“Planir should deal with this nonsensical prejudice once and for all.” Casuel flushed with irritation. “So what am I to do today? Sit on my hands?”
“You could go and see what Velindre thinks of Allin and Temar’s little adventure?” I suggested.
The Sieur snapped his fingers at me and I bowed. “I’ll see you later, Casuel.”
Messire was first into the coach, nodding me into a seat opposite. I tucked Temar’s sword in hastily as Avila arranged her skirts to her satisfaction. As Temar joined us the Sieur sat back against the mossy velvet upholstery. “Thank you, Ryshad. This is no time to be associated with magic in the public eye.”
“That is surely a little difficult,” said Temar with barely restrained indignation, “when the Demoiselle Tor Arrial is the foremost practitioner of Artifice in this city.” Temar was richly dressed in the latest style, in dark russet silk, the clasp at his throat a complex knot of gold set with small faceted stones. Gold chains secured with garnet studs looped around the cuffs of his coat. Borrowed wealth it might be, but after today none of the commonalty thronging the streets would believe any rumour claiming the Esquire D’Alsennin was just some washed-up pauper. His only ring was the sapphire signet I remembered, a jarring touch of colour that must have had Master Dederic tearing his well-cut hair. I was glad to see Temar wearing something of his own among all this borrowed finery.
Avila was laughing. “I am the only practitioner, as far as I can tell. But the boy has a point, Guliel. That Artifice cured his wounds was widely discussed yesterday.”
Messire nodded. “True, but that’s not elemental magic. In time, with care, we can make people understand the difference.”
“So what is our purpose in displaying ourselves at court today?” Avila asked politely after a short silence.
“To show young D’Alsennin alive and well and ready to uphold his rights. To show we have nothing to hide and stand ready to answer any mean-spirited accusation.” The Sieur beamed with a charm that won an answering smile from Avila.
In bellflower blue brocade she looked every measure the noble lady. A collar of pearls and sapphires circled her neck and silver rings adorned every finger, two set with diamonds that flashed fire in the sunlight. Her hair was dressed high and, as she leaned forward, I saw she had a striking jewelled ornament pinning on her veil of lace. The spray of emerald fronds had a blue butterfly nestling in the centre and it took me a moment to recall this was the badge of Tor Arrial. Did this mean Messire has secured the alliance of the current Sieur, or was he putting the Name on notice that Avila was not about to yield any of her claims?
“Cheer up, Ryshad,” chuckled the Sieur. “I’m sorry you have to be liveried up but it’s as well to remind everyone where your loyalties lie. Have you heard the rumours running round about your adventures in the Archipelago?”
His tone was familiar, intimate, with all the sincerity that had convinced me Messire’s oath bound him to me as securely as mine to him. But he’d handed me over to Planir without hesitation when that best served the wider ambitions of his House. I sat back in the shadows as we swept between the shade trees lining the road to the lower city.
As we passed the conduit house, the bowl of the lower city spread out before us beneath the cloudless sky. The vista was a chequer pattern of myriad roofs, packed as close as the tiles they were made from, dappled with all shades of colour from the rawest new orange to ancient faded umber. Here and there a taller tower of golden stone looked down on less favoured neighbours, a gatehouse or some other remnant of a noble edifice now given over to more mundane uses, yet still keeping mute watch over a Name’s interests. Chimneys that took no rest for the Festival breathed faint plumes of smoke that thickened the air as we left the green freshness of the upper city and the fitful breezes from the distant, hidden sea were baffled by cornices and façades turning them this way and that.
The carriage rattled over the cobbles, coachman keeping the horses trotting at a steady pace, a footman using a long horn to clear the commonalty off the road. It sounded ever more frequently as we drew nearer to the sprawling mass of the law courts.
“The walls!” Temar exclaimed. He twisted in his seat to peer out of the window. “That is the Toremal I remember!”
“How the city is grown,” murmured Avila, mouth set in a bloodless line.
“Shall I lower the blinds?” Camarl forced a smile as he waved to acknowledge some loyal tenants cheering the D’Olbriot lynx on the door.
“No, I don’t think so.” The Sieur clapped silent hands to show his admiration for a puppet in D’Olbriot livery held up for his amusement. The crowd was swelling with fervent excitement, the noise almost painful to the ears by the time we drew up beneath the looming shadow of the Imperial Courts.
“This is the palace,” said Temar suddenly.
Camarl frowned. “No, that’s over yonder.”
Temar shook his head impatiently. “No, I mean it was the palace, in Nemith’s day.”
“That’s right,” I agreed. Even with the mighty walls protecting the city, the men who’d built Toremal’s defences had prepared for every contingency. The palace had been set apart as a final bastion, impregnable within its own walls, a last redoubt where the Emperor could gather the Cohorts entrusted to him by the Names and strike out if ever the city itself fell. But the days when armed men could threaten Toremal were long since past and the palace had been rebuilt, extended and adapted through every era. Where once it had been the stronghold of Emperors charged with defending Tormalin through force of arms, now it served the law courts where Emperors of this era ruled on the rights and duties of the Houses of Toremal.
Messire’s coach drew up before the western frontage. High overhead a sweep of ruddy tiles rolled down to a pierced balustrade of interlaced stone fronds. Oriel windows below were ornamented with carved foliage worn soft and indistinct by generations of rain. Statues weathered to anonymity stood in niches just above head height, and on the ground men sworn to Den Janaquel colours formed a line either side of carpet laid to save noble shoes from the dust of the streets. The crowd waited in benign enough mood, no need for the Duty Cohort to link arms just yet, or worse, use staves to reinforce their barrier. None of the cases heard today would have any impact on the common people, so they could just relish the spectacle.
“Out you get,” the Sieur prompted Camarl as the footman opened the door.
He brushed at the skirts of his sage green coat and stepped down to polite if not fulsome applause. The Sieur nodded to Temar, who was greeted with appreciably louder cheers above an undercurrent of avid gossip. When Messire himself appeared, he stopped to acknowledge a roar of approval, one hand on the doorpost, the other waving in elegant response. He wore darker green silk than Camarl, unbrocaded but shot with gold. The cut of his coat was fuller in line than fashion dictated, far better suited to his stoutness and comparative lack of height.
Judging the ebbing enthusiasm of the crowd to a nicety, Messire stepped down and turned to offer his hand to Avila. Her appearance incited the ebullient mob to fresh cheering and I heard a new note of speculation as the Sieur offered her his arm. I got out of the coach completely ignored by everyone.
“Where do we go?” Avila’s smile was gracious but I saw nervousness darkening her eyes.
“In a moment,” said the Sieur, bending towards her with a smile that won renewed interest from the avid faces closest. “These people have come to offer their duty, after all.”
“Smile, Temar.” Camarl turned to give people on the far side a look at his finery. “If you’re looking cheerful, satire artists and gossipmongers can’t make up anything too dreadful about you.”
“Apart from drawing me grinning like a half-wit,” Messire laughed. “Do you remember that dreadful picture doing the rounds last summer, Camarl?”
He laid a proprietorial hand on Avila’s fingers as she held his arm close and walked slowly beneath the great arch. Camarl strolled behind with a relaxed air that
Temar made a creditable attempt at matching. I followed with a few curious eyes sliding my way before returning to the far more interesting spectacle of highest nobility almost close enough to touch.
As we came out into the open sunlight of the courtyard a rattle of hooves and harness behind us prompted shouts of welcome for some new arrival. When Temar would have looked to see who it was, Camarl dissuaded him with the faintest shake of his head. “Ryshad, who’s behind us?”
A half-turn showed me the crest emblazoned on the carriage door. “Den Murivance.”
Knots of clerks in lawyerly grey thronged the shadows of the colonnade ringing the courtyard, looking intently as the Sieur D’Olbriot escorted Demoiselle Tor Arrial. Two put their heads close for a moment and then one went hurrying off, the long sleeves of his robe flapping. I wondered if Messire really had an interest in Avila or if this was simply another move on the game board. Whichever, I’d bet my oath fee some hapless advocate would be guttering the candles writing up the implications of a D’Olbriot match with Tor Arrial.
Temar slowed, looking around at the five storeys of the palace, now all given over to archives and records and quarters for advocates rich enough to pay for a foothold in their battleground, spare rooms in garret and cellar divided and divided again for rank and file. “I did not recognise that façade, but this is much as it was.”
I looked at the pitted and stained columns, the cracked flagstones and the mismatched shutters of the windows. Trying to imagine it as pristine as Temar’s memory of it was disconcertingly easy. “It’s been the law courts since the days of Inshol the Curt.”
“Shall we proceed, Messire?” Camarl raised snapping fingers and an advocate hurried to his side.
“Indeed.” The Sieur followed the lawyer through the colonnade to a great double door opening on to an anteroom where lawyers milled around like a flock of banded pigeons.
“Demoiselle Tor Arrial, Esquire D’Alsennin, may I make known Advocate Burquest?” The Sieur introduced one of Toremal’s most prominent lawyers with easy familiarity. Burquest was a broad-shouldered man with a round, kindly face and a deceptively amiable air. He wore his thinning hair brushed straight back and long to his collar, a style going out of fashion when I’d been a youth. But Burquest wasn’t concerned with fashions. His whole life was arguing before the Imperial courts, and his reputation was formidable.
Temar did his best to bow despite the people pressing all round. Avila favoured Burquest with a tight smile, but I could see she was uneasy, hemmed in by unknown bodies.
The Sieur noticed as well. “Are we ready to go in?”
Burquest nodded. “This way, sirs, my lady.”
A burly warder in Den Janaquel colours was guarding the door to the court proper but drew his silver capped staff aside to let us pass. As Camarl stepped forward to hear what the advocate was saying to the Sieur, Temar fell back beside me.
“This was the Imperial audience room,” he said in an undertone, staring around the broad hall. Stone vaults high overhead were supported by intricate stonework springing like carved branches from massive faceted columns. Narrow windows of clear glass rose tall between the pillars and sparkling sunlight floated down to us. Down at our level the surroundings were not nearly so grand. The long tables and benches were sturdy and functional but no more than that. The floor had been swept, but some Nemith had probably been the last one to order it polished. There was nothing in the plain, undecorated furnishings to distract anyone from the business of the law, an Imperial decree dating back to Leoril the Wise.
“Up there?” Temar frowned as the Sieur headed for a broad gallery built around three sides of the room.
“Only advocates and their clerks appear before the Emperor.” I indicated a row of lecterns set in a line before a fretted screen.
“Where is he?” Temar looked around, puzzled.
I nodded at the screen. “He’ll be behind there.”
We took our seats in the second rank of the gallery, the Sieur and Avila in front, close to the dais so we could see everyone else in the gallery and almost all of the people below.
Camarl was on Temar’s far side and he leaned forward to include me in his remarks. “The Emperor sits screened so that no one can see his reactions, try to catch his eye, or make some move to influence or distract him.”
“But he can see us?” Temar looked thoughtfully at the black-varnished wooden lattice.
“More importantly, so can all these people. So look relaxed and unconcerned, no matter what’s said below,” Camarl advised, turning to nod and smile as the gallery filled up. There were no formal divisions, but people separated regardless in tight huddles of mutual interest.
“Den Thasnet,” I murmured, my pointing hand hidden by Avila’s shoulder. “Tor Alder.”
“Dirindal thought I might find friends in that House,” said Temar a little sadly.
The Sieur half turned in his seat. “It’s easy enough to be friends until the cow gets into the garden. They think you’re here to eat them out of House and home.” He looked at Camarl. “Note which advocate speaks on each count and we’ll set Dolsan to looking up any other suits they’ve been involved in. We might get some hint as to who’s orchestrating this.” He turned to look at the rearmost gallery and waved to someone. “I see we have a good turn out of the richer commonalty.”
The men of trade and practical skills were easily identifiable. Their clothes were as fashionably cut of cloth as rich as any noble, and plenty of silver and gold shone bright in the sunlight, but none of them wore any ornament set with gemstones. Perinal the Bold’s law might be archaic and often disregarded, but no one was going to risk challenging it in the heart of Imperial justice.
Down on the floor of the court the advocates were standing in a loose circle behind the row of lecterns. Their grey robes were distinguished by various knots of gold on each shoulder and cord in differing colours braided around the upright collars. Mistal had tried explaining their significance to me more than once, but I’d never really listened.
Temar leaned forward. “I see no insignia on anyone down there.”
“That was one of Tadriol the Staunch’s reforms.” Camarl leaned back with every appearance of ease. “No House may retain any permanent advocate. We sponsor clerks, train them up in our archives, but once they start offering argument to the court they’re their own men.”
“A justified claim of bias can get a judgement reversed,” I explained to Temar.
“Which has happened to Den Thasnet more than once,” murmured Camarl. “So it’ll be interesting to see who their mouthpiece might be over in the Land Tax court.” He smiled warmly at a pretty girl with a Den Murivance portcullis picked out in spinels on the silver handle of her white-feathered fan. “Have you been introduced to Gelaia, Temar?”
“No.” Temar looked momentarily startled but gave the girl a polite wave. The gesture stirred a faint ripple of interest on far side of the court, among a sizeable number of Den Rannion Esquires. I looked for any resemblance to Temar’s long dead friend Vahil, vivid in my memory, but found none.
Temar stirred on the hard wooden seat, returning the hostile gazes levelled at him in full measure. “I think we could take them on, the three of us, do you not agree?” He was only half joking.
“We don’t dirty our own hands fighting among ourselves nowadays,” said Camarl in mock reproof. “That’s what law courts are for.”
“Whoever started this will soon find they’ve a battle on their hands,” remarked the Sieur. He wasn’t joking.
A bell rang a sharp summons to order behind the imperial screen. We all stood, waiting in silence as unseen feet sounded on the dais and chairs scraped and settled.
“That’s more than just the Emperor,” Temar said in the softest of whispers.
“He always has Justiciars from the lower courts to advise him,” I explained. “Experts in property, inheritance, whatever suits are being brought.”
A brisk Justiciar whose coppery h
ead clashed horribly with his black-braided scarlet robes appeared out of a door in one end of the screen. The advocates promptly took their places at their lecterns. Behind them, on backless benches, their teams of clerks sat alert.
“In the name of Emperor Tadriol, fifth of that name and called the Provident, I beseech Raeponin to give his grace to all who hear me. Be warned that the god’s scales weigh the justice of every man’s word within this court. All who speak freely may do so with truth as their witness. All who dissemble will be compelled to reveal what they hope to hide. All who lie will be marked by the god’s displeasure. Any man shown forsworn will be whipped and flung naked beyond the city walls at sunset.” He rattled through words we’d all heard plenty of times but his face was uncompromisingly stern as he looked at each advocate.
I saw Avila’s back stiffen and Temar shifted in his seat. Camarl laid a silencing hand on his arm.
The redheaded man nodded to the first advocate. “You may proceed.” The others all took seats at the tables with their respective teams of clerks and the justiciar disappeared below us.
“May Raeponin hold me to my oath.” The hook-nosed advocate took a calm breath. “I’m here to present the arguments of Den Rannion. The House declares an ancient interest in the land of Kellarin, by virtue of the investment in goods, coin and people made by Sieur Ancel Den Rannion in the days of Nemith the Last, even up to the cost of his own life. His son, Sieur Vahil Den Rannion, did not relinquish his claim. Even on his deathbed, he had his sons swear to uphold it. We have records and deeds to support our contention and ask that due disposition of that unknown land be made, fully respecting these ancient rights.”
He turned with a smile to the next advocate who stepped up to his lectern, one hand smoothing his close-trimmed beard. “May Raeponin hold me to my oath. I argue for Tor Priminale in the Name of Den Fellaemion, now subsumed into that House. Messire Haffrein Den Fellaemion was first discoverer of Kellarin, in voyages backed by Nemith the Seafarer. He was the instigator of the colony, its leader and guide, and at the last died in its defence. The House of Tor Priminale begs leave to claim its rights and complete the work of so illustrious an ancestor in opening up this new land and making best use of its resources, in open cooperation with Den Rannion and any other interested Houses.”
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