The Warrior's Bond

The Chronicle of D’Olbriot Under the Seal of

Andjael, Sieur by Saedrin’s Grace, Winter Solstice

Following the Accession of Kanselin the Confident

Let us give thanks to Raeponin that when Saedrin opened his inexorable door to our late Emperor Kanselin the Blunt, Poldrion forwent any claim to his youngest brother, now duly anointed and set above us. While it is but early days in this new reign, I find optimism warming my heart as I bid my screever set down my personal thoughts at this turn of the year.

Our late Emperor was a worthy leader and, in these uncertain times, a doughty guardian of Tormalin, but he was not called the Blunt out of idle fancy. His predilection for plain speaking had caused offence on more than one occasion and in some quarters provoked hostility slow to fade. Our new Emperor has now used the occasions of both Autumn Equinox and Winter Solstice to welcome such potential opponents of his rule to share his personal celebrations. Such open hospitality in plain devotion to Ostrin’s name has done much to reunite the Princes of the Convocation and is the first of many hopeful signs I wish to relate.

As his brother was the Blunt, so his late cousin was the Rash. While few of us would condemn ambition to reclaim those provinces left fallow during the Chaos and its pernicious aftermath, we have all seen the consequences of those truly rash attempts to spread our meagre resources ever more thinly in hopes of restoring Tormalin authority in Lescar. This newly elevated Kanselin makes no secret of his belief that we must look to Tormalin interests first and foremost, resisting any pleas to involve ourselves in quarrels beyond our most ancient borders. He is deaf to those men of Lescar or Caladhria who beg never so pitifully for aid, seeking to trade on that fealty they so readily discarded a mere handful of generations ago. I was myself present to hear the Emperor declare that, by Dastennin’s very teeth, such men had chosen to plot their own course and must weather whatever storms might batter them. This is not to say Kanselin intends to return to the closed attitudes of the Modrical era. He has been vociferous in his encouragement of trade and generous in sharing the knowledge of markets and routes that has enabled Tor Kanselin to amass so substantial a fortune from all corners of the Old Empire.

In pious recognition of the binding oaths he swore, Kanselin has sanctified his role as Toremal’s defender by taking up residence in the Old Palace and doing much to restore the dilapidation of the shrines within it. Rumour has it that he means to make a permanent court there, unwilling to spend his energies in crossing and recrossing the land when so much else requires his attention. This is of some considerable concern to those more remote Houses who know only too well that constant attendance on his brother was the only way to be certain of Imperial favour. I have ventured to differ with anyone I heard expressing such fears, trusting our Emperor’s assertions that it is the duty of every Sieur and Esquire to care for their domains, no matter how distant, just as it is the Emperor’s duty to secure the peace that enables them to do so. At Autumn Equinox Kanselin made no secret of his expectation that we would all depart for our various estates at the close of Festival, returning to celebrate Winter Solstice in unity undamaged for our sojourns apart. When we gathered for the rituals of Soulsease Night, even the most suspicious could not claim any greater good will apparent for those Houses proximate to Toremal. Nor could any claim disproportionate disadvantage accrued to far distant Names. I for one will gladly trade the expense and constraints of courtly life for the freedom to supervise D’Olbriot affairs more closely, if that can be done without risking a loss of status.

This Kanselin’s whole rule is open to scrutiny, even to the lowest ranks of nobility. Any and all Esquires may petition him and expect their concerns to be treated with due consideration. I truly believe we can take our new Emperor’s words at face value. For all their flaws, no one can deny the brother and cousin who preceded him were men of integrity, as was their sire and his uncle the Droll. Our new Emperor was raised within the same House, born of the same blood. Raeponin grant that the reign to come vindicates my trust in the man, and may Poldrion’s demons scourge him to the very gates of the Otherworld, if he proves false to his oaths.

A House on Lavrent Cut, Toremal, Summer Solstice Festival, Fifth Day, Morning

The house was silent when I woke, an empty calm entirely unlike the rousing bustle of barracks or gatehouse. I rolled over, glanced at the window and sat bolt upright, swearing when I saw how high the sun was. Everyone would be wondering where in Saedrin’s name we were. Messire would have Stoll and the sworn turning the city upside down by now.

“Temar?” I yelled out of the bedroom door as I wrenched on my underlinen.

“In the kitchen.” That halted me. Why did he sound so relaxed? I went, boots in hand. The door to the street was securely bolted, the front of the house dark, but the back was airy, with shutters open to the morning sun.

Temar was dressed and leaning against the table, eating soft white bread and drinking from a tankard. “There is a note.” He nodded at a basket holding the other half of a flat, round loaf. The bag of artefacts lay beside it.

I read the note as I grabbed jerkin and breeches from a clotheshorse in front of the cooling range: Leave everything just as it is, lock the yard door behind you and take the key. I’ll send someone to collect it and my card at noon.

“Did you read this?” I set the note down to pull on my clothes.

He offered me the flagon. “So we have until midday to get the lady an invitation to the Emperor’s dance.” He sounded amused.

“So how do we do that?” I couldn’t see a joke. “Is there any wine or water?”

“Only beer.” Temar poured me some. “Better than the mercenaries make in Kel Ar’Ayen.”

I looked round the tidy kitchen; no sign anyone had spent the night here, apart from the things on the table. “Were the others here when you woke up?”

Temar shook his head. “No, they had all gone. I did not even hear them leave.” A forlorn look fleeted across his face.

Charoleia could certainly take care of herself and her own, that much I was sure of. I took a swallow of weak, bitter beer to wash down the bread. “We have to get back or the Sieur will be looking to nail my hide to the gatehouse door.”

“I used Artifice to tell Avila where we are.” Temar was unconcerned. “Well, not where we are, because I do not know, but I explained to her what had happened.”

“Earlier this morning? Was she alone? What did she say?” I hadn’t hidden behind a woman’s skirts since I’d grown out of soft shoes, but if Avila had told Messire what had happened that might just save my skin.

“Yes, she was alone.” Temar couldn’t restrain a childish grin. “She was still abed and I hardly suppose anyone comes knocking at her door on the dark side of midnight.”

I was about to tell him to mind his manners when his bright smile made me suspicious. “Someone came knocking at your door last night?”

Temar’s attempt to look innocent would have done justice to a cat caught eating cheese. “What has that to do with anything?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Arashil?”

“No.” He couldn’t hide the triumph in his eyes.

I took a deep breath but let it go. “If you’ve eaten all you want, let’s go and hire a ride.”

Temar followed me out of the kitchen door. I locked it, pocketing the key, and wondered how in Dast’s name I was supposed to get an Imperial dance card for Charoleia by noon.

The alleys in this district were wide, well paved and clean, bringing us out on to a broad street where the morning’s market was selling every fruit, vegetable or cut of meat a busy goodwife might need for the final banquets of Festival. Traders shouted loudly, as eager as anyone else to turn the day’s coin and set about celebrating. I snagged a bunch of grapes from a high-piled basket, tossing coin over to a swarthy man. He caught and pocketed the coppers without taking a breath from his exhortations to passing women. “Fresh as the dew still on it, good enough for any House in the city! Buy double and you can take a day of rest tomorrow, just like the noble ladies who never do half your work!”

That won him a laugh from a stout matron who reminded me of my own mother. She’d be at the markets by now, planning one last intricate meal before everyone returned to the usual routine of workaday life. Mother loved Festivals, especially if she could get us all together, eager for the day when we’d bring wives and best of all children home, to pack around the long table, swapping confidences and news, sharing triumphs and tragedies of the past season and planning ahead for the new. The only problem was that I couldn’t ever see it happening. Mistal’s passing loves usually went down like a pitcher of warm piss with our brothers, and on balance Livak would probably rather have her teeth pulled than spend another Solstice at home with me. Still, even Hansey and Ridner at their most irritating wouldn’t have given me half the anxieties of this Mid-Summer.

“Here!” Raising voice and hand together, I caught the eye of a hireling driver. He pulled up a fresh grey horse.

“Fair Festival,” he said perfunctorily. “Where to?”

“D’Olbriot’s residence?” At his nod we climbed into the battered vehicle, narrow seats facing each other. It was an open carriage, so we both sat silent as the driver chirruped at his horse.

“A few more hires like this and I’ll be stabled early today,” he said cheerfully over his shoulder.

“Good luck, friend.” I leaned back against the cracked leather and studied Temar, who was rapt in some happy recollection. I was sorely tempted to ask. If it hadn’t been Arashil putting a spring in his step, it must have been Charoleia. But what was Charoleia hoping to get out of the lad? What had she learned from their pillow talk? How was I going to handle Temar lost in some romantic haze, given his tendency to fall headlong in love with unattainable women? Charoleia had to be the most unattainable yet.

All right, that was something of an exaggeration, if not downright untruth. It had only been Guinalle who had turned him down flat, bringing him hard up against the realisation that a woman who might agree to share your sheets might yet refuse to share your life. Something else we had in common, I thought wryly. No, before Guinalle had given him pause for thought Temar had been an accomplished flirt according to some of the memories that I wasn’t about to let him know I shared. That was a startling notion. Had he charmed Charoleia into his bed? I didn’t think so. Or didn’t I want to think so? Was my pride injured because she’d travelled that road with him when she’d only taken a few steps along it with me? Was I jealous of Temar? I burst out laughing.

Temar was startled back to the here and now. “What?”

“Nothing.” I could tell he didn’t believe me but there wasn’t much he could do about that in an open carriage.

The roads through the city were comparatively empty for a mid-morning, everyone busy at home preparing for the final day of Festival. The pace picked up as we approached the D’Olbriot residence. Wagons were delivering wine and ale, bread and pastries, all ordered up from the city to spare the House’s cooks for more intricate confections. I could see a sizeable number of the commonalty already walking around the hamlet of grace houses where Stolley’s wife was selling wine spiced with a little first-hand gossip about life in noble service.

Naer was on duty in the gatehouse, all spruced up in his livery. “You’re wanted, both of you, the Sieur’s study.”

I’d have preferred to face Messire clean and shaven, but didn’t dare risk delay. “Come on, Temar.”

We hurried through the gardens. When I knocked on the door it was Camarl’s voice not the Messire’s that answered. “Enter.”

I took a deep breath and opened the door. “Good morning, Messire, Esquires.” I bowed low.

The Sieur was there together with all three of his brothers, sat in a close half-circle with Myred and Camarl to represent the coming generation. Painted, the faces would have looked like studies of the same man at different ages. Young Myred, dutifully silent at the back, still had the bloom of early manhood, flesh softening chin and cheekbones but waist still trim beneath his close cut coat. Camarl showed the incipient family stoutness overcoming the fitness lent by youth but the years he had over his cousin sharpened his gaze with experience gained. Next in age was Ustian, Messire’s younger brother, who still travelled seven seasons out of the eight, seeing how the House’s vast holdings were managed at first hand. He was the plumpest of the four brothers, an inoffensive, round little man with a mind like a steel trap hidden beneath leaves. Long leagues on the road showed in lines around his eyes that Camarl as yet lacked. While the Sieur was still a man in his prime, Esquire Fresil, on Messire’s left, was visibly further down the slope towards Saedrin’s door. Leishal, master of the House’s estates around Moretayne since the days of the old Sieur and seldom seen in Toremal, was not much older. But even those few years made a difference: his legs were thinned with old age, spindly beneath his paunch, his face sinking to show the bones of his skull. Where Myred’s eyes were a vibrant stormy blue, Leishal’s were faded nearly to colourless, deeply hooded beneath a wrinkled forehead. For all that, his wits were still honed sharp by three generations’ unquestioning service of his Name.

“Good day to you, Ryshad.” Avila sat across the room beside the fireplace, expression bland, ankles crossed beneath a frivolously yellow-sprigged white gown.

“Where were you?” barked Esquire Leishal.

“Retrieving what was stolen from the House, Esquire,” I said politely.

Temar took a pace to stand beside me, one hand laid on the leather bag. “We believe everything is here.”

Avila shifted in her seat with a rustle of silk but I’d have had to turn my head to look at her. I didn’t feel that would be wise; displeasure hung in the air like the promise of summer thunder.

“You didn’t have time to tell anyone where you were going?” asked Ustian.

“I chose not to, Esquire.” I faced him squarely. “The person who gave me the information asked me to keep it in confidence.”

“There are no secrets between sworn man and master,” snapped Fresil. “What do you mean by taking D’Alsennin into danger? The boy’s barely out of bandages!”

“Your pardon, but I answer neither to Ryshad nor to any D’Olbriot.” Temar’s face was stern. “I crossed the ocean to seek these stolen treasures. Life and honour are both my own to risk in that quest.”

“Maitresse Den Castevin has no high opinion of your honour,” retorted Fresil.

In the corner of my eye I saw Avila sit forward, mouth thin with anger. The Sieur nodded to her and she stayed silent but from the surprise on Fresil’s face I’d wager any coin she was giving him a very hard look.

“A great number of people tell you things in confidence, Ryshad,” Ustian said genially. “Two are waiting to see you as we speak.”

Camarl rang a little hand bell and a blank-faced footman ushered two people through the far door, my brother Mistal and Charoleia’s errand boy, Eadit, who was looking like a mouse in a room full of cats. I really did hope he wasn’t here to ask for her dance card because I couldn’t see Messire taking kindly to that.

“Fair Festival, advocate.” Camarl’s smile was broad with all the confidence of rank. “Anything you wish to say to Ryshad can be said before the Sieur and Esquires.”

Mistal bowed elegantly to the assembled nobility. “I’ve been trying to determine who is paying Master Premeller to act as a friend of the court.”

“Why bring the news to your brother and not to Esquire Camarl or the Sieur?” asked Leishal sternly.

“I did not wish to presume on their honours’ time.” Mistal bowed again.

“Just tell us what you’ve found out,” Ustian invited.

Mistal raised a hand to the front of the advocate’s gown he wasn’t wearing. “Master Premeller owes a sizeable sum to one Stelmar Hauxe, goldsmith.”

“Money-lender,” commented Leishal with disapproval.

“Quite so.” Mistal smiled without humour. “According to the advocate who shares his rooms, Premeller’s just defaulted on the interest for the second quarter running, but for some reason he hasn’t suffered the bruising that kept him in bed for most of Equinox.”

“Why does Hauxe want Premeller snapping at our heels?” Fresil barked. “We’ve never done business with the man.”

“Hauxe rents premises by the quarter from Aymer Saffan,” continued Mistal, “who leases them by the five-year from Tor Bezaemar.”

“Which proves nothing,” Leishal grunted.

“Saffan has just granted Hauxe a season’s exemption on his rent,” offered Mistal.

“You’ll never trace that back to Tor Bezaemar,” Fresil scoffed.

“Indeed.” Ustian was considering this news. “I could imagine a handful of explanations before implicating another noble House in deliberate malice.”

Training in the courts made Mistal equal to this. “Would any of those alternatives explain Premeller’s unexpected hostility to D’Olbriot? Has he ever shown any predilection for honourable disinterest?”

The Sieur raised his hand and everyone fell silent.

“Ryshad, introduce your other visitor,” Camarl prompted.

“This is Eadit.” I tried to put some reassurance in my voice. “He works for the person who helped us secure the stolen artefacts.”

“Speak, boy!” barked Leishal.

Eadit cleared his throat nervously. “I came to tell you Fenn Queal was visited yesterday morning by a valet recently dismissed by Tor Bezaemar. That valet’s been seen drinking with one Malafy Skern, a pensioner from Tor Bezaemar’s service. That’s all I know.”

Camarl spoke up at once. “I passed on Esquire D’Alsennin’s concerns to the Sieur yesterday.” His intent look forbade me to pursue the matter in Eadit’s hearing. “Advocate, Master Eadit, you have our thanks.”

Messire dismissed both with a gesture and Mistal hustled Eadit out of the room.

“More conjecture and gossip,” scowled Ustian.

“We can’t set any of this before the court,” Fresil agreed.

“You cannot in all conscience ignore this,” said Avila with rising ire. “In the Old Empire such weight of suspicion would have been enough to call out your Cohorts against Tor Bezaemar!”

“We have different fields of combat in this day and age,” Fresil said sharply. “Never fear, Demoiselle, we’ll set as much before Imperial justice as we can when the sessions resume after Festival. In the meantime we can take other steps against Tor Bezaemar, and who knows, sufficient provocation may prompt them to betray themselves.

“That would lend weight to our arguments,” agreed Leishal to general approval.

“If your Emperor declares against them in this court?” Temar folded his arms abruptly. “Will that curb their malice?”

“We’ll have won a significant battle,” said Ustian with a smile of amusement.

“Not the war?” persisted Temar.

“That will take a little longer.” But Leishal’s dour words made it clear the outcome wasn’t in question.

“That’s our concern, not yours, D’Alsennin.” The Sieur spoke for the first time. “You’re to be congratulated on recovering your artefacts.”

“I could not have done so without Ryshad,” Temar said pointedly.

“Quite so.” The Sieur’s bland face was unreadable. “And now you can prepare to celebrate your good fortune at the Emperor’s dance.” He smiled at Avila, who raised a sceptical eyebrow. “My lady Channis will run through the etiquette.” Courteous as it was, Messire’s dismissal was unmistakable.

“I must secure that bag first,” said Avila. “If you are finally letting your tenantry inside your walls, Ostrin knows who might slip in unnoticed with theft on their minds.”

“As you see fit. Channis awaits your convenience.” Messire’s face showed none of the indignation darkening Fresil’s face beside him.

Camarl rang the bell to summon the doorkeeper. I moved to follow Temar.

“Where are you going, Ryshad?” barked Ustian.

I turned back, opting for silence as the safest response.

“Sit down, Ryshad,” Messire invited. I took a chair by the table as the door closed behind me.

“If you recovered D’Alsennin’s spoils for him, you must know who stole them.” Camarl leaned forward. “Why isn’t he chained in the gatehouse?”

“His name is Jacot, and if I’d been able I’d have dragged him here by his heels,” I answered readily. “But Temar and I would’ve had to fight through twice our number to do that. I’d have risked it with another sworn or chosen, but I wasn’t about to chance D’Alsennin.”

“So he escapes to boast he robbed D’Olbriot and lived to tell the tale,” snapped Ustian.

“Why didn’t you take enough men to capture this thief?” the Sieur asked mildly.

“I thought discretion more important than a show of strength,” I replied steadily.

“There’s blood on your boots, Ryshad,” Messire pointed out. “Someone spilled it. Granted I don’t see you or Temar wounded, but you’d have been safer with sworn swords around you.”

“I didn’t want to risk the safety of the person who betrayed the thief to me,” I said, shutting my mouth on further explanation.

“Who seems remarkably well informed as to the vermin crawling round this city’s underbelly,” Messire observed. “I take it we’re talking about that Lescari lad’s employer?

I nodded.

“Will you tell me who this is, if I ask?” the Sieur enquired casually.

“I will but I would ask you not to ask.” I looked straight at him. “If we compromise that person’s safety, we can’t expect help from that quarter again. We recovered the Kellarin artefacts, Messire. I judged that more important than bringing the thief before your justice.”

“Did you?” Fresil plainly disagreed. “Young Temar holds your oath now, does he?”

I kept my eyes on the Sieur. “I serve D’Olbriot in serving D’Alsennin.”

The Sieur’s smile came and went. “I don’t want to curb your initiative, Ryshad, but I said you were to inform myself or Camarl of such plans. I’m surprised I failed to make myself clear.”

I looked at the expensive carpet. “I’m sorry, Messire.”

“I also thought I’d made it plain D’Alsennin was to fulfil the obligations of the rank he assumes.” Messire’s voice got colder. “You knew he was dining with Den Castevin.”

I stared at the Sieur’s diamond-studded shoe buckles.

“Enough of this,” snorted Leishal crossly. “What are we going to do about Tor Bezaemar?”

“We buy their timber for props and for charcoal for the Layne mines,” said Ustian promptly. “Den Ferrand has land over that way that could supply us instead.”

“Tor Bezaemar hides keep our tanneries in Moretayne supplied,” Fresil mused. “Could Den Cascadet pick up that trade without too much loss to ourselves?”

“We could split it between them and Den Gaerit,” suggested Ustian.

“What about closer to home?” Leishal demanded. “Where are Tor Bezaemar holdings in Toremal in relation to our own?”

“Myred, the city plans.” The Sieur snapped his fingers at his son before glancing at me. “What are you waiting for?”

“Your orders, Messire,” I said politely.

“Would you take them, if I gave them?” he asked lightly. “I’m sorry, that was unworthy of us both.” He sighed. “Finish this Festival as you started it, Ryshad, watching over D’Alsennin. You’d better attend him to the Emperor’s dance. Irianne will be there to distract Camarl, so we want someone watching Temar’s back.”

Camarl looked up, startled, as he unrolled a detailed plan of the northern side of the bay.

“Never mind that.” Leishal was bending over the parchment. “Look here, we own the road that gives access to all these Tor Bezaemar holdings.”

“So we do.” Fresil smiled with happy malevolence. “I’m sure it’s time we levied a toll thereabouts to pay for remaking the roadbed?”

“Those are mostly tapestry weavers in that district?” The Sieur stood and turned his back on me, taking a ledger from a shelf and leafing through it. “Camarl, make sure none of our spinning mills deliver yarn to any Tor Bezaemar addresses from now on.”

I left, closing the door softly behind me.

“So they didn’t skin you for a hearth rug, then?” The footman waiting in the corridor gave me a nod.

“Not this time.” I walked swiftly away. If the inner house servants knew I was in trouble, I’d really fouled my own nest. Where would Temar be, I wondered, dutifully learning etiquette from Lady Channis or intent on his own concerns? Heading for the library, I heard him in heated discussion with Avila from the turn of the corridor. At least I’d won that wager with myself. I knocked.

“Enter,” Avila snapped. She sat at the table, artefacts spread out before her, running a pointed fingernail down her list.

“What did the Sieur want with you?” asked Temar.

“To remind me where my oath rests.” I looked at Avila. “Is everything there?”

“Thus far.” She looked up at me. “What plot is Guliel hatching with those brothers of his?”

I rubbed a hand over my face and wished for a shave. “As close to outright war with Tor Bezaemar as he can manage, without actually calling out the barracks.”

“On Temar’s unsupported word?” Avila hushed his indignation with a curt word.

“The Sieur and Esquires must have their own reasons for suspecting Tor Bezaemar’s ill faith,” I told her. “I can’t imagine they’d be doing this otherwise.” I wondered what the Sieur knew that the rest of us didn’t.

“What are they doing?” Temar demanded.

“Wherever their businesses touch on each other, wherever Tor Bezaemar holdings or tenants rely on D’Olbriot services, the Sieur and Esquires will find ways to make Tor Bezaemar feel the shoe pinching. They’ll break contracts if they can, refuse to buy or sell, deny Tor Bezaemar men passage over D’Olbriot lands, refuse carriage for Tor Bezaemar goods in D’Olbriot ships.”

“Will D’Olbriot interests not suffer? Will Tor Bezaemar not retaliate?” protested Avila.

“Fresil and Ustian will make sure Tor Bezaemar losses outweigh any D’Olbriot suffering.” I sighed. “But it won’t do the tenantry of either House any favours.”

“What does this mean for us?” Temar wanted to know.

“For Kellarin? You wanted less interference in your affairs, didn’t you?” I queried. “D’Olbriot’s certainly going to be too busy with this to tell you how to run your colony.”

“We will be caught up in this regardless.” Temar looked at me. “And if Tor Bezaemar or their allies believe hurting Kel Ar’Ayen will hurt D’Olbriot?”

“Any artefacts we still seek at once become pieces on this game board.” Avila was pale with anger.

I had no answer to that.

“These Sieurs, these Esquires, they can do this?” Temar began pacing round the room. “Has your Emperor no power? Even Nemith the Whorestruck knew better than to let two Houses break each other’s horns like this! His decree to end a quarrel was law.”

“A decision in the Imperial Courts should cut a lot of this short,” I offered.

“When?” Temar flung an impatient question at me. “Aft-Summer? For-Autumn? This year? Next?”

“Who’s to say your courts deliver justice, when Raeponin is denied?” Avila was packing the artefacts back into their coffer with rapid, angry hands. “When nothing holds a House’s mouthpiece to the truth but their unsupported word?”

I was about to protest, at least on Mistal’s behalf, when a footman followed a brisk tap on the door.

“My lady Channis sends her compliments,” he said as hastily as was polite. “She invites you to attend her as soon as convenient.”

“My compliments to Lady Channis, and we will be there as soon as suits.” Avila barely managed not to vent her anger on the hapless servant. “Find the mage Casuel Devoir and send him to D’Alsennin’s chamber.”

The footman left with alacrity and I didn’t blame him. Avila headed for the door. “You two, bring that.”

Temar and I carried the coffer between us, following Avila up the backstairs, sharing a puzzled look. We’d barely reached Temar’s opulent room when Casuel came hurrying along the corridor. “Demoiselle, Esquire,” he puffed. “How can I be of service?”

Avila stalked into Temar’s chamber and looked around with disfavour. “Where best to hide something? Under the bed?”

“The first place someone would look.” I was glad to let Temar give the obvious answer.

Avila smiled thinly. “Then that is the place we want. Put it underneath.”

“But—”

“Master Mage.” Avila cut through Casuel’s protest with a voice like steel. “Can you make this box invisible?”

Casuel thought for a moment. “Weaving an illusion of empty space might be more effective.”

“As you see fit, it is your magic’ Avila looked impatient as Casuel waited, smiling hopefully. “At once, if you please.”

“Of course.” Casuel dropped to his knees and threw a dizzying burst of magic beneath the bed, azure shifting to jade and blending to startling sunset hues. I blinked as the afterglow faded slowly from my eyes.

“I should have done this before,” muttered Avila, pulling up a stool. She sat down and drew a deep breath, laying her hands on the cream and crimson silk coverlet. “Zal aebanne tris aeda lastrae.” She repeated the invocation, each time more softly until her words were a mere hint of a whisper in the rapt silence of the room.

“Suspecting Elietimm malice looking over our shoulders every time we use Artifice, we hesitate to do the most obvious things,” she said crossly. “Master Devoir, has my enchantment affected your magic at all?”

Casuel bent down to peer under the bed and I couldn’t resist doing the same. All I saw was empty carpet.

“Not at all, my lady.” Casuel stood up. “What have you done?”

Avila smiled thinly. “Laid an aversion over the bed and beneath it. Anyone not knowing the coffer is there will have no interest in looking. Anyone searching for it will dismiss such an obvious hiding place with contempt.”

“A fascinating combination of the two schools of magic,” Casuel looked intrigued. “What—”

“Now let us see what Lady Channis thinks she can tell us about etiquette.” I hoped Lady Channis was equal to Avila’s belligerence. Temar and I dutifully followed the Demoiselle and Casuel came scurrying after us.

“I suppose I’ll have to bespeak Planir,” he was muttering. “To tell him about your latest successes.”

“And your working magecraft to complement Avila’s Artifice,” I pointed out.

Lady Channis’s apartments are on the cool north side of the residence, furnished with all the elegance Den Veneta coin can buy. The lackey ushered us all in, assuming Casuel and I were both in attendance, and we couldn’t retreat before two minor Demoiselles of the Name curtseyed themselves out, the door closing behind them.

“Demoiselle, Esquire, a tisane?” Lady Channis was wearing a simple cream chamber gown but her maid had already dressed her ebony hair high with amethyst-tipped pins. A naturally spare frame and the finest unguents lent her the appearance of youth. At second glance you would see the fine lines of age in her hands and neck but by then she’d have captured you with her charm.

I took a seat by the wall and Casuel did the same. Temar and Avila joined Lady Channis around a low table set with finest porcelain, crystal spice bowls and a small copper urn piping hot over a spirit lamp. The silver spoons and tisane balls marked with the Den Veneta sheaf of arrows gleamed with the soft lustre of antiquity. “Ryshad? Master Devoir?”

Casuel jumped up with an obsequious bow as she turned deceptively soft brown eyes on us. “My lady.”

“Your father is a pepper merchant, I believe?” Beauty had brought Lady Channis a long way from the minor House she’d been born in, and intelligence had carried her further still.

Casuel’s smile became a little fixed as he selected spices for his tisane. “He is, my lady, of Orelwood.”

“And your brother is the famous Amalin.” Lady Channis offered Temar a bowl of shredded citrus zest, ruby and enamel rings dark on her pale fingers. “Your mother must be very proud of such talented sons.”

Casuel hesitated. “Naturally, my lady.”

Channis filled Avila’s cup with hot water and reached for Casuel’s. “So, Ryshad, what’s your Sieur doing now?”

“He and the Esquires are planning to chastise Tor Bezaemar for their apparent hostility.” I filled my own tisane ball with a simple mixture of elder and sourcurrant.

“You can rely on the Sieur’s judgement.” Lady Channis’s dark eyes were shrewd in her flawless maquillage.

“I take it he acts on more than the suspicions Temar raised yesterday and the few things we learned this morning,” said Avila speculatively.

“Doubtless.” Lady Channis handed me my drink and waved Casuel and me back to our seats. “Den Veneta will be sorely exposed in any clash with Tor Bezaemar, I’m sorry to say. That’ll make things very awkward between Guliel and my cousins. But that’s a problem for another day.” She shook her elegantly coiffed head. “We’re here to talk about the Imperial dance. In your day, I understand the last day of Festival was set aside for Imperial decrees? Well, Tadriol will certainly announce new betrothals, any major project a Name might be undertaking, but the emphasis is mostly on pleasure.”

I let her gentle voice fade into the background murmur of the busy residence. People all around were hurrying to ready everything before noon brought the commonalty into the residence and the nobility took their carriages to the Imperial Palace. I ran through the crowded events of the last few days in my mind. How might D’Olbriot’s determination to attack Tor Bezaemar clash with D’Alsennin and Kellarin interests? Was there any way to head off such friction? Hadn’t Temar said something about Artifice being a better means of achieving some aim than brute force?

I looked over to see him paying close attention to Lady Channis.

“It’s been the custom, oh, since the days of Inshol the Curt that all rank is left outside the doors of an Imperial dance, along with hats and swords. No one’s allowed to insist on deference and precedence, that kind of thing. Naturally any Esquire will treat any Sieur with due courtesy, that much distinction must be preserved but the erstwhile Imperial Houses aren’t allowed to look down on lesser Names. You’ll stand or sit as a lady pleases, of course, but there’s none of this nonsense about Houses of lower degree having to wait until a senior Name decides to take the weight off his feet.” Lady Channis smiled as she ticked off points from a mental list on her beautifully manicured fingers.

“Keep your voice to a polite level otherwise the noise gets simply deafening. If you must debate some point or other, do it without anger or passion and naturally, if someone’s boring you senseless, you’ll oblige us all by not letting that show. You’ll also do yourself more credit if you avoid boring anyone else. In general, I’d advise you to guard your own tongue and if you encounter anyone being indiscreet, do them the courtesy of not repeating what you hear, well, not outside the doors of the dance salon.” A fleeting smile softened her words.

“There’ll be plenty to eat and drink but I can’t imagine you need me telling you not to over-indulge.”

“I think I should be able to avoid disgracing myself,” said Temar politely but I could hear irritation beneath his words.

“These may be unwritten rules, Esquire, but there are penalties for infringing them,” Lady Channis told him firmly. “If two or more people accuse you of indecorous behaviour, you’ll be asked to pay a forfeit. It’s quite a game in the normal run of things but with all that’s going on, I’ll wager my tisane spoons some scion of Den Thasnet or Tor Priminale will be only too eager to make you look a fool.”

“What would this forfeit be?” Demoiselle Avila demanded curtly.

“Since the days of Tadriol the Staunch’s Maitresse, poetry has been the usual penalty.” Lady Channis waved a hand. “Reciting the first few stanzas of The Edicts of Perinal the Bold is a favourite sentence. A serious offence can merit all three verses of The Death of Decabral the Eager. If you really tread on someone’s hem, you could find yourself reciting Drianon’s Hymn to the Harvest to the entire room.”

“I do not know any of those.” Temar shook his head cautiously.

“Which would make your humiliation complete, would it not?” Avila looked grim as Lady Channis continued.

Movement beside me prompted a glance for Casuel, who was listening avidly. His smugness suggested he knew all the relevant poems and epics. I remembered the mage’s own ambitions to rank. What of other wizards with less narrow preoccupations? What would Planir do to protect his own concerns? How might his actions impact on D’Olbriot? How would Hadrumal seek to influence a quarrel between the Names that ruled the Empire? What could the Emperor do? Nemith the Last and his forebears might have ruled from the ocean to the Great Forest by unquestioned decree, but Emperors in this age have a different notion of justice. I pondered the bits and pieces of legal lore Mistal had bored me with when he’d first started his studies.

That led my thoughts to Hansey and Ridner. It wasn’t only minor Names like Den Veneta who’d suffer once each Name dragged their allies into this struggle. My brothers are D’Olbriot tenants, but they buy their stone from Den Rannion quarries. Skirmishes over goods and services would break out from the Ast Marsh to the Cape of Winds, and people ill fitted to bear the losses would suffer first. I closed my eyes as I sought a way through this maze.

“That’s all we need to know?” Avila’s faint sarcasm roused me from trying to tease out all the potential consequences of a plan irresistibly forming in my mind.

“My thanks, my lady.” Temar shot Avila an unexpected look of reproof.

Avila smoothed her skirts as she rose. “And now I have another chance to see how many different gowns one woman can wear in the same day.”

“May I take a moment of your time?” I stood, hands laced behind my back, formal stance stiffening my resolve.

Lady Channis smiled. “Ryshad?”

I took a deep breath. Some ideas look perfectly convincing inside your own head and then sound like drooling idiocy once you try to explain them.

“We’re sure, aren’t we, that Tor Bezaemar’s the House orchestrating hostility to D’Olbriot and D’Alsennin? But we can’t prove it to the satisfaction of the courts.” I hesitated. “The courts are the formal setting for the Emperor’s justice but his authority as arbiter still applies anywhere, just as it did before the Chaos. Custom demands the Emperor hears every argument before he makes a decree, but there’s nothing binding him to that. Tadriol could simply announce a verdict if he had sufficient weight of evidence to tip the scales.”

“The Emperor’s word was law in our day.” Avila sat down again.

“What if we could prove Tor Bezaemar’s enmity to the Emperor directly?” I looked at Lady Channis. “Tadriol could act in support of D’Olbriot without waiting for the courts to grind every parchment into dust. The longer this quarrel drags on, the worse the consequences for everyone, from noble Names to commonalty. Tadriol is sworn to defend all ranks, isn’t he?”

“He won’t want open strife between D’Olbriot and Tor Bezaemar,” said Lady Channis slowly. “Not if it can be avoided.”

“Would your Houses accept an Imperial decree cutting through all this convoluted argument before the court?” Temar asked Lady Channis hopefully.

“Given the consequences to the minor Houses if Tor Bezaemar and D’Olbriot go for each other’s throats?” She looked pensive. “Most would back an Imperial decree, if only to save their own Names.”

“We know Malafy Skern is still a favoured retainer of the Relict Tor Bezaemar,” I said slowly. “She has to be involved.”

“No one drops a hairpin in that House without her knowing,” Lady Channis agreed.

“What if we could get her to betray what she knows?” I suggested.

“In front of witnesses?” She shook her head. “She’d never do it, and in any case witnesses can always be discredited.”

“What if she didn’t think there were witnesses? What if she were provoked into boasting or threatening?” I persisted. “What if the Emperor heard her for himself?”

Lady Channis looked puzzled. “You plan to provoke her to some indiscretion with the Emperor hiding behind a door like some maid in a bad masquerade?”

“Dirindal is too sharp for that, Rysh,” said Temar, disappointed.

“What if Artifice were prompting her to speak without her usual care?” I tried to ignore the qualms in my belly. “What if she were alone with you, my lady, confident anything you claimed could be denied? There are enough rumours flying around the city; it wouldn’t be unusual for you to discuss them with her?”

“Tor Bezaemar must still think themselves secure,” Temar said unexpectedly. “They have no reason to believe we suspect their malice.”

“They’ll know by the end of the day, if I know Guliel,” said Lady Channis rather sadly.

“Dirindal would be keen to know what the Sieur is thinking,” I suggested.

“If she were annoyed, Artifice would be all the more effective in urging her to speak her mind,” Avila observed.

Lady Channis waved her hands impatiently. “How does it help to have Dirindal admit anything to me, however incriminating? It would be my word against hers, and I’m hardly an impartial witness.”

“The Emperor could see and hear it all if a mage worked the right magics,” I told her. “Dirindal would never know.”

Lady Channis gaped at me.

“Scrying is mere sight without sound.” Casuel was frowning in thought. “It could be done with bespeaking, but you’d need another mage with her ladyship as well as one with the Emperor.”

“We’ve Allin and Velindre to call on,” I pointed out. “Either or both could help. Planir won’t disagree, if it means we can head off this strife.”

“I would have to be close at hand, to work the Artifice on Dirindal,” said Avila slowly.

“Dirindal will never betray herself in front of three witnesses,” said Lady Channis flatly.

“Couldn’t you be in the next room, Demoiselle?” I persisted. “Out of sight?”

Avila thought for a moment. “Yes, I believe so. Master Mage?”

Casuel nodded eagerly. “A short distance would be no hindrance.”

Lady Channis shook her head in disbelief. “It’s a fascinating fancy, Ryshad, but it’s completely irrational. How could we ever do it? Dirindal will suspect eyes and ears behind every curtain and closed door if she comes here, and I’m certainly not going to Tor Bezaemar’s residence. I’d be seen, and when word gets out of hostility between the Houses that would prompt all manner of rumours weakening Guliel.”

“Can’t you meet on neutral ground?” Temar asked impatiently.

“A dressmakers?” suggested Casuel hopefully. “A jewellers?”

“Such people come to us, Master Devoir, we don’t travel to them.” Lady Channis’s words were kindly meant but Casuel still blushed to the roots of his hair.

I cast my mind back to my early sworn days attending the minor Demoiselles of the House. Where had they gone to gossip free from the discreet supervision of their elders? “A feather merchant?”

“That’s believable, at least.” Lady Channis smiled wryly. “The cursed things come to grief so easily, we’re always buying them at the last minute.”

“And even Maitresses of a Name have to go to the merchants, since none of them will risk hawking such fragile and precious wares from residence to residence,” I nodded.

“Is there a feather merchant where Dirindal would meet you?” Temar demanded of Channis.

“Masters Anhash and Norn,” Lady Channis replied with a mocking tone. “Simply the only place for plumes this Festival, my child.” Faint optimism sounded in her voice for the first time. “Where every noble customer is shown the choicest selection in a private room.”

“It has to be worth trying,” I urged. “Outright enmity between D’Olbriot and Tor Bezaemar will serve no one.”

“True,” agreed Lady Channis. “But if we’re to try this madness, we’ve precious little time. Battle lines between the Houses will be drawn by nightfall.”

“Then send the Relict Tor Bezaemar some message enticing her to meet you at once, my lady.” I ticked off points on my fingers. “We need you, Avila and Velindre at the feather merchant’s before Dirindal arrives. Then we three need to convince the Emperor to listen to us.” I looked at Casuel, whose face was a potent mix of eagerness and apprehension. “And we need some way of knowing when exactly Casuel needs to work his magic”

“Allin could send word,” suggested Temar.

“I can’t see you getting an audience with Tadriol, a scant half-morning before the biggest social event of Festival.” Lady Channis wasn’t trying to make difficulties, but that was true.

I looked at Temar. “You’ve not met the Emperor yet, have you? This isn’t the ideal time, but I don’t suppose anyone will gainsay you if you ask to introduce yourself. I’m sure you could claim a Sieur’s right of immediate access to the Imperial presence.”

Lady Channis was crossing the room to an open writing case laid on a side table. “You could cite that before the courts later on, if the Palace acknowledges you as such.”

“If that is what we need to do, to get before Tadriol, that he may see the magic’ Temar was looking nervous. “But you will explain it all, Ryshad, when we see Tadriol. This is your idea after all.”

“He hasn’t the rank to propose something like this to the Emperor!” Casuel was appalled.

“And he’s sworn to D’Olbriot,” Lady Channis was writing rapidly. “You owe no allegiance, Temar, for all your close ties with the House.” She sealed her note with perfumed wax.

“You’re defending your own Name and your people in Kellarin,” I reminded Temar. “The Emperor will respect that far more than any claim I might make to disinterest. We’ll both be there to back you up, but you have to be the one doing the talking.”

“You do realise Dirindal may not come?” Lady Channis looked up. “If she does, she may have nothing to say but platitudes and nonsense. You risk looking an utter fool, you do know that?”

“Compared to the risks we’ve run over the last few days, my lady, I think we can take this chance,” I assured her.

The Imperial Palace of Tadriol the Provident, Summer Solstice Festival, Fifth Day, Late Morning

Cheer up, the worst they can do is refuse to let us in.”

Temar tried to smile at Ryshad’s attempt at reassurance but saw the doubt shadowing the older man’s eyes.

“With you so impressive in your livery and me in all this finery?” he retorted with considerably more bravado than he felt. “Never fear, I do not intend returning to Avila with my tail between my legs.”

“All we need now is Cas,” Ryshad muttered. The carriage halted with a lurch that redoubled the nervousness plaguing Temar’s stomach. What if the mage was delayed? What if he’d been unable to find Allin and Velindre?

“So this is the Imperial Palace,” Temar said softly as he stepped down from the carriage. It was a fair cry from the robust fortress Nemith and his forebears had held in trust as a last bulwark of noble power. Waist-high walls meant every passer-by could see the extensive gardens, though the narrow spaced railings were topped with vicious spikes curved in outward-facing claws. A small gatehouse of brilliant white stone gave a small detachment of liveried men-at-arms some shade from the sun hammering down from a cloudless sky. They were the only people in view.

“Where is everyone?” Temar asked, bemused. “Do Tor Tadriol not gather as a family for Festival?”

“Not here they don’t. This place is purely ceremonial. Their residence is over beyond the Saerlmar.” Ryshad fell into step a pace behind Temar. “Remember, you’re not asking the guard to let you pass. You’re telling him you’re going in.”

“Not without Casuel,” retorted Temar. About to wipe sweaty palms on the skirts of his coat, he realised that would mark the silk and reached for a kerchief. “Where is he?”

“Over there.” Ryshad sounded relieved but Temar silently cursed the mage. If he had a little longer perhaps he could prepare himself a little more. “What in the name of all that’s holy is the fool wearing?”

Ryshad disconcerted did nothing to soothe Temar’s qualms but the sight of Casuel in a long gold-brocaded brown robe raised a reluctant smile. “That is the style the mages of Hadrumal wear, I believe, when they feel the need for ceremony.”

“It’s the style everyone’s great-grandsire wore on his deathbed hereabouts,” muttered Ryshad. “Oh well, it’ll distract the guard if nothing else.”

Casuel was walking rather too fast for the length of his garment, the cloth catching around his knees and ankles. “Are we ready?”

“You tell me,” Temar demanded in sharper tones than he’d intended.

“Lady Channis and Demoiselle Tor Arrial are at the feather merchant’s,” Casuel confirmed hastily. “Velindre and Allin are on their way, and Allin will send word as soon as the Relict arrives. If she arrives.”

“Lady Channis seemed certain she would,” Ryshad reminded the wizard.

“I wonder what was in that note.” Realising the mage was even more nervous than he was put perverse heart into Temar. “You look very formal.”

“Velindre suggested people will take us more seriously if I reminded them I’ve the power of Hadrumal behind me,” Casuel said with a sickly smile that soon faded. “I’m sure she’ll claim the credit for this with Planir, if it works. You’ll put him right, won’t you?”

Temar stifled a curt response. “What now, Ryshad?”

“We have to be with the Emperor when we get Allin’s message,” the chosen man frowned. “It won’t take the Relict long to get to the feather merchant, and we can’t risk not hearing all the conversation.”

Temar saw the others were both looking expectantly at him. “What do I say to the guards?”

“You’re acting as Sieur of a House,” Casuel said acerbically. “You need explain yourself to no one, least of all a gate ward.”

Temar drew a deep breath and walked towards the iron gates. Ryshad’s solid footfalls behind him were some reassurance, though Casuel’s hesitant steps made him worry the mage was going to tread on his heels at any moment.

“Fair Festival.” Ryshad took a pace to the side to address the sentry. “Make your obeisance to Temar D’Alsennin.”

“Fair Festival, Esquire, my duty to you.” The man bowed briefly, eyes never leaving Temar’s face.

“Fair Festival.” Temar smiled graciously. “I wish to see the Emperor.”

“Are you expected?” asked the guard politely.

“As senior surviving member of my House, I claim the rights of a Sieur,” Temar said just before Ryshad’s prompting cough. “That includes immediate access to the Imperial presence.”

The guard bowed again. “Indeed.” Face impassive, he beckoned a sworn man waiting alert in the doorway of the gatehouse. “Escort the D’Alsennin to the Steward.” He nodded at Ryshad and Casuel. “Do you vouch for your companions?”

“Naturally.” Temar realised the guard was still looking at him expectantly. “Chosen man Ryshad Tathel, of D’Olbriot, and Casuel Devoir, wizard of Hadrumal.”

The man’s expression did not flicker. “They may enter on your surety.”

Temar turned to see Ryshad unbuckling his sword-belt and moved a hand towards his own before Ryshad’s minatory frown stopped him.

“Are you armed, Master Mage?” The guard looked warily at Casuel.

The wizard smiled with a superior air. “Only with my skills.”

The guard looked dubious and glanced at Temar. “Do I have your oath you’ll keep him in check?”

“Poldrion be my witness.” Temar spoke loudly to cover some indignant noise from Casuel. He turned his head briefly to see the wizard rubbing a sore arm while Ryshad looked blandly ahead.

“This way, if you please.” The second guard walked ahead of them through the blazing colours of the gardens. Temar noticed inconsequentially that the paths were not carpeted with gravel but with crushed seashells and wondered why.

The shade cast by the north front of the palace offered welcome relief from the sun. It was a wide building rather than a tall one, only two stories above a cellar floor whose half-windows were shaded by deep arches at ground level. Steps down to the basement in the centre of the frontage were framed by a double stair curving up from the path to meet before double doors standing open. A spacious portico shaded steps and entrance, rising on faceted pillars to meet the roofline. Broad windows were set at regular intervals on either side, muslin blinds half drawn.

“When was this built?” Temar asked without thinking.

The man looked at him uncertainly. “When Den Tadriol ascended to the throne.”

Once through the open door Temar found they were in a square room rising the full height of the building. Their escort was speaking to a man sitting behind a table set precisely in the centre of the grey and white chequer of the marble floor.

“D’Alsennin to see the Emperor, as of Sieur’s right.” The guard leaned closer but the echoing room amplified his words. “He’s got a wizard with him.”

Temar couldn’t resist a glance at Casuel, who was visibly preening himself. Ryshad was as stony-faced as the statues flanking the iron-balustered stair rising to the upper floor.

The Steward dismissed the man at arms and rose from his seat. “Fair Festival to you, D’Alsennin.”

“Fair Festival.” Temar fixed the man with his best imitation of his grandsire’s piercing gaze. “I wish to see the Emperor.”

The Steward was a tall man, sparse grey hair clipped short and face mild above the Tadriol badge at his collar. He took a moment to answer. “It’s hardly convenient.”

Temar wondered if that was a refusal or merely a hint he’d be well advised to take. Either way, he ignored it. “I appreciate the Emperor must be very busy, but I have to see him.”

“His highness will be at leisure this evening,” the Steward offered.

“I cannot wait,” Temar said firmly.

“He is preparing for the dance.” They could waste half the morning in these futile exchanges, Temar realised. He wondered how to shake the man out of his courteous obstruction. Then he realised the man was wearing a golden bull’s head with enamelled horns and eyes set with chips of black opal.

“I must have approval for an insignia, before noon, that I may wear it at the dance.” Temar looked the Steward in the eye and hoped it wasn’t too obvious he’d just thought of the excuse.

The Steward took a pace back and bowed. “If you’ll await the Emperor’s convenience.” He walked briskly up the broad staircase without a backward glance.

“We wait here.” Ryshad indicated the maroon velvet chairs lining the walls.

Temar sat and looked at the portraits hung in regular lines framed by plaster moulding. “So which one’s your Tadriol?”

Ryshad nodded to a youthful figure holding a horse in front of the portico they’d just come through. “Tadriol the Provident.”

“Fifth of his line, as you recall.” Casuel couldn’t resist reminding Temar. “Tadriol the Thrifty built this palace.”

“Does that happen every time there is a change of Name?” Temar looked at the mage. No wonder these Houses were all so obsessed with coin, if highest honour came at such a heavy price.

“It’s only since Inshol the Curt that the Old Palace was turned over to the law courts,” Ryshad remarked. “Tor Bezaemar built themselves a new palace but they weren’t about to hand it over to Den Tadriol when they lost the throne.”

Casuel leaned forward in his chair. “Tadriol the Vigilant wanted to build somewhere open to the populace, noble and common. One of the reasons Tor Bezaemar were deposed was their inclination to hold themselves aloof.” The wizard warmed to his theme. “The Relict’s late husband was caught up in quite a scandal in his youth. The House raised their rents at every Festival one year, not just at Winter Solstice, so when Solstice came round again a mob of their tenants turned up and pelted anyone bearing the Name with copper coin any time they showed their face. They claimed to be paying their dues, but—”

Temar turned to Ryshad. “Is this place always so empty?” The silence was eerily disconcerting after the constant mass of people swirling through the D’Olbriot residence.

Ryshad shook his head. “You wouldn’t get a seat here after mid-morning outside Festival, and that Steward would have twenty men backing him up. But today everyone’s getting ready for the dance.”

“The Emperor can hardly be polishing the silverware. Why isn’t he free to see us?” demanded Casuel petulantly.

Temar turned his attention to statues set on plain white plinths between the paintings. Saedrin held his keys, Raeponin his balance, but a scaly snake curled round Poldrion’s feet, head raised to the god’s caressing hand. The beast’s mouth was open to reveal disconcertingly sharp teeth. Temar wondered if that had any significance beyond idle decoration. He was ignorant of so much in this perplexing age.

He stared at the opposite wall, at the massed Sieurs of the House of Tadriol. All he could see in those varnished eyes was accusation. He was claiming to be their equal? Just what did he think he was Sieur of? Did he imagine he’d ever win respect, even if he did claw back some remnant of D’Alsennin lands? What difference would a few holm oak leaves make?

Temar gritted his teeth. They could judge him if they chose, but he would answer to his own conscience, his own values. D’Alsennin need not answer to any of these latterday Names. Even if this attempt to pull D’Olbriot’s chestnuts out of the fire failed, he could return to Kel Ar’Ayen with his head held high. He’d recovered nigh on all the lost artefacts, hadn’t he? He’d used Artifice in ways that would never have occurred to Guinalle, so she’d better not try putting him down as she was so apt to. A more beautiful, more intelligent woman than her hadn’t scorned to take him to her bed and he’d acquitted himself creditably there as well.

“Are you ready?” Allin’s distant voice startled Temar out of his reverie. He looked up to see a shimmering circle of air rippling in front of Casuel, Allin’s homely face distorted as if through thick glass.

“We’re still waiting for the Steward to take us to Tadriol,” said Casuel tartly.

“But the Relict’s carriage has just pulled up.” Allin’s anguish was clear if her image wasn’t.

“We have to find the Emperor ourselves — now.” Temar was first to his feet, Ryshad a scant breath behind him.

“The backstairs are this way,” Ryshad pointed.

Casuel was winding the long sleeves of his robe round his hands in agonies. “He’ll call down the guard, we’ll end up in chains—”

“You said I have the right to immediate audience.” Temar pulled Casuel to his feet. “My grandsire says rights are like horses — useless unless you exercise them.”

“This way.” Ryshad opened a discreet door hidden beneath the grand stair. Temar dragged Casuel along by his stiff sleeve. They ran through empty marble corridors, down a long hall, up a flight of stairs.

A liveried servant on a stool beside a door looked at them in surprise.

“You’re wanted below,” said Ryshad before the man could speak. “The Sieur D’Alsennin has private business with the Emperor.”

Temar opened the door himself with as much authority as he could convey and strode into a small anteroom. Ryshad closed the door behind the lackey and wedged a chair back under the handle. “In there.”

Temar clenched his fists before opening the plain single door. He found it a pleasant airy room hung with small paintings. A single band of floral moulding ran round the top of the walls but the room was otherwise plain white plaster, carpeted with thick bronze rugs. Walnut chairs softened with cushions in autumn hues were ranged to one side of a broad marquetry table, where a slightly built young man had been looking into a hand glass as he combed his hair into crisp waves, a jar of pomade to hand.

“What is this?” The habit of authority belied his simple shirt and plain brown broadcloth breeches.

“Esquire D’Alsennin, claiming Sieur’s right to audience.” Temar bowed stiffly.

“Of course, I thought you looked familiar. But this is neither the time nor the place—”

The Emperor was already reaching for a silver hand bell resting on a stack of papers.

“Cas!” Temar snapped his fingers at the agonised wizard.

Casuel looked at him blankly but as the first note rang out he flung a handful of blue fire to knock the bell from Tadriol’s hand. Documents fluttered in all directions as the bell toppled to the floor in uncanny silence.

The Emperor pushed his carved wooden chair backwards in visible consternation. “I’ll have your hide for that!”

“Forgive me,” stammered Casuel.

“Work your magic, wizard,” Temar ordered him urgently. “Find Lady Channis.” He turned to the Emperor. “We will explain ourselves presently, but I beg your indulgence.”

“It had better be a good explanation, D’Alsennin,” the Emperor retorted, wary eyes taking in every detail of his unexpected guests. “You, D’Olbriot’s man, does your Sieur know you’re here?”

“Lady Channis does, highness,” Ryshad answered promptly. “Messire is otherwise engaged.”

“Then what is so urgent—”

“I need something metal, something shiny.” Casuel looked vacantly around.

Ryshad grabbed a tray of glasses from a side table, dropping one in his haste. It shattered in a spray of crystal shards. “Here.” He set the other goblets aside and threw the salver at Casuel who caught it as it hit him in the chest.

“I’ll wait for my answers, shall I?” The Emperor’s self-possession was returning. Nevertheless he unobtrusively retrieved his hand bell and set it on his desk in mute warning. “But don’t try my patience too long.”

“A candle?” Temar snatched a virgin taper from a small pot on the mantelshelf. He caught Casuel’s arm and forced the wizard on to a chair facing the ornate table. Sweeping aside a clutter of letters, he thrust the taper at the wizard.

“Do you need a tinderbox?” asked the Emperor with faint courtesy. “I take it you’re one of the Archmage’s underlings?”

“One of his associates, his liaison with D’Olbriot,” Casuel stopped to smile ingratiatingly. “It has to be a conjured flame, your highness.”

“Then conjure it,” snapped Temar.

The mage snapped hesitant fingers, once, twice, but no scarlet magic flared to light the wick. Temar swallowed a curse and felt the blood pounding in his chest. A tentative knock sounded at the door and Ryshad moved to brace one booted foot firmly against the wood.

“You have done this often enough,” Temar encouraged the wizard in a tight voice. “Even Allin can work thus.”

The taper spat a flicker of crimson fire, the spark strengthening to a modest flame. Temar handed Casuel the shiny tray. It rattled against the table as the mage’s hand shook but a pinpoint of gold reflected steadily from the centre of the polished metal. It spread raggedly outwards like fire burning through paper, brilliant edges leaving a smoky void behind. Scars sparked across the emptiness like lightning splintering a stormy sky.

“It’s Velindre,” Casuel said crossly. “She’s manipulating the spell from her end.”

“Then work with her, as best you can,” Temar urged him.

“She’s not cooperating,” Casuel grumbled, but as he spoke voices came out of the emptiness to echo round the silent room.

“My Lady Channis, I confess I was surprised to get your note.”

The Emperor looked at Temar, surprise and curiosity joining forces to win out over the last of his indignation. “That sounds like Dirindal Tor Bezaemar.”

“Please look into the magic,” Temar begged. “Then we will explain, I swear.”

The Emperor rose slowly from his chair to move behind Casuel. “What’s going on?”

Lady Channis was speaking. “Granted gossip runs through this city like rabbits through corn but this particular rumour always seems to track back to your door.”

Temar looked into the magical reflection of distant reality. Lady Channis was sitting beside a round table covered with a plain white cloth where an array of gaudy feathers was carefully laid out for her inspection.

Dirindal Tor Bezaemar was standing by a fireplace filled with blue and purple flagflowers. “I may have mentioned it, but only to try and find out who’d be saying such things.” Her genial face creased in a plump smile. “Now I remember. That foolish Tor Sylarre girl was letting her tongue run away with her. I told her I didn’t believe a word of it.”

Channis picked up a long grey plume banded with blue. “That’s curious, because Jinty Tor Sauzet is quite certain that you told her.”

“Talagrin himself couldn’t tame Jinty’s tongue.” The Relict’s face turned a little weary. “You know she was languishing after Kreve last year? Since he turned her down she’s done all she can to make trouble for our House.”

“And what’s Tor Bezaemar’s excuse for brewing trouble for D’Olbriot?” Lady Channis laid down the grey feather and began examining a curling pink plume edged with black.

“My dear!” Dirindal sat down on a softly cushioned daybed.

Channis twisted in her chair to face the Relict. “Jinty Tor Sauzet has no reason to tell all and sundry I’m about to leave Guliel and return to Den Veneta’s protection. Den Muret on the other hand are plainly delighted to hear it.” Her tone was acid. “I gather it has stiffened their resolve to pursue their case before the Imperial Court no end. Seladir Den Muret was telling Orilan Den Hefeken all about it, and Orilan told me. Seladir swears it must be true. After all, she had it from your own lips, and everyone knows you’re as honest a woman as ever broke bread.”

Dirindal clasped beringed hands together. “Orilan’s a sweet child, but she’s inclined to speak without thinking—”

“Don’t,” said Channis bitingly. “There’s nothing you can say against Orilan, no threat you can use to silence her, no reason for her to lie. Our Houses have few dealings with Den Hefeken. How unlike Den Muret, whose roof would soon fall in without Tor Bezaemar bounty. Unlike Den Thasnet, whose wealth battens on your own like honeysuckle on a tree. Do you ask me to believe either House would attack D’Olbriot in the courts without Tor Bezaemar’s approval?”

Dirindal’s round face crumpled in distress. “My dear, you must be mistaken. Let me talk to Haerel. He may have said something unwise, perhaps Den Muret mistook his meaning.”

“Do you seriously expect me to believe your nephew, Sieur Tor Bezaemar though he is, does anything without you knowing of it?” Channis flung the curled feathers down on the smooth linen. “He barely wipes his arse without your permission.”

“My dear, I quite understand you’re cross,” said Dirindal faintly. “But I don’t think I deserve these unwarranted accusations.” She fumbled in the silver net purse laced at her waist and dabbed her eyes with a lace trimmed kerchief.

The Emperor glared at Temar. “I’ve no interest in hearing women scratching at each other’s corn,” he whispered.

Casuel looked up. “It’s all right, they can’t hear us.”

“Mind your magic, Cas,” snapped Temar, seeing the image waver and fade. “This is no mere flurry in a hen coop, I swear.”

Lady Channis was making a careful selection of tiny iridescent emerald feathers. “I took breakfast today with Avila Tor Arrial. She was telling me how you were encouraging young D’Alsennin to secure his mother’s portion from Tor Alder. She said how astonished he’d been to learn he even had such rights. But for Tor Alder to be ready to bring a case before the Emperor, they must have been convinced he knew, certain he’d be making a claim. If I go asking just who told them that, am I going to find your perfume hanging in the air?” Channis compared two feathers with a thoughtful eye. “Then Avila told me about this business with the Kellarin artefacts. How she and Temar had looked to you for help before anyone else, explaining why they needed to trace such heirlooms. But you haven’t helped, have you? First, you accept an invitation to dine with Den Turquand on the first day of Festival, such an honour for so minor a House. Then Camarl gets a note from that very Sieur telling him the heirlooms he wants will be sold to the highest bidder, and yesterday at the Den Murivance residence I learn Maitresse Tor Sylarre has been ransacking her daughter’s jewel cases. She’s accusing D’Olbriot of plans to use the courts to steal their wealth with some nonsensical tale of Kellarin’s claims, I hear. You took lunch with her on the second day of Festival, I believe. Is that when she got this notion in her head?”

“Dast’s teeth!” Involuntary anger escaped Temar.

“What’s been going on?” The Emperor narrowed suspicious eyes at Temar.

“That is what we hope to learn.” He leaned closer to the image framed by the curlicues of the silver tray.

“You’re full of accusations.” Dirindal was glaring at Channis, eyes dry and angry. “Will Master Burquest be making such arguments before the court?”

Lady Channis laughed without humour. “He could hardly build a case on such flimsy foundations. I suppose I should congratulate you on arranging everything so well.”

Dirindal opened her mouth but didn’t speak, a puzzled frown deepening her wrinkles.

“It’s just that I don’t understand the depth of your anger,” Lady Channis continued smoothly. “All our Houses are rivals, granted, but on the other side of the coin we’re allies as well. We have to be, or lately come merchantry get ideas above their station; you told me as much when I was a girl.”

“They’re doing that anyway, with the fool boy Tadriol encouraging their pretensions,” spat Dirindal.

Channis’s hand shook with surprise and she dropped a feather to the floor. She bent to recover it. “I know Guliel will be claiming the lion’s share of Kellarin’s bounty this year and probably next, but bear in mind all the costs the House has borne in recovering the colony. He’ll soon see he needs to share the rewards to be had there.”

Temar gritted his teeth so loudly the Emperor looked at him.

“He’ll allow us the crumbs that fall from his table, you mean?” said Dirindal sourly.

“That’s hardly just,” Channis objected. “Kellarin—”

“You think this is about Kellarin?” Dirindal interrupted in sudden, ugly fury. “You think we have any interest in sorcery-addled paupers grubbing a living in muddy caves? I never thought to say it, Channis, but you’re a fool!” She struggled to her feet and Temar’s heart began to beat faster as the old woman crossed the room. She barely topped the sitting Channis by a head, and was easily a generation older, but rage lent speed to her feet and vigour to her gestures.

“Oh, it’s about Kellarin, in so far as the wealth Guliel garners will extend his influence still further. He’ll drop the sweetest plums into eager hands like some doting grandsire and the insignificant little Names will think D’Olbriot’s so wonderful.” Dirindal’s scorn was withering. “Guliel will swan around, proud as a cob in springtime. All these dolts will be hanging on his coat tails whenever he goes before Tadriol—he’ll give the lad a little advice here, some words of warning there. The boy won’t dare ignore him; after all he speaks for so many. Guliel leads our so-called Emperor by the ring in his nose, just as he did his father, his uncles and grandsire.”

The Emperor gripped the back of Casuel’s chair, the movement catching Temar’s eye. An overlarge bull’s head ring was Tadriol’s only piece of jewellery, a battered golden antique secured by a fine black cord that looped up to tie round his wrist. Unlike the Steward’s badge, this bull had no ring.

Lady Channis was protesting volubly. “The House of D’Olbriot has only ever worked for the good of Tormalin. Guliel never uses his influence for selfish gain—”

“You expect me to believe that?” cried Dirindal. “Oh, it’s the quiet pigs that eat most fodder, my girl.”

“So this is about money,” said Channis with contempt.

“That’s all Guliel’s concerned with,” sneered Dirindal. “Sending his nephews to dine with the merchantry, flattering their ambitions, telling Tadriol to listen to their whining. Saedrin save us, jumped-up draper’s daughters are marrying into ancient Names with Tadriol’s very blessing because their coffers of gold outweigh base blood! And all the while Houses with history back to Correl the Stout fall into rack and ruin because common parasites have leeched away their trade and prerogatives. Does Guliel do anything to restore the privilege of rank? Does D’Olbriot use any influence to stop the rot? No, he stands at Tadriol’s shoulder and drips poisonous counsel in his ears and all the while his greedy little allies crowd round, drowning out wiser voices with their begging.”

“Would Haerel be offering better advice?” snapped Channis. “Or Kreve? We all saw you encouraging him to invite Tadriol down to his fiefdom for last year’s hunting season. I take it you’re looking to sit your grandson on the steps of the throne in Guliel’s place?”

“We should be sitting on that throne,” Dirindal hissed. “I should be managing the marriage of an Emperor of my own blood, not worrying what slattern D’Olbriot’s going to talk Tadriol into bedding. I should be an Emperor’s Relict, with all the influence of a lifetime’s rule. Don’t think I don’t know it was Guliel’s uncle turned the Houses against my husband’s claim, just as it’s been Guliel and his brothers backing every Tadriol since. How else could those dolts hold the throne? How many more of them have to die before our House regains its rightful place? Well, it’ll be different next time, when D’Olbriot’s brought low and Tor Bezaemar can show the Names the true meaning of power.”

Temar saw Channis go as white as the linen covering the table, even in the tiny image. Dirindal was leaning over her, rage twisting her hands in cruel claws. Channis gave a frantic push that sent the old woman stumbling backwards.

“Lay a hand on me and I’ll scream!” Her frightened voice rang through the enchantment.

“Cas, tell Velindre to interrupt them.” Temar felt cold with apprehension.

“I can’t, not without losing the spell,” said the mage tightly.

“Hold your magic, wizard,” ordered the Emperor, face grim. “Channis can take her chances.”

But as Temar watched, nervousness making him nauseous, Dirindal walked slowly back to the far side of the room. She smoothed the skirts of her modest gown and ran a plump hand over her undisturbed coiffeur. When she turned her face was settled once more in amiable lines of serene old age. “Dear me, Channis, I quite forgot myself. Oh, don’t think I wouldn’t slap you as you so richly deserve, but too many people know we’re in here together. And as you so cleverly observed, I make a habit of not doing things that cannot be innocently explained away. You’ve done very well to discover so much but the people I’ve used will twist in the wind before they betray me, so you’ve nothing to show for it. All you’ve done is warn me to take better care in future, haven’t you?”

“I’ll tell Guliel.” Channis sounded like a petulant child, and from her expression she knew it.

Dirindal’s laugh was kindly. “And he will have no more proof than you, my dear and we have plenty of Names to call on, if he wishes to set his House against ours. I doubt he has the stomach for that when all he ever does is hide behind Tadriol’s boy and whisper suggestions. If he had any true nobility he’d have taken the throne for himself by now.” She spoke over Lady Channis’s indignant protests. “Good day to you, my dear. I suppose I’ll see you at the Emperor’s dance this afternoon. You might want to purchase some white feathers while you’re here. It won’t be long before you’ll be looking for another House to shelter you, if you can find some minor Esquire prepared to take on soiled goods.”

She turned her back on Channis and walked out, leaving the door ajar.

“I can’t follow her, the Relict, I mean,” Casuel said hastily. “Or rather, I can, if I scry for her, but I’ll need ink and water—”

The Emperor smacked a furious hand into the silver tray, sending it skidding across the table and crashing to the floor.

Temar took a pace backwards as Casuel covered his head with frightened hands. Ryshad’s hand moved instinctively to his swordless hip as he took a step to bring him to Temar’s shoulder.

“Explain yourself, D’Alsennin,” demanded the Emperor. “Tell me why I should believe any of that?”

“You saw it with your own eyes, you heard for yourself,” Temar retorted.

“What did I see?” The Emperor moved to put the table between himself and Casuel. “Truth? Illusion? Some sorcerer’s charade woven by Planir?”

“The Archmage would never stoop to such deceit!” Casuel looked up indignantly from beneath his hands.

“You expect me to believe Dirindal Tor Bezaemar, with all her years, would admit all that to her acknowledged enemy’s paramour?” The Emperor scowled. “What has D’Olbriot told Planir of the history of my House? What does your Archmage know of my father and my uncle’s death?”

“No more than anyone else.” Casuel looked puzzled.

Urgent knocking on the door startled everyone in the room.

“Not now!” Tadriol yelled angrily.

Temar looked at the Emperor. “She asked how many more of your Name had to die. Does that have some darker meaning for you?”

Ryshad was barring the inner door with his body. “There’ve always been rumours, highness, among the sworn, but never leading back to Tor Bezaemar.”

The Emperor looked sharply at him before glowering at Temar again. “And Dirindal conveniently half admits it!”

The knocking came again. “Is everything all right?” a hesitant voice called.

“You, chosen man, get rid of them,” the Emperor ordered abruptly. Ryshad slipped out of the room. “Wizard, do you spy like this for D’Olbriot, for the Archmage or both? How often?”

“I’m no spy,” Casuel protested weakly.

“I cannot believe Dirindal would forget herself away like that.” Tadriol looked grim.

“There are ways of loosening tongues.” Temar chose his words carefully, wishing Ryshad hadn’t just disappeared. “I know you have spoken with Planir, so you must be aware there is more than one kind of magic”

“These so-called dark arts of the Elietimm?” The Emperor scowled suspiciously.

“Artifice is a tool, like any other. A knife can cut bread to feed a child or to stab a man to the heart.” Temar didn’t dare let his indignation show. “It was a cornerstone of justice in the Old Empire because no one could speak falsehood under the seal of their oath.”

“And how was that marvel achieved?” demanded the Emperor with obvious scepticism.

“With the oaths and invocations you still use in your courts,” Temar shot back. “In my day they were backed with enchantment. And where Artifice can bind a false tongue, it can loosen another to speak the truth, all unwitting. Demoiselle Tor Arrial is a highly skilled Adept and she was in the next room laying an invocation on the Relict prompting her to speak.”

“Prompting her to speak her mind or merely making a puppet out of her?” countered the Emperor.

Temar struggled for an answer, hearing Ryshad arguing with someone in the outer room, seeing Casuel looking uncertainly from face to face. He closed his eyes to concentrate better.

“Aedral mar nidralae, Avila,” he said suddenly. “Demoiselle, please get here as fast as possible. Bring Velindre and Allin.”

“I thought you were here to ask about an insignia!” The Steward’s irate voice made Temar open his eyes. The man was standing in the doorway, Ryshad behind him ringed by menacing guards with swords.

Temar waved a frustrated arm. “Give me just a little longer and I can prove our good faith!” The evidence of his own eyes had convinced Ryshad, hadn’t it?

“You don’t raise your hand or your voice to the Emperor, boy!” The Steward snapped his fingers and the men-at-arms moved closer.

“Enough, Master Jainne.” Tadriol looked at Temar with a slight smile. “Send D’Olbriot’s man in here and wait outside. I believe some ladies will be joining us shortly.” He glanced at a small brass timepiece on the mantelshelf. The pointing arrow was very nearly halfway down the engraved scale. “They’d better hurry or we’ll all be late for the dance. So, D’Alsennin, you wanted to discuss an insignia? You think a badge will make you more secure? Have you chosen livery colours as well? I have to say, you’d be the youngest person I ever called Messire and D’Alsennin will still be a mighty small House. Do you really want to be Sieur in your own Name?”

The words weren’t unkindly meant but still stung Temar like a slap across the face.

“I do not know if I want to be a Sieur on your terms; I do not know what the title means in this age,” he retorted. “But I know what it meant in my day, and that was a duty of care to all who depended on you. By Saedrin’s very keys, I will do my duty to the people of Kel Ar’Ayen. They crossed the ocean trusting in the Names of Den Rannion, Den Fellaemion and D’Alsennin. I am the last of those nobles and Poldrion drown me but I will defend their interests. I speak for people held under enchantment for nigh on thirty generations and many still lie insensible in the darkness. I want them back, and if I need some trumpery badge to make you people take me seriously then I will wear one, but it means precious little to me.”

“What he means is—” began Casuel in strangled tones.

“I can speak for myself, Master Mage!” Temar spat.

“Then speak,” the Emperor commanded.

“The only reason I came to you is my people will suffer still more in a quarrel not of our making. Kel Ar’Ayen is simply one more piece on the game board between Tor Bezaemar and D’Olbriot, and I cannot let that go unchallenged. Tor Bezaemar has been orchestrating all the cases brought before you in the courts. By way of retaliation, the Sieur and his brothers are planning every assault possible on Tor Bezaemar property and allied Names. D’Olbriot’s man there heard them.” Temar gestured at Ryshad who was standing motionless by the door, head raised, eyes level.

“You wear a chosen man’s armring,” the Emperor observed, a distinct chill in his voice. “Shouldn’t you be keeping your Sieur’s confidences?”

“I believe an open quarrel with Tor Bezaemar will harm the House.” Ryshad continued to stare straight ahead. “My loyalties are to all who bear the Name, not merely to the person of the Sieur.”

“Guliel’s not stupid, he must see this will only discredit his arguments in court,” said the Emperor, frustrated. “Why’s D’Olbriot taking justice into his own hands?”

“In my day we went to the Emperor for justice.” Temar stepped round the table to stand toe to toe with Tadriol. “You must stop this quarrel before it gets out of hand. Before all your advocates have said their pieces, innocent men will have lost their livelihoods, and if Kel Ar’Ayen is cut adrift my people may well lose their lives.”

“When I see open antagonism between two powerful Houses I will act to limit the damage,” the Emperor protested.

“Can you not stop it before it starts?” demanded Temar. “Do you wait until the roof catches before you tear down a burning house?”

“Then bring evidence untainted by magic before the courts,” repeated the Emperor with some heat. “Where all can witness it and justice can be seen to be done.”

“If we had it, we would!” Temar cried, frustrated. “We do not. Why else do you think we tried this?”

“I doubt shouting is going to achieve very much.” Avila strode into the room with Velindre and Allin at her heels. All three swept graceful curtseys to the Emperor, the swish of skirts the only sound to ruffle the abrupt silence.

“May I make known Avila, Demoiselle Tor Arrial,” said Temar, for want of anything better. “And Velindre Ychane, Allin Mere, mages of Hadrumal.”

“You didn’t get here by carriage.” Tadriol looked disconcerted for the first time.

“Velindre’s magic served the purpose rather better.” Avila fixed the Emperor with an impatient glare. “I take it you want us to prove ourselves?”

“How do you know that?” Tadriol looked instantly suspicious.

“Allin scryed for you when the Relict left.” Avila spared the girl an approving smile that set her blushing scarlet. “It did not look a happy conversation and I have had a bellyful of Tormalin scepticism these last few days, so it seemed a likely guess.”

“You didn’t translocate here when you only knew the place through scrying?” Casuel was looking scandalised at Velindre.

“Where’s Lady Channis?” Ryshad asked suddenly.

“On her way home in her carriage,” Allin assured him.

“Can we stick to the point before us?” Avila asked, scathing. “What kind of proof do you need, highness, to accept the evidence of your own eyes?”

Tadriol looked thoughtful, rolling the overlarge ring round his finger. “You say this spell has to be worked between two mages?”

Velindre nodded.

“You, go with my Steward.” The Emperor pointed abruptly at Casuel. “Master Jainne, take him to some room at the far end of the palace. No, don’t ask me, I don’t want anyone in this room knowing, not until this lady here finds him with her magic’ He inclined his head stiffly at Velindre.

The Steward relieved his feelings by slamming the door once he’d hurried Casuel through it. The wizard’s anxious queries went unanswered and rapidly faded into the distance.

Silence swelled to fill the small room with tension. Temar found it impossible to sit or stand still. He walked around, ostensibly admiring the delicate paintings hung on the walls. Landscapes were picked out in subtle watercolour, a suggestion of trees framing a proudly Rational dwelling here, a tangle of ivy detailed over the ruins of some ancient house there. Tiny script engraved below identified it as the Savorgan residence of Den Jaepe. Temar sighed; those towers were clearly long since fallen from the heights he remembered. He moved on, a sideways glance showing him Allin perched on the edge of her chair, face unhappily flushed. Their eyes met, he gave her a momentary smile of encouragement, and the answering support in her gaze rewarded him. Ryshad was still by the door, stance straight as a lance. Avila was similarly stiff-backed, hands neatly folded in her lap, every year of her age plain on her weary face. The only people seemingly at ease were Velindre and the Emperor. The lady mage was looking around the room with unashamed curiosity while Tadriol relaxed in his chair, watching her.

“That should be long enough,” the Emperor said, suddenly sitting upright. “Show us where he is.”

Velindre calmly retrieved the tray from beneath the window. “I take it this is what Cas was using?” She glanced at Tadriol. “Don’t you think he’d have come a little better prepared if this was all some elaborate hoax?”

Temar fetched her a taper from the mantelshelf.

“Thank you.” Scarlet fire blossomed in her hand as she set the tray high on the mantel, holding the taper in front of it, face seemingly more angular than ever as she worked her magic.

A smooth golden glow in the centre of the shining metal deepened to a burning amber before splitting around a silver rift. Almost too bright to look at, the brilliant lines framed a widening picture of Casuel sitting indignantly in a small room with a single window high behind him, washstand and ewer just visible.

Velindre smiled. “Your Steward seems to have put my esteemed colleague in a privy.”

“He’s on his way to tell you that himself,” snapped Casuel crossly, glaring through the spell. “Kindly send him back with the key.”

Temar had to turn away to hide his smile and saw the top of Allin’s head as she stared determinedly at the floor.

Velindre licked finger and thumb, snuffing the taper with a faint hiss. “Sufficient proof? We could argue the rights and wrongs of it all day.”

“Your talents certainly seem to be all that your associates boasted,” Tadriol said slowly.

Velindre smiled. “The cockerel can crow all he wants, highness, but it’s the hen that yields the eggs.”

A smile tugged at the Emperor’s mouth before he looked at Avila, face intent. “You say you can compel the truth. Do so, to me, now.”

“If you wish.” Avila pressed bloodless lips together. “Do you swear by all you hold sacred to speak truth not falsehood? This will only work if you are a man of your word.”

“I swear by the blood of my House and my father,” Tadriol said with forceful indignation.

“Raeponin an iskatel, fa nuran aestor. Fedal tris amria lekat.” Avila spoke with biting precision. “Now, Emperor Tadriol the Provident, fifth of that Name, tell me you do not suspect Dirindal Tor Bezaemar of a hand in the deaths that have plagued your House!”

Tadriol opened his mouth, frowned and licked his lips. He swallowed hard, once and then a second time, tugging at the collar of his shirt. Fear creased his brow momentarily before he mastered a calculating frown. He coughed. “True enough, my lady, I suspect her and with better reason than you know.” He pointed abruptly at Velindre. “Do it to her!”

“I swear to speak truthfully, on the air that I breathe and the magic it grants me.” Velindre seemed unperturbed.

Avila repeated her incantation as Tadriol moved to stand in front of Velindre, searching her face with merciless eyes. “Then was there any deception in what I saw? Is this some scheme concocted by Hadrumal?”

“No deception, no concoction,” she said calmly. “You saw the plain, unhindered truth. Ask Channis, if you don’t trust us.”

“I may just do that,” the Emperor retorted. Turning on his heel, he walked over to the window and stared out into the gardens. “Get out, all of you. I have a great deal to think through and precious little time.”

Temar didn’t move. “You have to act before D’Olbriot and Tor Bezaemar bring chaos down on us all.”

Tadriol turned his head with a ferocious scowl. “Chaos is no matter for foolish jests, D’Alsennin.” His anger faded in the face of Temar’s evident confusion. “I think this afternoon’s dance should be soon enough, don’t you? I’ll see you all there, all of you, including you, chosen man. Ask Master Jainne for cards.” He looked back out through the window, arms folded across his chest.

Temar realised everyone was looking at him for guidance. “Until this afternoon, then.” He led the way out through the anteroom. Out in the corridor the Steward came hurrying towards them with a faintly malicious air.

Temar spoke before the man could open his mouth. “Yes, we know you thought it amusing to shut Cas in the privy. Go and let him out. We’ll wait downstairs. Oh, and you can bring us five cards for this dance.”

Ryshad heaved a sigh of relief as the Steward left. “The Sieur has already told me I’m attending you this afternoon. That means we’ve a card over to settle our account with Charoleia.”

Temar managed to set aside the distracting thought of dancing with the enticing beauty.

“Can you show us to the stairs?” Velindre was frowning as she spoke and not merely over the route out of the palace. Casuel was lost in ecstatic rapture but Allin was looking distraught.

“Is there some problem?” Temar asked her.

“What are we going to wear?” she said, aghast.

The Imperial Palace of Tadriol the Provident, Summer Solstice Festival, Fifth Day, Noon

The contrast with the morning’s empty halls was startling when we returned to the Imperial Palace. Nobility in Festival finery thronged the grounds, bright sun striking fire from diamonds, sapphires and rubies, not that the well born spent much time beneath that merciless glare. Descending from their carriages in the great courtyard where the palace made three sides of a square, they paused just long enough for due admiration from the commonalty pressed ten deep beyond the black railings before hurrying into the cool of the interior. Den Janaquel liveries were well in evidence, keeping the endless procession of carriages moving smoothly in and out through the tall iron gates.

“I had not realised the palace was so big,” remarked Temar as our coach paused to cheers from the avid populace. He raised an absent hand to tug at the lace at his neck, something he’d been doing the entire drive here.

“You don’t realise how far it goes back when you approach it from the other frontage.” The coach was getting uncomfortably stuffy and I was sweating in my close-cut livery. My stomach felt as hollow as a drum, what little food I’d managed to eat sitting leaden beneath my breastbone.

“Is the place used to any useful purpose, other than Festival frolics for the idle rich?” Avila fanned herself with a discreet spread of fluffy blue feathers that matched her summer blue gown. The shell inlay of the fan’s lacquered handle reflected the pearly iridescence of her white lace overdress.

I turned to her. “The Emperor is the main link between commonalty and nobility, Demoiselle. He hosts receptions for merchants here, meets with master craftsmen, with the shrine fraternities. If a Duke from Lescar or some Relshazri magistrate visits, this is where they stay and where anyone doing business with them has the Emperor as impartial witness. Most importantly for us, this is where the Emperor brings the Sieurs of the Houses together to discuss any concerns.”

That thought prompted me to look out of our coach window for Tor Bezaemar, Den Thasnet or Den Muret crests on passing door panels.

“Why do you suppose D’Olbriot sent us on in a separate coach?” Temar fussed with his shirt collar again, linen creamy against the dark blue of his coat and breeches.

“To remind people you’ve your own claim to rank?” I hazarded. I hadn’t a clue what the Sieur was thinking. He’d accepted the startling news that the wizards were to come to the dance with bland equanimity and made no comment at all on our unexpected, unsanctioned absence for so much of the morning.

“You think cheap theatrics will convince anyone?” Avila sniffed. “We’ve been dancing to D’Olbriot’s tune this whole Festival, and everyone knows it.”

The carriage jounced as the gate opened for us and the horses trotted in. As we drew up before the shallow stairs, Tor Tadriol lackeys were already opening the white double doors. I jumped down to offer Avila my arm.

She descended with slow dignity and paused to arrange her skirts as Temar disdained the footman’s offer of help. “Where now, Ryshad?”

“Perhaps we should wait a moment.” I indicated the Sieur’s carriage following us through the gates. As the driver pulled up his horses Messire was the first out of the door, splendid in peacock green brocade catching every eye in the sunlight. His brother Leishal, his son Myred and nephew Camarl were all dressed in the same cloth, cut in subtly different styles as befitted their ages and rank, an impressive statement of united D’Olbriot power and influence. Between them they wore an Emperor’s ransom in emeralds.

Lady Channis’s carriage drew up behind, the Den Veneta crest of arrows proud on the door. Resplendent in crimson silk overlaid with pale rose lace, she escorted a posy of the most eligible Demoiselles honouring the D’Olbriot name, the girls dressed in all the colours of a flower garden. Anyone doubting my lady’s role in the House was plainly advised to think again. Ustian and Fresil followed in an open coach, preening themselves in the same peacock brocade.

As the carriages moved slowly round to the far gate, a smaller, uncrested coach was ushered in with scant ceremony. Casuel got out, stumbling awkwardly as he trod on the hem of his gold-brocaded robe. Velindre followed with easy grace, her undressed blonde hair striking among the intricate black and brunette coiffures. Her unadorned dove grey dress struck a muted note among the bolder colours all around but style and cloth were impeccable. I looked more closely.

“I see you have a good eye for a dress, Ryshad,” Avila remarked. “Few men look at more than the seamstress’s sums. Yes, it is the one I wore to Tor Kanselin. If Guliel’s going to waste his gold buying me three changes of clothes for every day of Festival, someone might as well get the wear out of them.” She was plainly annoyed about something or someone but I couldn’t be sure who or why.

The Sieur was greeting Lady Channis, embracing her with a fond kiss that won appreciative whistles from the watching crowd. As she took his arm the rest of the family paired off in practised fashion.

He nodded to Temar. “If you and the Demoiselle Tor Arrial are ready?”

Temar offered Avila his arm with old-fashioned formality and she accepted with a glint in her eye. Seeing Casuel dithering over whether to escort Velindre or Allin, I bowed to Temar and to Messire and went down the steps.

“My lady mage, may I have the honour of escorting you?” Allin was holding herself with self-possession so rigid I wondered if she was breathing. I winked at her and she relaxed enough to give me a little smile. That was a relief; I didn’t want her fainting on me.

“Come on, Cas.” Velindre slipped her arm through his and it was hard to say who escorted whom up the wide stone stair.

“That’s a very elegant dress,” I remarked to Allin as we waited for the chamberlain at the door to admit each couple. The watered damson silk flattered her mousy colouring, and with luck wouldn’t clash too badly with her inevitable blushes.

Innocent delight lent an unexpected appeal to her plain face. “Demoiselle Avila had the maids turning out every wardrobe in the residence until they found something to fit me.”

I looked at the assembled ladies of the Name. The gown had probably come from Demoiselle Ticarie’s closets, given the expert cut to disguise a short-coupled figure. Allin was lucky D’Olbriot ladies didn’t run to height like Den Hefeken or willowy girls like Tor Kanselin.

“Your cards, my lady, my master.” We showed the chamberlain the folded pasteboard we each wore tied to our wrists and were duly ushered into a stylish salon.

“This is very impressive,” said Allin in faint tones.

“They say the floor’s inlaid with wood traded from every corner of the Old Empire and the Archipelago,” I told her with a friendly smile.

The floor’s pattern of circles and arcs was nicely balanced between rational restraint and exuberant display. Not that we could see much of it between the skirts and soft dancing shoes of the assembled nobles. The walls showed the same transition between older extravagance and later restraint, single fronds and blossoms moulded in the plaster rather than the intricate swags and garlands of an earlier age but still bright with gold leaf burnished to a delicate sheen. Vast double doors in the far wall would open in turn to the Imperial ballroom when Tadriol was ready to welcome his peers.

Temar had stopped to look up at the ceiling, heedless of people coming in after us. Plaster panels high above our heads were painted with the finest interpretations of ancient legends that the artists of the day had been able to offer the first Tadriol. In the corners, Dastennin with his crown of seaweed and shells was pouring out the seas between this realm and the Otherworld, while opposite Halcarion hung the moons in the sky before setting her diadem of stars to brighten the darkness. The animals of plain and forest knelt before Talagrin, garlanded with autumn leaves. Drianon, a sheaf of wheat in one arm, was bringing trees into blossom with a sweep of her other hand, while flowers bloomed in her footsteps.

Between each of these scenes other gods traversed the twin realms of existence in delicately painted ovals. Arimelin spun the dreams that might reach this world from the Other, Trimon raised his harp with music to echo through the Shades and beyond while Larasion summoned the wind and weather that knows no boundaries. On the one hand Ostrin healed the sick whose time to leave this realm was not yet come, and on the other he welcomed those about to be newly born, handing them the cup of wine that would wipe away any memory of their sojourn in the Otherworld.

“Impressive but none too subtle,” remarked Velindre, sardonic eyes on the centre panel, where the circle of Saedrin with his keys, Raeponin with his scales and Poldrion with his ferry pole stood equal in their authority. Lesser figures ringed the gods, echoing their stance and archaic dress.

“Are those actual portaits?” Avila studied the distant figures.

“Of the Sieurs of the day,” I confirmed.

“Do you suppose they remembered Saedrin’s grant of rank brought them duty as well as privilege?” Temar speculated pointedly.

“Shall we move on?” I suggested. “We’re blocking the doorway.”

The large room was already crowded; Messire invariably timed his arrival to impress the greatest number of people while spending the least time possible in idle chatter before any festivities commenced.

“Are you committed to any dances?” Allin was nervously fingering her own card.

I shook my head. “It’s not really customary for chosen men.” But I wasn’t the only one wearing livery. There were a few proven here and there, moving with easy familiarity among the nobles, well-dressed wives on their arms. I tried to imagine Livak making polite conversation about the latest Toremal gossip while I discussed some question of trade or dispute at the Sieur’s bidding.

“Why does the Emperor want us here?” Allin wondered aloud.

“A very good question,” I agreed. This really wasn’t my place, was it? I’d taken my turn outside the doors as part of a Duty Cohort when the honour and burden of keeping the Festival peace fell to D’Olbriot, but I’d never expected to be a guest inside.

“Temar’s not going to lack for partners.” Allin sounded resigned. D’Alsennin was with Camarl by a side-table where ink and pens were laid out. Several D’Olbriot Demoiselles were noting their initials on his card and inviting him to return the compliment. A lackey hovered close by with an anxious eye.

Allin fiddled with her dance card. I saw faint regret on her round face. “Do you like to dance?”

“Yes,” she admitted, round face colouring a little. “That is, I used to, back home.”

“Don’t wizards dance in Hadrumal?” I’d never really thought much about how mages might enjoy themselves.

“Sometimes,” Allin replied. “But there are precious few musicians, and most wizards dance as if they’d their boots on the wrong feet.”

“It’s one of the things that make a mage-born army an impossibility.” Velindre came up on my other side, her clear tones cutting through the well-bred murmur. “Nine out of ten wizards seem incapable of holding a beat so they’d never be able to march in step.”

I smiled at her wry tone but dubious expressions around us suggested few others appreciated the joke.

“Planir, as you might expect, is remarkably light of foot and dances a very pretty measure,” Velindre continued, with unmistakable sarcasm. “But then, he’s so often the wizard that tests the rule.”

“You think rules should be observed?” I queried. “Weren’t you Otrick’s pupil? He bends rules until they splinter.”

Velindre’s face hardened into unflattering angles. “At least those rules were the same for everyone, not one set for Planir and his cronies and another for the rest of us.”

“Have you any news of Otrick?” Allin peered round me with wide, anxious eyes.

“No.” Fleeting brilliance rose and vanished in Velindre’s hazel eyes. “And it’s time Planir faced up to the truth. He cannot use this Kellarin business as the excuse for continually ignoring Hadrumal’s concerns.”

“There’s Casuel.” Allin seemed more concerned with matters in hand than quarrels in distant Hadrumal.

The mage was edging his way apologetically through the crowd, clutching his card in one sweaty hand. “Has anyone asked either of you to dance?”

“Are you offering?” Velindre smiled innocently.

Casuel hesitated just a breath too long. “Naturally, if you would do me the honour. Who else has asked you? Of what rank?”

Velindre showed him her unmarked card. “You have your choice of dances, Cas.”

He frowned. “Do you think Esquire Camarl would agree to me asking some of the ladies from the lesser families? From cadet blood lines?” The wizard looked around the crowded room. “Where is he?”

I scanned the throng but couldn’t see Esquire Camarl at all. What I could see were unmistakable knots of allied families. Firon Den Thasnet was standing with two Den Muret Demoiselles while his sister hung on the arm of the Sieur Den Rannion’s youngest brother. Close by the Sieur Tor Sylarre was smiling as he chatted with an elder Esquire Den Muret. Even given the increasing press of people, they were keeping an emphatic space between themselves and Gelaia Den Murivance as she laughed with her brother Maren and Jenty Tor Sauzet. Further round the room Orilan Den Hefeken was talking to her affianced Esquire Den Risiper, other Esquires of both houses agreeing dances with a knot of minor Den Ferrand and Den Gennael girls. Beyond the stony-faced Sieur Tor Priminale stood with his extensive array of cousins in an unapproachable circle.

As I watched, a lackey in palace colours came up to whisper politely to the Sieur Tor Sylarre. A lifetime’s training kept the Sieur’s face impassive but he bid an immediate farewell to Den Muret and followed the lackey through a discreet door on the far side of the wide salon.

Temar came over, waving his dance card to dry the writing. “Be careful not to brush against my leg, ladies,” he said breezily. “Some clumsy girl has just spilt ink down me. I believe her badge was Tor Priminale.” Anger showed momentarily beneath his light words.

I looked at the barely visible dampness on his dark blue breeches. “Fortunate that the Sieur suggested that colour.”

“Quite so,” smiled Temar thinly. “Sadly, the Demoiselle’s pretty orange feathers are now an unappealing brown. What might that signify in this complicated code these girls have concocted?”

I grinned at him. “I hate to think.”

“Where does that lead?” Temar nodded towards the door Tor Sylarre had disappeared through.

“It goes round to the throne room,” I replied.

“Esquire Camarl and the Sieur were summoned as soon as they arrived.” Temar and I exchanged a speculative look.

“When’s this dance going to begin?” Casuel demanded crossly. “It’s unbearably hot.” He fidgeted with the fronts of his heavy robe.

“Just be grateful this isn’t an evening dance,” I told him. “Add the heat of candles and we’d be melting faster than the beeswax.”

The salon ran the full width of the palace but even with upper windows open to breezes too high to disturb the ladies’ elegant hair, the temperature was rising fast.

“We could work a little judicious magic, Cas,” Velindre remarked. “I can start some air moving, and drawing the heat away would be a good exercise for Allin’s fire affinity.”

“We can’t use magic here.” Casuel was horrified. “Not without the Emperor’s permission.”

“We could ask him. Where is he?” At that moment, the brass-ornamented doors into the ballroom swung open and people spilled gratefully into the cooler space. Velindre looked into the ballroom as the crush in the anteroom cleared. “Isn’t your Emperor supposed to be receiving people?”

“The Sieur Tor Arrial’s just been sent for.” Temar was still looking at the single doorway where a lackey now stood unobtrusive guard.

That prompted me to look for Avila and I soon saw her with the Maitresse Tor Arrial. The Maitresse’s brother, Esquire Den Harkeil, was writing on Avila’s dance card with a smile that was positively flirtatious.

“I am glad to see someone is enjoying the day,” remarked Temar rather tightly as he followed my gaze.

“I don’t think Esquire Camarl is.” I nudged Temar as Camarl appeared through the side door, face impassive as he hurried to his uncles. The friendly smile on Ustian’s face faded as we watched, and Leishal positively glowered. Fresil snapped his fingers abruptly to summon Myred, starting a buzz of speculation among more than the Tor Kanselin ladies so abruptly deserted.

Temar looked to me for answers but I hadn’t any to give him. Then a stir in the ballroom turned every head but it was only footmen with trays crowded with glasses.

“I hope incautious drinking does not loosen too many inhibitions.” Temar beckoned with an authoritative hand.

I took a glass of deep golden wine. “I’ve never heard of one of these dances turning into a free-for-all, but I suppose there’s always a first time.”

“You don’t seriously think there’ll be violence?” Casuel asked nervously.

“He was joking, Cas,” Velindre told him scornfully.

Looking round the gathering, feeling the increasingly fervid undercurrents, I wasn’t so sure.

A flurry of carriages outside caused another distraction. I welcomed it until I saw the late arrivals were a solid phalanx of Tor Bezaemar. The Sieur entered with his aunt the Relict on his arm, each son and nephew behind escorting dutiful daughters of the House. Every cadet line was represented, wearing the Tor Bezaemar martlet worked into pendants, rings and brooches, combined with the badge of every line subsumed into the Name over the generations. After pausing on the threshold until Dirindal was satisfied with the impact of their entrance, the family scattered like a flock of birds, alighting on every group and conversation, prompting smiles and welcomes, some less convincing than others. Dirindal relinquished her nephew to his wife and took her grandson Kreve’s arm for a slow circuit of the wide salon. I saw a Tor Tadriol lackey heading immediately for the Sieur.

“This could be interesting.” Temar’s discreet nod directed me to Dirindal, who’d drawn level with Lady Channis. Messire’s lady was deep in laughing conversation with the Maitresse Tor Kanselin and neither drew so much as a breath as they turned dismissive shoulders on the Relict. Gathering the covey of assorted Demoiselles fluttering nervously around with brisk gestures with their fans, the two ladies walked away, never once making so much as eye contact with Dirindal. The Relict was left standing, a moment of unmistakable fury on her face before she raised a sweep of mossy feathers to conceal imperfectly an expression of wounded amiability. The Esquire managed no such masquerade, plainly outraged.

“Saedrin save us, Ryshad, you’ve certainly brought me to a fascinating occasion.” Charoleia’s voice at my elbow nearly made me spill my wine. “Good day to you, Temar.”

“My Lady Alaric.” He bowed to her, eyes sparkling and won a demure half-smile in return.

I did hope he wasn’t going to make a fool of himself in public, but then again that might distract the assembled nobility. All those families with ties of blood and loyalty to D’Olbriot were taking their cue to ignore Tor Bezaemar, some with more grace than others. Indignation was swelling among Den Muret, Den Rannion, Tor Priminale, leaving minor Houses exposed as the room divided into undeclared battle lines. Den Hefeken was looking to Den Ferrand for support while Den Gennael and Den Risiper drew into a defensive circle with Den Brennain.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Casuel’s voice seesawed between rebuke for Temar and fawning in Charoleia’s direction.

“My apologies. May I make known Lady Alaric of Thornlisse. This is Casuel Devoir, Velindre Ychane and Allin Mere. All mages of Hadrumal.” The laughter just beneath Temar’s words set Casuel looking suspiciously for some hidden slight.

“You know Ryshad?” Velindre was measuring Charoleia with frank curiosity.

Charoleia returned the candid appraisal. “We have acquaintance in common.” Her words were coloured with sufficient Lescari accents to lend a hint of foreign glamour, just as her pale lilac gown had a subtly northern cut. The gentian lace overlaying the silk brought out the colour of her eyes as well as emphasising the whiteness of her skin. A single silver chain carrying an amethyst and pearl pendant circled her elegant neck and more pearls studded a silver crescent lifting hair dressed high in an unmistakably Lescari style.

Velindre swung the fan chained at her waist. “There’ll be plenty here keen to make your acquaintance.” She sounded amused.

“That’s what such functions are for,” Charoleia replied sweetly.

We were certainly attracting a fair degree of notice. An unknown beauty, three wizards and a chosen man who’d rather be outside holding the horses were certainly a welcome neutral topic for speculation in the tense atmosphere. I wondered how long we’d serve as a diversion, seeing Firon Den Thasnet draining yet another glass of wine, angry colour high on his cheekbones.

“Open hostilities here will suit no one’s purpose,” Charoleia said softly. She was looking at two Tor Sylarre youths who were casting provocative sneers at a trio of Den Murivance Esquires, stiff-necked in their first appearance at such an exalted gathering.

“It’s all this talking that’s stoking up resentments,” I frowned. “But it’s the Emperor’s privilege to open the dance, and he’s nowhere to be seen.”

“But I am so ignorant of modern courtesies,” said Temar breezily. “My lady?” He offered a hand to Charoleia.

She shook her head, smiling. “I don’t care to be quite so noticeable, Temar.”

He grinned and I realised whatever he felt for Charoleia was a fair cry from the prickly devotion he’d lavished on Guinalle. That puzzle had me tongue-tied just long enough to stop me calling Temar back when he sauntered off, idly swinging the card on its ribbon at his wrist.

I watched a touch nervously as he tapped Orilan Den Hefeken on one shoulder. The Demoiselle greeted him with a ready smile but that faltered as he spoke. She turned to appeal to her Sieur. Camarl strolled over as Temar spread beseeching hands to Orilan. Several other people drew near and a new murmur rippled outwards. We watched as the Sieur Den Hefeken sent a footman hurrying to the chamberlain, whose face was betraying considerable strain. Master Jainne was standing by a circle of musicians silent at the far end of the ballroom, pipers with single, double and double-reeded instruments of differing sizes and curves backed by lutanists and bowed lyres.

“Oh look, Cas,” said Velindre brightly. “Your brother’s leading the music. What an honour for your family.”

The mage’s strangled reply was drowned beneath a lively chord. Temar led Orilan Den Hefeken into the centre of the floor and four other couples rapidly formed a set behind them. I hadn’t seen Messire return, but he appeared on the far side, Lady Channis graceful on his arm. Assorted scions of Den Murivance, Tor Kanselin and Den Castevin followed suit. Kreve Tor Bezaemar promptly led one of Tor Sylarre’s innumerable daughters out and Firon Den Thasnet followed with another.

“Competing over who dances the neatest figures should prove harmless enough,” said Charoleia with satisfaction. She took my hand and I found myself walking out to join the nearest set. She curtsied with consummate grace and I bowed, listening hard for the beat of the music, counting silently until I could move to one side with the other men. Charoleia swept past me with a sensuous whisper of perfumed silk and we both turned to join hands and follow the set in a series of rapid twists and turns, dropping and swapping hands as we went. I hadn’t danced since Winter Solstice and that had been a servants’ affair where errors were greeted with laughter rather than the contempt I could imagine here. Livak fitted into the lower halls well enough, but with the best will in the world I couldn’t see her dancing these complex measures with a tenth the grace of Charoleia.

I managed the exchange of partners without error and when Charoleia came back to me could breathe a little easier.

“You look very serious,” she observed as the music changed to a partner dance.

I took her in my arms. “Did you and Temar—” The words were out before I could bite my tongue.

Charoleia arched exquisite brows over limpid eyes. “Is that any concern of yours?”

I felt ashamed. “No, I suppose, forgive me.”

She laughed delicately. “Since you ask, yes we did. But rather more importantly for that young man, we talked long into the night and again in the cool of the morning. I think you’ll find him rather wiser to the differences between love and lust.”

I looked hastily from side to side in case anyone was overhearing this but we were safely isolated in the midst of the circling couples.

“I’d forgotten how tender an innocent can be,” Charoleia continued in an amused undertone. “But I think I convinced him passion alone rarely sustains a love affair beyond first rapture, no matter how hot and strong that flame burns. I think he’ll learn it’s best to temper that charming ardour with friendship.”

Charoleia’s indulgent satisfaction roused my indignation on Temar’s behalf. Then I wondered if such newfound wisdom might help cut the tangle of emotions binding him to Guinalle. “You had to take him into your bed to tell him that?”

“And to show him the delights of the flesh can be enjoyed simply for their own sake,” she replied easily. “Don’t tell me you’ve lived this long without learning that? I don’t imagine Livak would have bedded you otherwise.”

I took up the challenge in those periwinkle eyes. “What would you have done if I’d taken up your offer of such pleasures the other morning?”

“Compared notes with Livak.” Charoleia’s smile was instantly ruthless. “To let her know what manner of man you were, in case she thought different.”

I took a slow breath. “Halice just promised to knock me senseless if I didn’t do right by her.”

“That sounds like Halice,” Charoleia agreed lightly. “We both look out for our friends in our own way. Wait until you meet Sorgrad and ’Gren.”

“That’s something to look forward to,” I said with equal flippancy. “If we get to the end of Festival unscathed.”

We finished the dance in silence and parted in mutual accord. I watched as Charoleia artlessly insinuated herself into a laughing group of Den Breval ladies escorted by various men from a cadet Den Haurient line. Then I went to escort Allin on to the dance floor.

The Imperial Palace of Tadriol the Provident, Summer Solstice Festival, Fifth Day, Afternoon

Have you passed a pleasant Festival?” Temar could spare enough attention to attempt conversation with Gelaia Den Murivance now that the dance simply required them to advance hand in hand. At least he’d made his initial missteps with the amiable Orilan and various D’Olbriot Demoiselles. “It’s certainly been the most memorable of recent years.” Temar thought Gelaia was about to say something else but they reached the end of the figure and had to turn away from each other. He smiled politely as he swept some unknown Demoiselle around, skirts swirling as he set careful hands on her slim waist. Gelaia raised her fan as they stood waiting their turn to pass down the middle of the set. “Have you made any progress learning the language of feathers?” she asked archly. Temar shook his head. “It has been a busy five days.” Gelaia’s eyes kept sliding away from Temar’s gaze. “There are plenty of people here interested to see what colours I carry. But then no one knows what a D’Alsennin livery would be, do they?”

Temar studied her fan, a spread of glossy crimson layered over darker maroon plumes clasped in a golden handle studded with rubies and softened with a flurry of down. Vivid scarlet tendrils with tufted ends trembled on either side and Temar wondered what kind of bird those came from. He realised Gelaia was looking expectantly at him between glances at the rest of their set. “You carry Den Murivance colours, do you not? Rather than the white plumes you used before?”

Gelaia raised a defiant chin. “Which signifies I have no interest in any other House at present—and none has an interest in me.”

Temar took a moment to catch her meaning. “Messire D’Olbriot will be disappointed.”

“Is he the only one?” Gelaia demanded with some indignation.

Temar took her hand to lead her down the middle of the other couples. “I had barely realised I was being considered as a suitable candidate for your hand. Why am I now so quickly rejected?” Completing the last steps of the dance Temar turned with Gelaia to bow to the rest of the set.

Gelaia fanned herself, faint colour rising beneath her mask of cosmetics. “There are too many complications.”

Temar looked at her in silent expectation.

“I know Toremal, I know how to dance the measures, how to play the games,” she said with sudden forthrightness, pulling her hand free. “You don’t, but you’ve already made dangerous enemies. I’ll marry to suit my Sieur and I’ll manage whatever affairs my new House requires of me, but I’m not ready to play for stakes as high as Tor Bezaemar. I don’t know what else you’re caught up in, and that worries me. You’re laid low with a knife wound and yet sorcery has you healed by the following day. You associate with wizards who pluck a falling man out of the air.”

“I had little choice over any of that,” said Temar, stung.

Gelaia forced a smile. “I do have a choice, Esquire. I choose not to get involved. I’m sorry.”

Temar bowed low and watched Gelaia hurry away to the security of her family. Looking round he smiled blandly at discreetly curious faces before sauntering over to Allin who was sipping a glass of wine, face flushed with pleasure. “May I have the honour of this next dance?”

“Let me catch my breath.” Allin puffed out her cheeks inelegantly.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Temar asked curiously.

“Oh, I’m determined to,” said Allin with a glint in her eye. “Poldrion can loose his demons on these patronising women if I don’t, especially that charming Den Rannion Demoiselle over there. She tells me how very old-fashioned my dancing is.”

“Your steps can scarcely be less up to the moment than mine.” Temar was about to continue but a flurry of activity turned every head towards the throne room door and the entire vast space fell as silent as an empty shrine.

Jainne the chamberlain’s voice cracked slightly as he spoke into the expectant hush. “Tadriol, called Provident by the grace of his peers and Emperor by the will of the Convocation of Princes.”

Temar realised he was badly placed to see anything going on but he wasn’t about to draw attention to himself by moving. Movement spread in slow ripples from the far side of the room, the nobility clearing the floor to stand arrayed against the walls. Emperor Tadriol walked into the centre of the vast room. He wore plain breeches beneath a full-skirted coat of the same bronze silk brocaded with black. A wide collar of knotted gold links around his shoulders carried a central pendant of a mighty golden bull, head low and brandishing defiant horns. A narrow band of square-cut rubies set in gold confined the simple frill at his shirt collar. Matching stones shone on the brooches catching back the cuffs of his coat, revealing bracelets of thick gold chain adorning his wrists rather than lace. Each of his fingers bore a different ring in a mismatch of styles and gems that could only come from an extensive collection of heirlooms. The Emperor made a slow circuit of the floor, his pace never varying, his slight smile widening a touch as he made a brief half bow to each Sieur.

“I apologise for my tardiness and I hope you’ve been enjoying the music and wine.” Tadriol spoke with composed sincerity as he returned to the centre of the floor. “I won’t insult your intelligence by assuming that has been easy in the present climate — and I’m not talking about the weather.” His tone grew more formal. “We are all aware of the unusual events of this last year and that matters have reached a crucial juncture. It is my duty to guide the Empire down the road most beneficial for all, so this lays a heavy responsibility on my shoulders. That’s why I took this opportunity to consult with the Sieurs of those Houses directly concerned and also with those who have held themselves aloof. My thanks for your patience while I gained a fuller perspective.”

Tadriol paused to allow the whispers started by mention of Kellarin to run their course around the assembled nobles.

“Imperial verdicts are normally given in the Imperial Court, of course, but with the considerable ill feeling I see blighting the better judgement of some most influential Princes, I think it best to settle matters as swiftly as possible.” Tadriol’s words were cutting in their measured delivery. “I’ve heard representations in court and in private from the Houses concerned and I find the whole matter confused by malice, envy and misunderstandings both accidental and wilful. Outside interference has only worsened an already difficult situation. Accordingly, I have decided to issue a series of Imperial decrees.”

From the collective intake of breath, Temar judged this must be some considerable departure from normal practice. Allin gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. Temar squeezed back absently as he looked around for Ryshad. The chosen man was some distance away, Velindre and Casuel flanking him.

The Emperor raised a hand to brush back an errant wisp of hair. The chains around his wrist chinked, a slight sound heard in every corner of the room.

“The Imperial decree is not a power I use lightly,” Tadriol continued severely. “I do so to prevent these disagreements getting any further out of hand, to the potential ruination of the Empire. This unseemly bickering has already done our Names no credit at all with the commonalty. It is my order that every House abandons these petty quarrels, on pain of my extreme displeasure.”

The Emperor smiled suddenly, speaking in more conciliatory tones.

“Look to the future rather than past grievances. But to the formalities. Firstly, I declare the House of D’Olbriot has no exclusive rights to deal with Kellarin or any persons living there. Any other Name or lesser trading concern is entirely at liberty to make whatever arrangements they see fit, free of D’Olbriot restraint.”

Temar glanced at Messire D’Olbriot but the Sieur’s face was unreadable.

“Secondly, I declare the House of D’Alsennin has no claim on properties presently enjoyed by Tor Alder or any other Name. Grants and bequests made countless seasons ago cannot outweigh generations of care. I will not see ancient legalities used to upset the trades, households and livelihoods of so many innocent tenants. This decree also denies claims by scions of Tor Arrial, Den Domesin or any other noble House that ventured over the ocean in times past.”

The Emperor’s tone of mild regret was no comfort to Temar, who felt sick misgiving hollowing out his belly. Was he being sent back to Kel Ar’Ayen deprived both of D’Olbriot aid and of any property that might have yielded coin to pay the mercenaries he’d surely need to defend his hapless colony now?

“But Raeponin’s scales must be balanced, if justice is to be done.” The Emperor’s stern words interrupted congratulatory smiles being passed between Tor Bezaemar and Den Thasnet. “Just as D’Alsennin has no claims on this side of the ocean, no Name here may assert rights over or demand dues from the people of Kellarin. Haffrein Den Fellaemion was determined his new settlement would offer freedom from the shackles of greedy nobility…” Tadriol paused just long enough for affront to settle on various faces around the room. “Hardly surprising, given they were fleeing the debauched excesses of Nemith the Last. I am minded to honour that great seafarer by respecting his wishes, so I repeat: no Name here has any rights over Kellarin.”

The Emperor took a slow sip from a glass of water.

“But the prestige of all our Names rests on the care we take of our tenantry. You have granted the House of Tadriol the additional responsibility of caring for the Empire as a whole and its peoples wherever they may be. I cannot simply abandon these colonists. Every Prince of the Convocation would rightly condemn me if these blameless people were left undefended, their wealth plundered and their liberties curtailed by unwanted settlers heedlessly shipped overseas.

“Fortunately, we have a ready solution to hand. If the House of D’Alsennin is a dead tree on this side of the ocean, it has a flourishing offshoot in the present holder of the Name. Accordingly, I decree that Temar D’Alsennin be raised to the dignity of Sieur of that House, with all the obligations and entitlements of that position. He will sit as the equal of any Sieur in the Convocation, where he may call any House abusing his tenants before the judgement of Emperor and Princes. All colonists of Kellarin are hereby designated tenants of the House of D’Alsennin and as such are under his protection. Anyone wishing to trade across the ocean must refer their proposals to the Sieur and submit to his scrutiny. I’m not about to leave Kellarin as a D’Olbriot monopoly but I’m not having some free-for-all where these people are bamboozled by any chancer who can hire a boat!”

The Emperor’s sudden lapse into breezy informality won smiles from various Houses, some relieved, some reluctant. Tadriol raised a hand as subdued comment threatened to break into open conversation.

“But one man cannot build a House on his own. Since there are other sprigs of nobility planted in Kellarin’s distant soil, I decree that these and their descendants be considered cadet lines of D’Alsennin and I ask the Sieur to ensure that they style themselves accordingly.”

The Emperor reached into a pocket and the entire room fell silent as he walked over to Temar. Temar swallowed hard. The hollowness he’d felt when he’d thought Kel Ar’Ayen was being abandoned was nothing compared to the crushing weight he felt resting on his shoulders now.

The Emperor halted in front of Temar and held out an open hand. A silver badge lay on his palm, three holm oak leaves, parallel and overlapping. “Your insignia is granted, Messire.”

Temar studied the brooch for a moment, until he could be sure his hands wouldn’t tremble as he pinned it to the breast of his coat. The leaves shone bright and untarnished against the dark blue silk that echoed the great sapphire of his father’s ring.

“My undying gratitude, my Emperor,” Temar said with archaic formality.

“From you, that’s quite some promise,” murmured the Emperor in an undertone.

An isolated pair of hands began clapping somewhere in the crowd, soon joined by others. The Emperor turned to acknowledge the applause and the expectant faces.

“There are a few more trifles to settle before we can all enjoy the rest of the afternoon. One of the most noteworthy aspects to the Kellarin tale is the sudden reappearance of magic in our midst. I confess I’m still uncertain of much that’s gone on, but some things I am sure of. Firstly, while the colonists of Kellarin owe a great debt to the wizards of Hadrumal, that changes nothing on this side of the ocean. All Houses may make whatever use they wish of magecraft, just as they have always done, and I will continue to listen to the advice of the Archmage Planir or any other wizard who wishes to offer counsel. But I will not grant such words any undue weight nor allow any wizard undue influence within Tormalin.”

Temar could see various people glancing smugly at the Sieur and his brothers, eager to see how they were taking this perceived rebuke.

“Indeed, what need do we have of Hadrumal’s magic?” the Emperor asked abruptly. “It was Tormalin Artifice saved the people of Kellarin in those far-off days, the same ancient skills that helped Correl the Stalwart carry Tormalin rule to the very edge of the Great Forest. I confess I’m curious to see what benefits Artifice bestows on Kellarin, and who knows, we may all benefit from judicious use of its proficiencies in years to come.” Tadriol paused and took a thick silver ring off one finger.

“But we cannot expect the people of Kellarin to share their Artifice with us if we deny them those still hidden in the enchantment that protected them through their lost generations. As many of you already know, Messire D’Alsennin came asking for our help. He needs to find the jewels and ornaments, the swords and badges of allegiance that safeguarded the very minds of his people as they slept.” Tadriol shrugged. “I do not pretend to understand how this was accomplished, but I am shocked to learn some people have been tempted to extort coin or advantage in exchange for these items, all but demanding ransom for the very life of some helpless individual. This is my final decree, and I will summon a muster of the Cohorts to enforce it if need be. Every item that Messire D’Alsennin even suspects may be needed to restore his people is to be surrendered, without question, objection or recompense.” The Emperor’s outrage shaded into scorn. “We can all stand a little loss, even of heirloom pieces, and we gave up putting a price on a life in Tormalin when Inshol the Curt closed the slave markets.”

Tadriol handed the ring to Temar. The faceted band was flattened on the top into a hexagon carrying an inscription worn illegible by age. Temar’s first thought was he’d never be able to manage the concentration needed to summon any image from the ring, his next that doing so would in any case be a very bad idea. He ransacked his memory, but before he could match the ring to any sleeper the Emperor had walked away to stand squarely before the Sieur D’Olbriot.

“Messire, as Adjurist of the Princes, do you need to summon a Convocation to ratify these decrees?”

D’Olbriot smiled calmly. “Since we are returning to ancient forms today, shall we content ourselves with a simple show of hands? Forgive me,” he commented dryly. “I didn’t know I’d need the rod of office.” He turned to borrow Leishal’s stick and thumped the floor three times. “Stand forth, Sieurs, to uphold the dignity of your Name!”

The crowd shifted to allow the assorted heads of the Houses to stand forward.

“Do you commit yourselves and all who claim the shelter of your House to abide by these decrees? I charge you by the duty you swore to the Names that elected you and to the Convocation that accepted you. Your oath remains to defend Tormalin from enemies without and tyranny within, with arms, with counsel and by enforcing the Emperor’s writ.”

Temar watched as the Sieurs of minor Houses put their hands up at once, some hesitant, some with alacrity. Den Muret obstinately refused to look at Den Thasnet but Tor Priminale directed scathing contempt at Tor Bezaemar before slowly raising his hand. Den Murivance and Tor Kanselin both looked well content as they signalled ready agreement, a move spurring rapid compliance from Den Hefeken, Den Brennain and a score of others.

“Temar,” Allin hissed. “Put your own hand up!”

Heat rising in his face, he did so, and was gratified to see that it prompted a further wave of agreement.

Messire D’Olbriot looked impassively at Temar before turning to Camarl, who was trying to hide his chagrin. “As Adjurist, I must naturally call on my Designate to vote,” he remarked in an amiable aside to Tadriol that the entire room heard. “Esquire Camarl? Does D’Olbriot stand with the Emperor for good governance?”

Camarl cleared his throat. “Naturally, Messire.” He stuck an emphatic hand in the air.

Now all eyes were turned to the Sieur Tor Bezaemar. He raised a limp hand with a sickly smile in stark contrast to the white-faced fury of his aunt.

“Then we are all agreed,” said the Emperor happily. “Thank you all for your patience. I suggest we enjoy ourselves.”

The musicians who’d been sitting studiously looking at their feet all this while began a lively tune but no one seemed inclined to dance. The crowd shifted and mingled, conversations breaking out on all sides.

“What are you going to say to Messire D’Olbriot?” breathed Allin at Temar’s side.

“I really do not know,” he replied, still studying the Emperor’s ring.

“He’s coming over,” said Allin nervously. “Do you want me to stay?”

Temar saw she was ashen with apprehension. “Go and see what Velindre makes of it all,” he suggested.

All the same he felt uncomfortably bereft as he watched Allin sidle past Messire as the Sieur and his brothers advanced in matching step.

“Messire.” The Sieur D’Olbriot bowed politely and Temar returned the compliment.

“An unexpected turn of events,” was the best he could find to say.

“Indeed,” replied the Sieur. “Quite unforeseen.”

“Can you manage all the affairs of Kellarin by yourself?” demanded Esquire Camarl, his voice hovering between belligerence and concern.

“Not without your help,” replied Temar forthrightly. “I heard nothing forbidding me to ask anyone’s counsel.”

“There’ll be Houses queuing up to offer you advice,” said Camarl sourly.

“Then I will have to test it, to see if it’s as sound as the guidance you have always given me.” Temar hoped Camarl wasn’t going to sulk about this for long.

The Sieur smiled. “We can discuss all this at our leisure. I just came to wish you luck, Temar. You’re certainly going to need it.”

His brothers murmured their agreement, but Ustian surprised Temar with a friendly wink. “Don’t look at me like that, Fresil,” he rebuked his brother. “Think it through and then argue if you must. While you do, I want a drink.” The Esquires and Sieur bowed and walked away, their conversation amiable.

“They’ll be talking about this dance for years to come.”

“Ryshad!” Temar turned gratefully to find the chosen man at his elbow. “Where were you?”

“With Casuel.” Ryshad nodded. “He’s choking on the ruination of his plans to be Imperial Sorcerer and Velindre’s planning some come-uppance for Planir, if I’m any judge.” He broke off. “It looks as if the Sieur Den Ilmiral wants to speak to you.”

Temar heaved a sigh. “I would rather wait until I have some notion of what to say. Could we leave without causing undue offence?”

“Not really.” Ryshad frowned. “But you can say you don’t want to talk business on the last day of Festival. That’s always been the custom, and if anyone doesn’t like that it’s their problem, not yours.”

“I hardly think that would be courteous, given the precedent the Emperor has just set,” muttered Temar glumly. “How much longer does this entertainment last?”

“Not long, and I’ll watch your back.” Ryshad managed a half-smile. “The Emperor’s Dole is distributed to the commonalty on the eighth chime of the day. That’s when most of the nobility will leave.”

“If the populace is coming here to claim their bread and meat, can we risk going home without tripping over peasants and street urchins?” asked Temar sarcastically.

“The Emperor hands out coin these days, Temar.” Ryshad stepped aside to take a dutiful stance at his shoulder. “Just smile politely and don’t commit yourself to anything.”

Temar took a deep breath as the eager Sieur Den Ilmiral hurried over.

The Imperial Palace of Tadriol the Provident, Summer Solstice Festival, Fifth Day, Early Evening

You must dine with us before you go. overseas again.”

“As soon as I know what my plans are, I’ll send word to your Steward.”

“Your Steward will contact his.” As the senior Esquire Den Haurient moved off, I leaned forward to murmur softly over Temar’s shoulder. The lad was doing well with polite platitudes but there were still things he needed to learn.

We were circulating slowly around the anteroom while a few indefatigable dancers begged a few last tunes from the musicians. Temar paused to exchange some observation with the Maitresse D’Istrac before raising one eyebrow at me. “What Steward?”

“You’ll need one, now you’re a Sieur,” I told him with a grin. “And sworn men, and a residence, an archive, a Designate, a Maitresse, come to think of it.”

“I hardly think all that will be needed in Kel Ar’Ayen,” he began forcefully. He stopped and glared at me. “You are joking?”

“Pretty much,” I allowed. “But you do need a Steward of sorts.”

Temar looked thoughtful, but before he could speak the doors to the outer court opened and Tor Tadriol lackeys began discreetly alerting various nobles to the arrival of their carriages. “Can we go now?” he asked instead.

“As soon as possible. We don’t want to get caught up in the crowds coming for the Emperor’s Dole.” I looked round for the Sieur and saw him coming towards us with Esquire Camarl at his side. “Messire.” I bowed low.

“Ryshad.” He acknowledged me with a friendly nod. “Temar, what are your plans for this evening?”

Temar looked nonplussed. “Are we not going back to the residence?”

“I think we deserve a little time to ourselves, don’t you?” Messire responded. “Camarl and I are going to take a drive through the city, to find a quiet eating-house. Would you care to join us?”

“The residence will be full of girls giggling over the Esquires they danced with and comparing notes about dresses and fans,” Camarl added. He seemed in a better humour now.

“I’ve no wish to spoil my dinner with Fresil and Leishal arguing over today’s surprises,” said Messire with unexpected frankness.

“Are they very displeased?” Temar enquired, equally blunt.

“Not so much displeased as wrong-footed,” said Messire judiciously.

“And yourself?” Temar asked.

“There’s no sense in repining for what never was,” smiled Messire. “Reason’s a prop for a wise man or it’s a cudgel for a fool.”

Temar looked at him somewhat uncertainly. “So we all go forward as best we can?”

“Quite so.” Messire acknowledged a hovering footman with a nod. “Are you joining us?”

“To show anyone wondering that we are still on good terms?” Temar hazarded.

“Festival is over, but the board will be set for a new game tomorrow,” Messire conceded. “There’s no harm in marking out our ground.”

“Getting ahead of those who’ve been so keen to trip us these last few days,” Camarl added.

Temar grinned. “Then we will join you and gladly.”

“We’re taking Ustian’s expensive new equipage,” the Sieur explained as we walked out into the paved courtyard. “He’s going home with Fresil and Leishal.”

Temar wasn’t listening and I saw he’d noticed Allin waiting, pleasantly pink and clutching her dance card like a talisman. “Are you waiting for someone?” he asked her.

“Demoiselle Avila, if she can tear herself away from her conquests.” Something was amusing the young magewoman. “Velindre was here a moment ago, but she’s just been invited to supper with the Maitresse Den Janaquel.”

Voices behind us made me turn my head. Casuel was stalking along beside the leader of the musicians. Amalin Devoir had shed his coat and, with shirt collar loose and sleeves rolled up, he offered a sharp contrast to Casuel’s precisely buttoned-up appearance.

“No, Cas, I insist. I’ve been well paid, and with a Festival gift from the Emperor himself I can buy you the finest meal in the city!” To my ear, Amalin’s offer stemmed less from good will than from desire to lord over his brother.

“Ah, Master Devoir, my compliments,” the Sieur called. Casuel was about to reply but realised just in time Messire was talking to his brother. “Your music was a perfect blend of the traditional and the innovative.”

The musician made a perfunctory bow. “It was a day for novelty all round.”

Casuel bridled at this impertinence but Messire looked merely amused.

“Anyway, Amalin, thank you all the same but I’d better escort my apprentice back to her lodging.” Casuel nodded proprietorially at Allin but it was clear he’d just seized on the excuse she offered.

“She can come too,” countered Master Devoir promptly.

“Come where?” The excitements of the day seemed to have lifted years from Demoiselle Avila’s shoulders.

Messire bowed. “We’re about to take a turn round the city and find a quiet place for supper.”

“I can recommend the Golden Plover,” Amalin interrupted to Casuel’s obvious irritation. “That’s where we’re going.”

Avila tapped her fan across her palm, a combative glint in her eye. “Do you propose we all travel in that?” She pointed the bedraggled blue feathers at Ustian’s open carriage, which had just drawn up, plainly only suitable for four passengers.

Amalin Devoir put finger and thumb in his mouth and split the genteel murmur of the courtyard with an ear-splitting whistle. “My gig, as soon as you please!” A man in Den Janaquel livery turned to offer a gesture that would probably have been obscene if we hadn’t had ladies standing with us. Seeing the Sieur D’Olbriot he sent a lad running out of the gates instead and a flashy gig soon came bowling into the courtyard. It was an expensive, tall-wheeled piece of work, driver’s seat perched high in front of a highly polished body whose interior was luxuriously upholstered in purple. Ustian’s carriage with its plain lines and dark green leather was a model of restrained good taste beside it.

“If you’ll ride on the box with me, my lady,” Master Devoir favoured Allin with a blatantly flirtatious smile, “there’s room for two behind us. Cas and the Sieur D’Alsennin perhaps?”

Temar’s expression instantly fixed as he tried to find some reason to avoid this. Fortunately Demoiselle Avila obliged. “I’ll ride with you, Master Mage.” Her tone suggested she was quite ready to squash the musician’s pretensions.

“Let’s make way for the other coaches.” Messire got into the open carriage with a discreet smile. “This promises to be an entertaining evening,” he observed in an undertone as I sat in front of him, my back to the driver. Temar took the seat beside me as Camarl closed the half-door. As we pulled away I saw Firon Den Thasnet looking after us with naked hatred on his face.

Temar followed my gaze. “I know Tadriol acted as he thought best, but it still galls me to think of Den Thasnet and Tor Bezaemar getting away with so much.”

“I agree.” Messire sighed. “But we know what they did, as does the Emperor. I think we can rely on Tadriol to let judicious rumour circulate as appropriate. The main thing is that they failed.”

“But what manner of punishment is that? What about the Relict?” Temar wasn’t going to let this go, and there wasn’t room in the coach for me to shut him up with a discreet kick. “She welcomed us in, all smiles and invitations, winning our trust, and all the while she was spinning snares like some fat old spider in the middle of a web. What of justice? She does us such injury and we have no revenge?”

“Revenge is overrated. We’ve half the egg each and all Tor Bezaemar’s left with is an empty shell.” Messire’s voice turned serious. “Turn your thoughts to the future. You’ve a great deal of work ahead of you, young man, you and the Demoiselle Tor Arrial.”

“I am well aware of that,” Temar replied soberly.

“But not tonight.” Camarl acknowledged a merry salute from a group of revellers. “Who did you dance with, Temar?”

The conversation turned to safely innocuous topics as the coach made slow progress through the raucous carousing of the lower city. As usual the commonalty were determined to squeeze the last drop of enjoyment out of their holiday. The morrow would see the first day of Aft-Summer calling them back to their workshops and duties, after all. I looked past Messire to see Allin giggling with the musician, who handled his mettlesome grey horse with considerable skill. Passers-by greeted us with cheers, some from dutiful loyalty, some too intoxicated to realise who was even in the coach but joining in regardless.

Once we were through the southern gate of the old town and on to the Primeway the crowds thinned considerably. An air of relaxation hung over aristocratic celebrations now that the demands of Festival had been met. The soft light of early evening gilded the city and a warm breeze caressed high- and low-born alike. Flambeaux were being readied and torches placed in brackets either side of doorways, ready to light the street when Halcarion wrapped up the sun in the soft swathes of dusk. Despite the heat a few traders were setting out braziers to cook delicacies to tempt passing revellers into spending their last few Festival pennies.

We turned into the Graceway and drew to an abrupt halt. “What’s the delay?” the Sieur called.

“Masqueraders, Messire.” The coachman twisted in his seat. “Tumblers and jugglers.”

The footman sitting beside him looked back as well. “Shall I move them on, Messire?”

“We’re in no particular hurry,” D’Olbriot said carelessly.

“Cas was saying masqueraders are not fit entertainment for the well born,” Temar began.

I was about to give my opinion of the wizard’s snobbery when movement caught my eye. We’d pulled up by the Den Bradile building where the frontage was being renewed and a wooden scaffold stood piled high with slates and heavy stone awaiting the morning’s workmen.

A shadowy figure in an upper window jerked backwards. I’d barely time to realise he was bracing a pole against the aperture before the scaffold was levered outwards. Slates and marble came tumbling down, the heavy wood following.

“Move!” I lunged forward to grab the Sieur but Camarl was leaning sideways to see the acrobats, out of my reach. Temar was looking as well, his back to me. I sent him sprawling into the road, caught unawares by my brutal shove, as I hauled the Sieur out from beneath the deadly hail.

We fell heavily on to the cobbled road. The crash of the collapsing scaffold deafened me for a moment, muting horrified shouts and screams all around. With a cloud of dust stinging my eyes and choking my throat, I scrambled to my feet. Temar tripped and fell against me. We grabbed at each other, staggering sideways, and getting our footing we hauled the Sieur upright.

“Camarl?” Messire looked round wildly, blood oozing from a grazed cheek. The evening breeze scattered the dust and we saw the broken ruin that was the back end of Ustian’s costly carriage. Worse, Camarl lay among the wreckage, gashed and bleeding, stunned beneath the slates and stones.

The horses were whinnying in panic as the coachman struggled to hold them. The carriage lurched, dropping hard on to its back axle as both rear wheels broke beyond hope. The shafts tilted upwards, harness gouging cruelly into the beasts, races dangling dangerously near their frantically stamping hooves. Camarl gave an agonised yell as the shattered vehicle lurched forward, grating on the stones.

Messire hadn’t suffered more than a few bruises and a coat of dust so I thrust him into Temar’s hands. Ignoring the strain on my back and arms, I lifted the largest stone off Camarl’s leg to uncover a nasty break, shards of bone visible in a ragged wound.

“I won’t be dancing for a while,” the Esquire whispered shakily, face as white as the marble, blood oozing blackly down his leg.

“Hold on.” Guiding his arm round my neck, I struggled to raise him.

“Help, here, now!” Temar bellowed, looking up and down the Graceway.

A juggler came running, several masqueraders behind him. He raised a hand and in utter disbelief I saw him throw a heavy-weighted club with unerring aim. It hit the Sieur’s coachman smack in the forehead, sending the man falling backwards like a poleaxed pig. The footman had very nearly got to the horses’ bridles but this sudden disturbance sent them into a renewed frenzy, tossing their heads out of his reach.

“Ware behind!” Seeing a glint of steel in an oncoming masquerader’s hand, I yelled a frantic warning. Dragging Camarl out of the wreckage, I could do nothing but watch appalled as the masquerader ran the helpless footman clean through. Heedless of his anguished cries, I dumped Esquire Camarl in a doorway.

“Temar! They’re coming for us!” I caught up the juggler’s treacherous club with one hand, grabbed Messire with the other, and shoved him behind me into the meagre shelter of the doorposts.

Temar had already got the measure of our situation, snatching up a broken scaffolding pole and bringing it round to sweep the feet out from beneath a masquerader rushing him with murderous intent. Another charged at me, live steel shining through the paint that covered his sword. I barely evaded the deceitful blade as I sidestepped his thrust, smashing the weighted club full into his face. The blow was hard enough to split his thin wooden mask clean in two. He fell back, clutching a smashed nose, blood gushing between his fingers. I snatched his sword away and drew a killing stroke backhanded across his guts, sending him on his way with a kick to one thigh.

Temar had scavenged a sword from somewhere too. He backed towards me, the blade held low and dangerous. As he did so, Halcarion threw us a little luck and the onward rush of the masqueraders was scattered by the horses charging headlong down the Graceway. The remains of the carriage swung wildly from side to side behind them. Startled Festival-goers fled in all directions, ducking to avoid splintered fragments of wood. One unfortunate chose the wrong direction, stepping directly into the frantic animals’ path and disappearing beneath the horses’ hooves. Screams of anguish from the woman with him added to the rising hubbub.

I whirled round as the door behind us opened. A startled face appeared in a handspan gap. “Let us in, we’ve a wounded man! In D’Olbriot’s Name!” I was shouting at wooden panels. The door slammed and we heard bolts being thrust home in panic.

“I can’t stop the bleeding in this leg.” Messire had crimson stains spreading through the lace at his cuffs but his hands and voice were steady. He smiled reassurance at Camarl, who was shaking like a man in midwinter.

If one of the great blood vessels had been cut, Camarl would’ve died already. For the moment he was alive and I was more concerned with whoever might try to finish the job. The masqueraders were regrouping with malevolent intent but were now hampered by the uncomprehending crowd. People had spilled out of a tisane house across the road, wondering what was afoot. A tavern some way up the street was emptying, and confusion spread as indiscriminate attacks were launched, some on the acrobats, some on innocents mistaken for the scoundrels who’d started this.

A man in the buff breeches and plain shirt of a hireling servant hurried towards us. “Send word to the Cohort,” I yelled.

He ignored me, breaking into a run and I saw a knife in his hand at the same time as the discarded mask in the gutter behind him. I swept a hasty cut at his wrist that Fyle would have mocked me for. All the same, he recoiled, so I tried to backhand him across the face with my sword. He ducked backwards again, harder to hit than a shade, but the knife hand curving round to my belly was no apparition. I blocked the thrust with my off hand, the force enough to numb his arm and send the blade clattering to the road. That didn’t stop him stepping inside the reach of my sword, punching hard with his other hand, but at least my sideways step meant he only bruised my ribs rather than winding me. I brought my sword up to smash the hilt into the side of his head but the bastard threw himself bodily sideways. With an arm out before he landed, he rolled and was back on his feet with a tumbler’s grace, eyes searching for his fallen knife. That instant of inattention was enough for Temar, who lunged to thrust his blade into the acrobat’s side. The man staggered and fled, bloodied shirt flapping as he vanished into the crowd.

I looked to safeguard Temar’s back and saw two men exchanging an uncertain look some paces beyond him. As I raised my sword with menace one broke, running headlong back down the Graceway. The other spread empty hands, gabbling in panic. “Not me, your honour, not me.”

“Call out the Duty Cohort,” I bellowed at him. Looking up the road I saw other passers-by caught up in the spreading disorder, coaches and gigs held up in the distance and blocking the road. I cursed; Den Janaquel’s men would almost certainly be on their way by now but they’d have some task breaking through to us. Men on all sides were struggling with masqueraders, either in self-defence, from a desire to help us or from simple drunken belligerence. Others were trying to leave, some frenzied enough to start new struggles around the initial skirmishes, hampering those intent on murdering us still further. But how to tell friend from foe? I sent a man who’d stumbled into me sprawling with a punch to the side of the head.

Could we escape down the road? Could we drag Camarl between us, and if so at what cost to him? As I looked I saw the hapless man I’d yelled at turn straight into the arms of two eager youths. They’d come running to see the commotion and immediately tried to wrestle him to the ground. “No, let him go!” I yelled.

A whip split the air above their heads with a vicious crack. I saw Amalin Devoir’s grey horse fighting to get its bit between its teeth, nostrils flared and eyes rolling wildly. The musician had the reins bunched in one hand as he laid about him indiscriminately with his lash, Allin clutching the seat with both hands. The lads and the man I’d sent for help all fled, ducking low with hands protecting their heads.

“Devoir! Casuel! Back off and get the Duty Cohort,” I yelled with a force that tore at my throat.

Devoir looked back over his shoulder but the confusion blocking the road made reversing impossible.

“Camarl is hurt!” Temar shouted with equal urgency. Allin caught sight of Messire kneeling beside the prostrate Esquire, her jaw dropping before she turned to relay information to Demoiselle Avila and Casuel, one hand gesturing.

“Temar!” I moved swiftly to intercept one man scrambling over the debris of scaffolding with evil in his eyes and a sword in each hand. Temar was about to follow but a hail of stones and juggling balls from two acrobats appearing in the mouth of an alleyway forced him to duck and dodge backwards. Temar snatched up a piece of broken panelling from the carriage to protect his head, moving to shield Messire and Camarl with his body.

The man facing me dropped to a wrestler’s crouch. He had the brutish and battered face of a prizefighter but he had two blades and, for all I knew, was perfectly able to use them. He thrust at me, each hand in turn, clumsy strokes but fast and unhesitating. Moving back I felt splintered wood treacherous beneath the soft half-boots I was wearing. I took a two-handed grip on my sword and went in hard, circling the blade round and back on itself, half parrying, half attacking. Swordplay learned for the stage made a novice of the man, who instinctively fell into the trap of anticipating my strokes and moving to parry too early. Now I had the initiative I tempted him into an upward sweep and then ripped a sudden sideways cut underneath his arms. As I sliced his chest open his arms flung back in nerveless shock and I wrenched my blade up still further, tearing the notched steel into his bull neck. He collapsed, gurgling through a spray of blood.

I wiped drops off my face to see Temar smashing his improvised buckler into the head of some new attacker. The man turned and would have escaped down the nearby alley but the jugglers blocked his way and I realised they had their own problems. A swarm of what looked like ruddy, greyish hornets swirled around them, but there was no buzzing and whenever one of the dots darted in to land on cloth smoke rose briefly from black scorch marks. Angry red blisters appeared on the jugglers’ exposed hands and faces, raised by scarlet sparks glowing and vanishing so swiftly they deceived the eye. I saw Allin still hanging on grimly to Devoir’s frivolous gig, plump face intent with hatred as she glared at the acrobats. An empty brazier some way beyond the alley was smoking emptily but for a fading crimson light.

Devoir had beaten his horse into trembling submission, the poor beast too terrified to know whether it should flee forwards or back. Demoiselle Avila was struggling down from the back, Casuel wringing anguished hands as he followed her, cowering inside his ostentatious robe. Avila ignored the commotion all around as she headed straight for the doorway behind me. Temar ran forward to draw her into our frail circle of protection as fast as he could.

I’d have gone too but a vicious fistfight erupted in front of me, stones and broken wood hurled indiscriminately from the sidelines, and it was all I could do to stop the combatants falling over me, the Sieur, the Esquire. Temar and I were jostled from all sides, unable to tell hapless Festival-goers from murderous masqueraders, so forced to drive all comers off with harsh words and harder blows. Casuel yelped with outrage as I stood on his foot, but that served him right for trying to shelter between me and Temar. A stinging pain licked around the back of my neck.

“Shit, Devoir, watch that cursed whip!” But I forgave the musician when I saw he was laying about with it to keep the brawl from crushing Demoiselle Avila and the Sieur as they knelt in the doorway, busy with Esquire Camarl’s wounds.

A brazen note pierced the tumult, Den Janaquel’s horns finally giving notice of their imminent arrival. The strident signal came again, warning everyone to get clear or face the consequences. Efforts to struggle free of the fighting redoubled all around us and I saw several masqueraders ripping off their masks in hopes of disappearing into the anonymous crowd.

But three weren’t abandoning their disguises and I wondered just who they might be, hacking a way through the turmoil with vicious swords, the bland wooden faces of folk tale heroes still tied on tight. They were heading for the alley opposite.

“Temar!” I yelled, pointing, as the crush around us lessened.

“Run them to earth, Ryshad!” The Sieur was at my elbow, a sword in his hand, Master Devoir with him, whip ready.

Temar and I used sword pommels, flat blades, fists and elbows to try to force a path to intercept the bastards. We were just too late and the three men hared down the alley, turning into a ginnel running between the backs of the close-packed buildings. I was after them like a loosed courser, Temar hard on my heels.

“Just run, man,” he was raging, and I realised we’d caught Casuel up in the pursuit. With the narrow alley giving him nowhere to step aside to let Temar pass, all he could do was run with us.

The masqueraders were holding their distance but only at the cost of running at full tilt, not daring to try any doors or gates into yards or outhouses. Using every effort I could summon I was gaining, and I heard Temar behind me mercilessly driving Casuel on with ever fouler curses. The masqueraders turned a sharp corner into a wide alley. As I skidded after them, I realised the far end opened into a walled yard. A broad stone arch was carved with archaic flourishes, vines heavy with leaves and fruit on either side of open gates. I recognised it for the yard behind the Popinjay and frustration burned in my heaving chest. If they got out into the busy northern end of the Primeway, we’d lose the bastards for certain.

“Bring that down!” I turned to yell hoarsely at Casuel who was leaning in the corner of a wall, half doubled up, one hand clutching his throat. “Block their way!”

“Noseless sons of pox-rotted whores!” spat Temar, racing past me.

That youth had been spending too much time with mercenaries. But I had no breath to say so and I ran after him.

Ahead of us the first masquerader was nearly into the yard, but just as I thought he’d escaped us the carved vines reached out from either side of the arch. They laced themselves together, coiling around each other, quicker than the eye could comprehend. A barrier of pale strands blocked the villain’s way but he was running too fast to stop himself slamming into the crisscross of writhing stone. The tangle knotted and twined around him, each tendril swelling into a branch reaching up and outwards. Tugged this way and that the man struggled frantically, yelling in terror as he was lifted clear of the ground. His cries of fear turned to anguish as his body was twisted with audible wrenching, sinew and bone no match for the implacable pull of the rippling lattice. A final hideous snap silenced his howls, leaving his body hanging contorted in the coils of the warped vines.

The second man had stumbled to a halt a scant arm’s length away but in the moment he took to recover his balance a yellow limb snaked out from the living archway. Leaves once wrought from solid rock waved softly as the sinuous vine coiled around his legs. The man screamed in horror and hacked at the curling stem but his blade simply struck sparks from the stone. A second tendril darted out to wrap itself round his sword arm, smothering it. As he tore at it with frantic, bleeding nails, new shoots sprouted to snarl around the hand he’d had free a breath before. New leaves budded and opened all over the intertwining stems now rooting his feet to the ground. But the vines binding his arms were still curling upwards in an insane parody of growth, racking the man ever more painfully. He shrieked some inarticulate curse with his last strangled gasps as the heedless branches forced him backwards in an agonising curve. His spine snapped like a dry stick.

All this happened in no more time than it took me and Temar to catch up to the third man. He was frozen in horror, but hearing our steps behind him he whirled round, eyes white rimmed with panic visible even through the holes in his mask. He was too appalled to raise his sword and I was too surprised. With a move nine parts instinct to one part training I punched him up beneath the rim of the mask, catching him full in the soft flesh beneath his jaw. He collapsed to his knees, choking and pawing at his throat.

“Let’s see who you are, you shit.” As I yanked at the knotted ribbons holding on the concealing mask, I noticed for the first time that his clothes weren’t the usual masquerader’s shoddy pretence of noble dress. He was wearing the real thing, well-cut silk and expensive broadcloth. The hair I pulled out as it caught in the ribbons of the mask was perfumed with expensive pomade.

“Kreve Tor Bezaemar?” No wonder he had wanted to get away, identity hidden beneath this charade. Temar raised his sword in outrage and moved behind the kneeling man. “Stand clear, Ryshad, and I will have this cur’s head off!”

The last thing I wanted was the bastard going free to launch some new attack some other day, but I couldn’t allow that. “No!” I stepped between Temar and the still wheezing Esquire, eyes shut and tears pouring down his face.

“I have the right.” Temar glared at me.

“Yes, you do,” I agreed. “But let the Emperor sanction his death. Wait until he’s stood his trial in full view of every House in Toremal. That’ll discredit Tor Bezaemar so thoroughly their Name won’t aspire to the throne for fifty generations!”

“And if your advocates and their weasel words find him some excuse, some escape?” Temar challenged hotly.

“It won’t happen,” I caught Temar’s sword hand, speaking with absolute conviction. “He raised open murder against two Sieurs in direct defiance of Imperial decrees given not half a day since. That’s treason against the good order of the Empire and he’ll die for it, trust me.” Ignoring Kreve’s hoarse gasps I shoved the bastard on to his front and rested a heavy foot on his back.

Temar looked unconvinced but lowered his sword.

“If we’re going to cut his head off, I’ll do it,” I offered with savage humour as I released his hands. “The Sieur D’Alsennin shouldn’t soil his hands with such vermin’s blood. And why don’t you see who else Cas caught in his snare?”

“I suppose I may as well,” Temar agreed once a glance convinced him the incapacitated Kreve was going nowhere. Lifting the lolling head of the second man to die, he pulled off his mask with difficulty. “Firon Den Thasnet,” he called back over his shoulder. “I suppose we should have expected that.”

“I don’t see Saedrin calling us to answer for him.” I glanced up as I secured Kreve Tor Bezaemar’s hands behind his back with the ribbons cut from his mask. “Who’s the other one?”

Temar looked up uncertainly at the man hanging some way above him. “My compliments to Master Devoir, but I am not about to try climbing this. Can you bring him down, Casuel?”

“I’m not sure I can.” The mage had come to stand next to me, white-faced at his own achievement.

“You must know how you did that?” I looked curiously at the wizard.

“Of course,” retorted Casuel with frosty dignity. “In general terms, at least.” His poise melted as he stared up at his handiwork. “I suppose we’ll have to tell the Archmage about this, will we?”

The rear door to the Popinjay was opening slowly. After a long moment of hesitation on the threshold Banch advanced reluctantly into the yard, Ezinna urging him on with a savage hiss. He looked appalled at the enchanted forest sprouting from his ancient arch. At least it couldn’t really be seen from the street, I realised with belated relief. Magic as dramatic as this would hardly suit the Emperor’s declared prejudice against wizardry. We’d best get the evidence out of sight before it became a wonder for half the city to gawp at.

“We’ll get it back to how it was,” I shouted to Banch, giving Casuel a dig in the ribs. The wizard was still gazing in some bemusement at the leaves and fruit, now all immobile unyielding stone again.

“You can stuff that where your mother never kissed you,” rejoined Banch shakily. “Take a sledgehammer to it. I want it broken and carted away before the day’s out, and I don’t want so much as the dust from mortar left behind.”

“The magic is quite passed away,” protested Casuel indignantly.

“I want it gone, all of it!” Banch turned on his heel, pushing Ezinna back inside and slamming the door behind him.

I looked at Casuel. “Can you break it down?”

“I suppose so,” he said a trifle sulkily. Scowling he rubbed his hands together, palms flat. Amber light sparked from his fingertips, incandescent shards of magic flying through the air to land on the coiled stone. Hairline cracks began spreading across the yellow stems, golden light darkening to a burning ochre as fractures gaped wider and wider, dust falling first, then small chips, finally pieces of stone as big as a man’s fist. Temar backed away hurriedly and the body of the first man to die fell to the ground in a broken heap.

Temar moved forward with a cautious eye lest any masonry fall on his head. He shook his head when he’d ripped away the attacker’s mask. “I do not know the man.”

“No, nor me.” I stared down at the face now slack in death. “Probably some minor Esquire, promised the sun, the moons and the stars in between by Kreve. Still, at least we’ve got him to face Imperial justice.”

Temar looked towards the prostrate villain. “Not if he dies on us. How hard did you hit him?”

I was horrified to see Tor Bezaemar’s face suffused with blood, his breath little more than a thready gurgle. “Shit, I must have broken his windpipe.” Not checking on him had been a novice’s mistake, for all I’d been distracted by Casuel’s little display.

“Take him to Demoiselle Avila,” suggested Temar.

“At once,” I agreed. “Cas, clear this all up and fast.”

“I hardly think—” he began indignantly.

“Do you want the Emperor asking Planir for an explanation?” I demanded. I held Kreve Tor Bezaemar under the arms while Temar caught up his legs. The bastard was an unwieldy burden and the distance back seemed thrice as far as we’d originally run, but fear for his worthless hide spurred us on.

We stepped out on to the Graceway to find a solid phalanx in Den Janaquel livery surrounding Messire and Camarl, sworn men with staffs levelled and sergeants-at-arms carrying unsheathed swords. More of the Cohort had the road blocked off for some distance in either direction and those caught inside the cordon were only being set free when two other people could vouch for their name and business. Several erstwhile masqueraders and acrobats were face down in the dust, trussed up like roasting fowl.

A number of sworn men moved towards us. I nodded with some difficulty at my armring, sweating freely. “Where’s the Demoiselle Tor Arrial? We need her at once.”

“She’s busy with the injured.” Allin stopped as she went past with a steaming cup in each hand. “Can I get you a tisane?”

“Get Demoiselle Avila,” I told her flatly. “Otherwise this man dies and Tor Bezaemar escapes all punishment.”

Allin thrust the cups at a startled man-at-arms and raced off, hitching up her skirts. Temar and I laid the stricken Kreve down as gently as we could and looked guiltily at each other. Demoiselle Avila appeared and knelt beside the stricken youth without a word. Laying gentle hands on his throat, she began murmuring some rhythmical enchantment that soon had the dark colour fading from his face. As the Esquire’s ribs laboured to draw air into his starved lungs my own breathing eased, along with the apprehension I could see mirrored in Temar’s expression.

“I take it he turned out to be the worm in the apple?” Avila sat back on her heels, heedless of the filth on her gown, lace overdress torn in a handful of places. Her thin face was weary but the gleam in her eyes promised ill for Tor Bezaemar. “I would rather be using my energies to tend the innocent injured.”

“Ryshad tells me it is for the Emperor to judge him,” Temar said, still rather mutinously.

“Quite so, though you seem to have done a fair job in the meanwhile.” Den Janaquel men parted to let Messire D’Olbriot through. He looked down at Kreve, who was still insensible, eyes closed. “I’d say you have your revenge on Dirindal now, D’Alsennin. She’s pinned all the hopes of the House on this lad since he first grew out of soft shoes.”

Temar looked suddenly disconcerted and sudden memories, not my own, assailed me. Temar had carried the burden of his grandsire’s expectation throughout his turbulent youth and that in part is what had driven him to Kellarin.

“Is Esquire Camarl all right?” I asked abruptly.

“Thanks to my lady Tor Arrial.” Messire’s poise was unmarred despite the lavish smears of blood darkening on his elegant clothes. “As soon as Den Janaquel can get us a coach, shall we go back to the residence? We’re hardly dressed for dining out now, and I think we’ve had enough excitement for one evening.” He brushed at a swathe of dust on one leg and I saw a faint tremor in his hand.

“What happens to him?” Temar demanded, prodding Kreve with a hostile toe.

“Den Janaquel’s men will take care of him,” the Sieur promised with steely authority. “Their House is no friend to Tor Bezaemar, and they know well enough that the Emperor will have their necks stretched if anything goes awry.”

It galled me to leave Kreve in someone else’s custody, but as a proven man in Den Janaquel’s colours arrived with a carriage for the Sieur I had no choice. At least the grim expressions on the faces all around the unconscious Tor Bezaemar reassured me that these men would be as good as their sworn word.