on his outstretched palm, hand steady as a rock. “Did you dream? Did you feel the imprisoned crying out for release? Did you feel their confusion, their pain?”

I was impressed. Temar was striking a resonant balance between sounding scarily archaic and speaking clearly enough to be understood by latterday ears. It was just a shame this bluff was so threadbare. But as I thought that I saw a new determination light in Temar’s cold blue eyes. He reached into the leather bag, and what came next nearly made me cry out loud, never mind the thief.

“Milar far eladris, surar nen jidralis.” Temar slid into a rhythmical chant, eyes glazing. As he did so, a face coalesced above the black-streaked silver. Faint at first, like early streaks of mist lurking in hollows in the road, the image thickened like fog. It was pale as mist, a washed-out greyness to the skin, lips bloodless, unseeing eyes all but transparent. I couldn’t tell if it were man or woman, old or young, indistinct, with hair no more than a wispy suggestion.

“Shall I send you to join these shades?” Temar stopped his incantation and the shape shivered in the air. “Or shall I call them forth, to pursue you to the very borders of the Otherworld? If I do that, you can only be safe when you slit your own throat and Saedrin locks his door behind you.”

It was a good thing Temar was able to do all the talking because my throat had closed tighter than an oyster’s arse. I moistened dry lips and saw the thief staring at Temar as if the young Esquire had revealed himself as one of Poldrion’s own demons. A new stink added to the general stench in the room as the man soiled himself.

“His name’s Queal, Fenn Queal.” He stumbled over the name. “He works out of the Copper Casket, over near the limekilns on the bay.”

“What did he tell you?” demanded Temar. “What did he promise?”

The door on the ground floor below rattled. Our luck had just run out. “Hush, both of you.” I put my sword to the man’s throat to ensure his silence.

“Jacot? Jacot, you putrid pig?” An indignant voice yelled up the stairs. “You left the door unlocked, shit for brains!”

“Are you up there?” A second voice sounded faintly suspicious.

“Answer him.” I prodded the thief. “Say sorry.”

Jacot managed a hoarse shout. “Right, sorry about that.”

I cursed under my breath as I heard heavy boots on the stairs. “You’ll be more than sorry if anything’s been lifted, dungface,” a halfway drunken voice threatened.

There was no time to untie Jacot, and anyway, if it came to a fight I didn’t want him free. Whoever was wanting to pick an argument threw back the trapdoor and the indignation died on his lips as he realised Temar was standing there, naked blade ready to top his skull like an egg.

“We’ve no quarrel with you, pal,” I said with pleasant menace. “We’re just about done with Jacot here and then we’ll be leaving.”

The newcomer was a tall man with a weeping sore on his cheek that looked suspiciously like the scald to me. He was cleaner than Jacot, from what I could see of his shoulders, wearing a dun broadcloth jerkin over a plain shirt. All the better to go unnoticed about his thievery, doubtless. His dark eyes were red-rimmed and crusted but alert enough as they scanned the room; first the bed, the bound Jacot, myself and finally Temar, who smiled nastily at him.

“Whatever you say, you’re the man with the sword.” He looked unconcerned at Jacot’s reddened and bleeding face. “Never was good for his rent, anyway.”

I’d been half wondering about taking the thief with us to give Messire a matched pair for the gallows, but bilked for his rent or not I couldn’t see this bully letting us take Jacot with us. No matter. We had the Kellarin artefacts back and I’d wager gold against copper that Jacot would get his neck stretched soon enough.

I let my smile fade into hard-faced threat. The man gave the darkness under the bed one last look before sliding down the ladder, helpfully drawing the trap shut after him.

I raised a finger to shut Temar’s opening mouth and, kneeling, lifted the trapdoor a fraction. There were too many voices asking puzzled questions for me to pick out the words clearly and then a door below shut them off.

I scowled. “Do you reckon they’ll let us just walk out of here with his loot on your belt?”

“I somehow doubt it.” Temar looked down through the crack of the trapdoor. “We fight our way through?”

I sat back and looked round the garret. “If we have to. I’d rather try and go round them and just run.”

“Almost certainly safer,” Temar said dryly. He bolted the trapdoor, which would give us a little more time to consider our options.

The tiny window was thick with soot, decaying round the frame, and it didn’t look as if it had ever been opened.

Knocking it out would take time, make noise; I wasn’t sure Temar could get his shoulders through it, let alone me, and in any case I didn’t fancy trying to race thieves over the rooftops.

“Gag him.” Gesturing at Jacot, I went over to the chimney breast. A flimsy wooden wall on either side was all that separated this garret from the next house. I looked more closely. The aging stonework had shifted over the generations and pulled away, leaving the flimsy crosspieces none too deep in the walls. The cheap planks were rotting where last winter’s rain had found a way through the coarse stone slates and most of the wood looked worm-ridden. I looked over at Temar, who was tying a thick knot in a stained rag to wedge into Jacot’s mouth.

“Let’s use him to weigh down the trapdoor.” I lifted one side of the chair. Temar took the other and we carried Jacot carefully over, fury choking him almost as effectively as Temar’s gag. Temar took a deep breath, held it and then carefully moved the chamber pot to stand on the crack by the trap’s rope handle. I nodded my amused approval as I stripped the pallet and greasy blankets off the bed and lifted up the frame.

“We smash through that wall and get clear as fast as we can.” Even if the thieves below thought we were just beating Jacot up, the noise would give them an excuse to interfere so we wouldn’t have much time.

Temar swung the bed frame with me. “On three?”

“On one.” I put all my strength behind the blow, Temar with me. The bed frame twisted and splintered but the wall buckled more, cross pieces ripped out of the chimney breast. We hit it again, and again, as hurrying boots came charging up the stairs. One last shove sent the ineffective partition crashing down and we forced our way through the gap. The garret next door was a mirror image of Jacot’s and we raced to its trapdoor. Finding the bolt took a few unpleasantly tense moments in the half darkness, but then we were through and sliding down the ladder. Temar tried to pull it away but it was too securely fixed to the wall. I shoved him towards the stairs.

Shouts sounded in the room we’d just left, mainly of disgust as whoever tried to come bursting up through the trap was covered in Jacot’s ordure.

I drew my sword and spared a breath to hope no innocents appeared and tried to stop us. Those runes rolled our way; this house was dark and we reached the ground floor unopposed. Temar cocked his head like a listening hound. The roar of pursuit from above didn’t quite cover the shuffle of feet in the street outside the front,

“The back.” I was betting my hide and Temar’s that there’d be an alley to match the one Eadit had used to get back to Charoleia.

This house had a door to its kitchen and we bolted it behind us as we ran. Once through the outer door, we found ourselves in a pitch black yard. Scrambling over the chest-high wall, we dropped into a narrow alley with an open sewer running down the middle. We ran on, swords in hand, eyes fixed on a spill of moonlight where the terrace gave way to a lane. Our footfalls echoed back from the walls on either side, rousing dogs from their kennels, hounds barking until doors opened on warning shouts. As we reached the open space we heard running feet to match our own and naked steel shone bright as three of the thieves came skidding round the corner.

The first one made a wild swing for my neck. This was no time for the niceties of a formal bout. I parried with a block hard enough to send him staggering. Grabbing his hilt with my free hand, I curved my sword down to rip it up the back of his calf. He dropped his blade to clutch at the wound as he fell crippled to the floor and I kicked it away into the darkness. The other two had both gone for Temar, each thrusting cuts that the younger man’s ancient sword skills competently swept aside. One tried a vicious hack at his wrist but Temar saw it coming and pulled back. The thief leaned a hair’s breadth too far forward and Temar had him, cutting down to the bone in the angle of his elbow. I was moving to take the last man but a shadow stepped up behind him, grabbing his head to draw a dagger across his throat in one practised movement. Temar and I recoiled but I still got spattered with hot sticky blood.

“Come on.” Eadit dropped the corpse and we followed him to the street. Charoleia was waiting, Arashil beside her, the gig barely pausing as we three grabbed the sides and back, scrambling to cram ourselves aboard. The whole neighbourhood was rousing by now, cries raising lights in curious windows. The thieves who’d pursued us down the alley came running after us and two men appeared from nowhere to grab at the horse’s head. Charoleia ripped into their hands and faces with her metal-barbed whip and they fell away. The bay sprang forward but, hampered by the unevenly weighted gig, was hard put to outpace our pursuers. Charoleia wrenched the reins to turn it first round one corner, then another. We hit a wider road and she lashed the beast to a reckless canter, leaving the sounds of the chase fading behind us.

I stared backwards until I was satisfied we’d left anyone after our blood behind. “What do you know of Fenn Queal, Charoleia?”

She kept her eyes on the road. “If he paid that thief, someone is paying him ten times as much.”

“Would he have lied to us?” Temar asked. “The thief, I mean.”

“Not and risk Queal finding out and skinning him for it.” Charoleia slowed the pace a little as we reached a street with ordinary people going about innocent Festival business. “We’ll discuss this indoors.”

“Where are we going?” I checked my bearings and it was clear we weren’t heading either back to D’Olbriot’s residence or north and west to Charoleia’s house.

“Somewhere safe.” Charoleia glanced back at the three of us with a frown that still couldn’t mar her beauty.

“D’Olbriot’s is safe,” I protested.

Charoleia ignored me. I reached to touch her shoulder but Eadit held my arm back. “You asked for her help, you take it.”

I gave him a hard look but he met my gaze squarely.

Charoleia turned down another back street and then another. She took a lane that ran right beneath the solid bulk of the old city walls and finally steered the weary horse into a tidily swept street where we drew up outside a respectable merchant’s house. Eadit got out to take the horse’s head while Arashil sorted the keys chained at her girdle. “I’ll need to wash that blood out at once,” she said, suddenly seeing the gore spattered all over me and Temar. “Or you’ll be going home in your drawers.”

“Sorry about that,” said Eadit perfunctorily, leading the horse away.

We went inside to find a small hall with a single lantern burning low on a table. Arashil lit a candle from it and opened a door on to a sparsely furnished parlour where she lit another lamp. “Don’t get blood on the furniture.”

Temar and I looked at each other and at Charoleia. “I’ll get some blankets,” she said with a faint smile as she turned to disappear up the stairs.

“I don’t want to be at the laundry all night,” snapped Arashil. “You’ve nothing I’ve not seen before.”

I stripped off my jerkin and shirt, folding them carefully to keep the bloodied sides innermost. Temar did the same with visible reluctance as I sat on a plain but well-polished chair to take my boots off. I didn’t know just what I had trodden in this evening, but I didn’t imagine Charoleia would take kindly to me tramping it through this house.

“And the breeches.” Arashil tapped an impatient foot. I considered refusing. I could feel the stickness against my skin, but once the blood had dried it would barely show on the dark cloth. Then I saw how the spray had caught Temar, leaving stains all across his pale breeches. He was blushing furiously and I couldn’t leave him to be the only one standing there in his linen, not if it embarrassed him so badly. I stripped and bundled up the clothes, giving Temar an encouraging wink.

Charoleia came into the room as Arashil left and tossed us each a warm blanket dyed an expensive blue. I tucked mine round my hips, not really wanting it in this heat. Temar wrapped himself tightly as he sat on a high-winged settle and some of the colour faded from his face.

“We all stay here tonight,” she said, businesslike with no hint of flirtation. “If Queal was behind this, he won’t take kindly to being robbed in turn. Will Jacot be able to tell him you were D’Olbriot’s men?”

I nodded. “We said his mate had given him up, so no one would go looking for who else might have passed on the word.”

“My thanks for that.” Charoleia dimpled. Perhaps I’d been wrong about the flirtation.

“You think Queal would try to get the artefacts back again?” I tried not to sound too sceptical.

“Do you want to risk it?” Charoleia turned melting blue eyes on me. “Wouldn’t you be staking out every road to D’Olbriot’s residence if you were Queal? You won’t get close enough to call out the guard before ten or twenty men rush you, believe me.”

“Can he rouse that many men so fast?” Temar frowned.

“He can,” Charoleia assured him. She looked back at me. “Queal wouldn’t only want a sackful of gold before he’d agree to organise robbing D’Olbriot. It would have to be someone important asking, important enough to make a marker with their name on it worth the risk.”

“Can you find out who that might be without putting yourself at risk?” I felt concern twisting my gut. “Could he possibly suspect you were the one who gave him up? Is that why we came here, not to the other house?”

“I’m simply being careful.” There was a suspicion of laughter in Charoleia’s voice. “Queal won’t trace anything back to me. I’ll go home later tonight and then you two can leave here in the morning. No one hereabouts even knows Queal’s name, let alone how to get word to him.”

I hoped Charoleia’s confidence was justified but a yawn interrupted me as I tried to find a way of asking if she was sure without insulting her.

“Would there be anything to eat?” Temar asked hesitantly. “And to drink?”

Charoleia smiled at him. “Naturally.”

As the door closed behind her, I yawned again. “I think we’ve managed a full day, haven’t we? And just what were you thinking of back there? How much Artifice can you work now?”

“You have seen the sum total of my learning.” Temar looked somewhat embarrassed. “Not much, I grant you but sufficient for bluff. I did no more than you last night.”

“You certainly picked that up quickly,” I complimented him. “But that shade or whatever it was, that was no mere trick.” I managed to keep my distaste out of my voice.

“You are the one we have to thank for that particular incantation.” Temar laughed. “Once Guinalle heard you had seen an Elietimm priest raise the image of its owner from an artefact for the Aldabreshin, she worried at the notion like a dog with a bone until she had perfected the incantations. She can still do it ten times better than any other adept, but Demoiselle Avila cannot do it at all. I have no idea why it came so easily to me.”

“Make sure you lock that bag somewhere secure and well away from the bedrooms for preference. We all need an undisturbed night’s sleep.” Something must have shown on my face.

“I am sorry if raising that image reminded you of your enslavement.” Temar shifted a cushion behind his back to avoid meeting my eyes. “Is that why you dislike Artifice so?”

“What made you suspect Jacot had been dreaming about the people still under the enchantment?” I countered.

“Thinking of the girl from the shrine,” Temar answered as if it should have been obvious. “And of when Guinalle was devising that incantation to raise the images. I remembered Halice saying it looked like something out of old tales of necromancy, raising shades of the dead.”

“Halice is more Livak’s friend than mine. How’s she faring in Kellarin?” I asked, offhand, studying the purple line of the new scar on my arm.

“You keep turning the subject,” Temar said with blunt exasperation. “Why does Artifice disturb you so?”

His irritation sparked my own anger. “The first time I had aetheric magic used on me, Artifice, call it what you like, I was a prisoner of the Elietimm.” He’d asked and perhaps I owed him a fuller answer. “That bastard who’s been sending them over here, to rob and kill, he went ripping into my mind, looking for any information he wanted. I betrayed my oath, my Sieur, myself, and there wasn’t a cursed thing I could do about it. That’s what aetheric magic means to me. It happened to Livak as well, and I wasn’t lying when I told that thief she’d rather have been raped.” I gave him a hard look. “Have you ever met a woman who’s been raped?”

Temar looked sick.

“Then I find I’ve been given your sword in hopes that whatever Artifice was within it might soak into my mind, my dreams, and give Planir the answers he was looking for. It worked, Dast save me, it worked, and Temar, I thought I was going mad! No, I don’t blame you, I don’t think anyone, not even the Archmage, knew quite what they were dealing with, but even then, I cannot forget that it was Artifice. Then there was the Elietimm enchanter trying to get his claws into the Archipelago, into Shek Kul’s domain. He was using Artifice to dupe that stupid bitch Kaeska, and it got her killed. When he fought me, Artifice nearly left me dead a third time.” I lifted my arm to show Temar the new healed cut. “This is precious little to weigh in the scales against all that!”

“And this is what you think of me, of Guinalle and the other Adepts, of Avila?” Temar was outraged and hurt at one and the same time.

“The Demoiselle wanted to get that thief to talk. How did she plan on doing that?” I demanded. “With kind words and honeycake?”

Temar took a moment to consider his reply. “Granted, there are ways to compel someone to speak the truth against their will, but those were only ever used when a death was involved or every other evidence indicated guilt. In any event, no one ever suffered as you did, my oath on it,” he insisted defiantly.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but the idea still makes my skin crawl.”

“And your alternatives are so much more humane?” Temar challenged me. “You trust a man to tell the truth when he has been beaten bloody? That hardly served you with Jacot, did it? Will a man not merely say whatever you want to hear, just to stop the torment?”

I had no answer to that. Temar sighed unhappily in the tense silence. “I wish you could see all the ways Artifice can be a boon, rather than mistrusting it.”

“It’s nothing personal.” I did my best to sound sincere. “It’s just—oh, as if I’d burned myself badly on a naked candle. Even a nice safe lantern would give me a qualm, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so.” Temar grimaced. “At least you accept wizardry, which precious few others seem to. Do you think your contemporaries will be as suspicious of Artifice? Do you think they will ever come to understand the differences between the arts?”

“It’s hard to say. It depends how they see it used.” One reason I could keep my composure around mages is that I’d always had their spells used for me rather than against me, thus far at least. “That worries you?”

Temar shook his head, eyes distant. “I cannot see Kel Ar’Ayen surviving without Artifice.”

“The mercenaries are getting used to it.” I tried to sound encouraging.

“I think they have seen so many horrors, so many unexpected twists of fate, that nothing surprises them any more. And Halice would make a deal with Poldrion’s own demons if they were going to be somehow useful to her.” Temar laughed, but there was still that lost look about him. “But what if this mistrust of all magic deters those who might come from Tormalin to help us? We need them as well.”

Temar fell abruptly silent as the door opened and Charoleia came in with a tray of bread, meat and a bottle of wine.

She arched a teasing eyebrow. “You two look very serious.!

“It was nothing of importance.” Temar shook his head. “So, you want a card for the Emperor’s dance tomorrow?” I wasn’t the only one countering questions with questions.

“I think I’ve earned it.” Charoleia sat with composure that suggested she ate supper every evening in the company of partly dressed men.

“Have you been before?” Temar accepted a crystal goblet of pale golden wine.

“I’ve stood on the sidelines.” Charoleia talked about some previous Festival when she’d inveigled herself into the palace, being careful neither to name names nor specify the season. I helped myself to food, trying to recall if I could ever have been about my sworn man’s duties when she would have been there. If I had been, I concluded, Charoleia had done nothing to bring her to my notice, which was presumably why she was quite so successful in her chosen line of work.

“Did you have such events in the Old Empire?” Charoleia refilled our glasses.

“Festival was very different in those days, first and foremost a time for due observance at a House’s shrines. There was plenty of feasting and all the rest of the fun, but that was different as well, a way of bringing nobles closer to their tenantry.” For an instant Temar looked very young and very lost. “Everyone knew they could rely on the protection of the Name they owed fealty to. It was not simply a tie of rent and duty paid, there was a real bond—”

“Things haven’t changed so much,” I tried to reassure him, touched by the pain creasing his brow. “The tenantry will be well fed and entertained tomorrow, and any of the commonalty who want to come besides. Messire will welcome them all, thank them, and anyone who needs his help can ask it.”

“How many times does that happen in a year?” Temar challenged. “How many Sieurs do as much? How many begrudge the coin it costs them?”

I finished my wine, not wanting to argue with him, but Temar wasn’t about to leave it.

“How long will D’Olbriot be available for his people? For a chime or so in the morning, before everyone of noble blood escapes the commonalty by hiding themselves at the Emperor’s dance?”

I stood up. “I’m sorry, but this wine has gone straight to my head.” That was partly true, and I certainly had neither the energy nor the inclination for arguing the social and political intricacies of the present day with Temar. “I really must get some rest.”

“Arashil will have made up the beds by now,” Charoleia said easily. “Sleep well.”

“Temar?”

But Charoleia was kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet up under her maroon skirts.

“Tell me, just who among the D’Olbriot Name are visiting for the Festival?” Her tone was warm, maternal and inviting.

I smiled to myself and went upstairs. Charoleia was welcome to whatever information she could get out of Temar. It was her currency after all, and it might go some way to settling our debt with her.