The lad clung on grimly to the saddle as Firon whipped the horse to a punishing trot. Casuel ran forward as two liveried men immediately began closing the tall gates behind the Esquire. Slipping through the narrowing gap just in time, he watched the retreating rump of the horse until it was lost in the busy traffic filling the route to the lower city.
But all was not lost, was it? Casuel looked with satisfaction at the ginger horsehair wrapped round his fingers. Ryshad would have been utterly at a loss, wouldn’t he? D’Alsennin wouldn’t have known what to do. Den Thasnet would have been lost to anyone without a mage’s skills. Casuel walked round the corner of the residence wall, looking in the gully behind the shade trees. There had to be a puddle somewhere hereabouts? But no, not in high summer, not in Toremal. Casuel belatedly remembered years when no rain had fallen in either half of summer. How was he to scry for the cursed animal?
“If you want to take a piss, go and use the drain by the dung heap!” An old woman stood up from behind a low row of pease in the garden of a grace house, squinting belligerently at the wizard. “I don’t care what your Name is, we don’t need you spraying round here like a filthy tom cat!”
Casuel realised his spells had come unravelled and coloured with embarrassment.
A younger woman appeared from behind an outhouse. “Oh, do excuse Mother, your honour, she’s not in her senses.” She bustled the old woman away, scolding her in a low, frightened voice.
Casuel walked hastily down the lane, smoothing his coat.
His gaze lit gratefully on a well, a horse trough beside it and a lower one for dogs. A few women were filling buckets with a desultory air, sparkling drops falling to be swallowed instantly by the thirsty dust. Casuel slowed his pace until they had slung their yokes across their shoulders and hooked on their pails.
He would have to work fast. Casuel hurried to the horse trough, hoping no one interrupted him. He dropped the horse hairs into the water, wrapping the coarse strands with verdant brilliance. A skein of emerald light coiled and twisted in the water, indistinct and blurred. Casuel wished helplessly for some ink to support the translucent image, laying his hands carefully on the surface of the water. The clear green took on a muddy hue. The image wavered but Casuel saw the sorrel horse making its way through a crowded street. Sweat beaded his forehead and he forced himself to draw unhurried, even breaths. Even the best scryers of Hadrumal couldn’t be expected to hold a spell together long in these conditions, he thought with growing apprehension.
The horse slowed to a walk, and Firon Den Thasnet raised his whip to clear a few passers-by and pulled the animal up with a cruel jerk on the reins. The groom slid off the animal’s rump, hurrying to hold the bridle as Firon dismounted. Casuel fought to still a growing tremor in his hands, watching breathless as the Esquire left horse and groom without a backward glance. He went into a tall building of brash orange brick, decorated with unashamed frivolity, an array of pipes fanned out over the double doors and stone swags beneath the windows heavy with fruit and flowers.
One might almost be tempted to credit the tales of Ostrin’s warped sense of humour at times, thought Casuel, shaking the horse trough water from his hands with distaste. Of all places in the city, why did Den Thasnet have to go there?
The wizard began walking crossly in the direction of the lower city, heavy with fatigue. Firon Den Thasnet had better be staying a while in that theatre because Casuel needed some time to recover himself before working any more magic. No one had better try blaming him if the noble youth was gone before he got there.
A jangle of harness turned Casuel’s head, and seeing a hireling gig coming up at the trot he waved it down authoritatively.
“Your honour?”
“The puppetry theatre on Lantan Straight,” Casuel curtly ordered the driver. He closed his eyes as the man whistled up the horse and tried to draw back some of the energies he’d used to manipulate the elements. It was all very well everyone expecting him to use wizardry to help them, but no one not mage-born knew what it cost, yet another injustice mages had to bear.
He opened his eyes as the gig stopped with a jolt and saw the driver turning expectantly. “Is this the place?”
“Yes.” Casuel looked with displeasure at the tasteless façade as he climbed out of the gig.
“Fair Festival, but that’ll be a silver Mark to you,” said the hireman indignantly.
Casuel tugged the D’Olbriot amulet out of his pocket. “Apply to the gatehouse for your payment.” He dismissed the man with a gesture, ignoring disgruntled muttering as he walked slowly inside the lofty building.
The narrow lobby was empty but for some discarded flowers wilted in the dust and a chair with stuffing spilling out of a split seat. Casuel hurried past a detailed depiction of Ostrin embracing a maiden with his hands in most impertinent places. Had the artist deliberately chosen the most unsavoury legends he could find for these garish murals?
Beyond brightly painted double doors, laughter and chatter echoed round the vast windowless room that took up most of the hollow edifice. The stage at one end was busy with craftsmen hammering, sawing or painting. Their efforts fought with snatches of ragged music from somewhere beyond and a faint ache tightened across Casuel’s temples.
“Come to see your brother?” A man clutching a bone-topped double pipe stopped on his way past.
“Yes, of course.” Casuel smiled weakly at the musician.
“Up there,” the man nodded at the stage. “Go on up, no one’ll mind.” The piper walked out, shirt tails loose over dirty breeches.
Casuel ignored the man, scanning the room for Den Thasnet, hissing with exasperation as he tried to find the Esquire in the constantly shifting crowd. Knots of people gathered and broke apart, dragging chairs out of ragged rows to make circles abandoned moments later. Cries of greeting cut through screeches of laughter as girls in dresses far too immodest for public display embraced in an excess of giddiness. The men were no better, coats and cuffs unbuttoned, lace collars untidily askew. Bottles of wine were being purchased from a side room and passed from hand to hand. Casuel sniffed with disapproval as he caught the sharp aromatic scent of stronger spirits. No wonder no one was wearing any insignia to identify the House they were disgracing with such behaviour.
The throng parted just long enough for him to see Firon Den Thasnet but in the next instant a giggling girl pulled her companion across the wizard’s view. She turned her flushed face for a kiss that the youth was glad to supply before another lad folded the girl in a smothering embrace. Casuel gaped, horrified at such promiscuous indecency until a passing musician dug him in the ribs with a chuckle. “She’ll be letting more’n her hair down by sunset, won’t she?”
Casuel turned abruptly to the narrow steps leading on to the stage. Watching warily as the busy craftsmen moved half-finished scenery around, he found a vantage point behind a curtain and looked for Den Thasnet again. There he was, sitting on a solitary chair, booted feet outstretched, scowling at people he tripped, his disgruntled expression deterring anyone thinking of including him in their conversation.
“Cas? Someone said you wanted me?” An impatient voice at his shoulder made the wizard jump.
“What? No, not particularly.” Casuel turned to see his brother looking askance.
“Then what are you doing here?” demanded Amalin.
“I’m about the Archmage’s business,” said Casuel loftily, glancing back at Den Thasnet, who was still sitting alone. “And Messire D’Olbriot’s. Nothing to do with you.”
“It is if you’re doing it in my theatre,” Amalin retorted robustly. “Is this something to do with all those questions you had the other day? I told you, I’ve no idea which noble House is slandering another, and I’ve less interest. All that concerns me is which ones pay prompt.”
Casuel sniffed. “Ever the merchant. You peddle your music like a wandering harpist.”
“At least it’s a honest trade, Master Mage,” sneered Amalin. “Mother’s not as
hamed to tell her sewing circle about my latest triumphs. Did I tell you I’ve written a new round dance for the Emperor’s entertainment tomorrow?”
Casuel looked resolutely back at Firon, who was chewing a thumbnail and looking around sourly.
“So who are you spying on, Cas?” Appreciably taller, Amalin peered easily over the wizard’s shoulder. “The charming Esquire Den Thasnet?”
“Do you know him? Why? How?”
Amalin chuckled unpleasantly. “Oh, you’ll talk to me when you want to know something?”
“Don’t play the fool, Amalin,” snapped Casuel. “This is important.”
“So’s rehearsing my musicians.” Amalin turned to leave.
“What would it do for your career if I told Messire D’Olbriot how uncooperative you’re being?” threatened Casuel.
“Not much harm,” Amalin shrugged. “They’re saying the old Sieur’s out of favour with the Emperor anyway.”
Casuel gaped. “Who’s saying?”
“Him, and his cronies.” Amalin nodded at Firon Den Thasnet. “Not that I pay much heed. Den Thasnet owes more money to more entertainers than any other House in the city. Say what you like about D’Olbriot, the stiff old stick pays up by return messenger.”
“You’d go a good deal further in your chosen profession with a little more respect for your betters,” said Casuel bitingly.
“Bowing and scraping to anyone entitled to call themselves Den Something?” scoffed Amalin. “Why should I? Half of your so-called nobles live on credit and wishful thinking. It’s honest traders like Father brought me the coin to build this place. They pay in full the moment the last note sounds at their banquets.”
“Paying for lewd masquerades danced by girls no better than common trollops, you mean,” retorted Casuel. “I’m surprised to see you still bothering with proper puppetry.” He waved a hand at the marionettes hanging high above their heads, each as tall as a child, a masterpiece of woodwork dressed with a tailor’s finest skill.
“I’ll stage whatever pays, Cas.” Amalin’s smile was mocking. “Same as I’ll let these wastrels use my place for their meetings and intrigues just as long as they pay with both hands for the privilege of drinking cheap wine while they do it.”
“It’s all just counting coin with you, isn’t it?” Casuel did his best to look down his nose at the taller man.
“At least I don’t need Mother sending me money to put the clothes on my back.” Amalin winked at him. “And my boots don’t stink of horseshit either.”
“Then why do you look as if you fell out of some charity guild’s ragbag?” countered Casuel.
Amalin brushed a negligent hand down his faded shirt, frayed at collar and cuffs. “Work clothes, Cas, but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Amalin? Where do you want this?” The summons from the far side of the stage saved Casuel from having to find a suitable retort. Amalin’s arrogance really was intolerable, he raged silently. He had no respect for rank, wrapped up in his petty concerns and this tawdry sham of a world he’d built for himself. Casuel watched Amalin walk away with a faintly familiar-looking dark-haired man. No stomach for continuing the debate, little brother? Well, it wasn’t the first time Casuel had set him right on a few things.
He looked back into the crowd to see Firon Den Thasnet deep in conversation with someone. Who was it? What had he missed? Cursing Amalin for distracting him, Casuel struggled to calm himself sufficiently to float an invisible stream of magic drawn from air and light over the heads of the revellers. Concentrating hard, he waited impatiently for words to drift down the spell.
“—this, that, the other,” hissed Firon. “I do it and what do I have to show? That fool of a boy got his arse well and truly kicked by D’Olbriot’s man, so that dog won’t hunt again. And your so-called advocate made a piss-poor showing over the Land Tax. What have you got to say about that?”
“I recommended the best advocate for the coin you were willing to pay,” shrugged the newcomer. “I fail to see how you can blame me when D’Olbriot hires a more experienced man. Anyway, even if they’re not being taxed on Kellarin for last year, there’s been no judgement about next, has there? That game’s still in play.”
Casuel moved as far as he dared beyond the shelter of the curtains, trying to work out who the man might be. Of an age with Firon’s own father, and Casuel’s come to that, he was a good height, iron grey hair soberly cut, face unremarkable in its placid pleasantness. He wore no identifiable colours, merely a plain brown coat and breeches well tailored from good cloth. Casuel frowned; the clothes were styled like livery and that was no merchants’ fashion. Something about his manner was reminiscent of an upper servant as well.
“You said I’d find plenty of backing against D’Olbriot.” Firon’s complaints were rising. “Where is it? Any time I said yesterday they’re just getting what they deserve, all I got was the cold shoulder.”
“Keep your nerve and people will come over to your way of thinking,” said the newcomer firmly. “Bringing all the rewards we discussed. Look at the cases brought before the Emperor yesterday. At least one of them will trip Burquest, no matter how fast he dances round the truth. Your side of the scales will rise, just as soon as D’Olbriot’s sinks.”
“Oh, will it?” Firon looked sceptical. “High enough to match me to a girl of rank who can still bring a decent coffer of coin? My father’s talking about selling me off to some fat-arsed merchant’s ugly daughter, he’s so desperate for some ready gold—”
The other man slapped a light backhand into Firon’s mouth. “Watch your tongue,” he said with genial warning. “Show a little respect.”
Shock sent a shudder through Casuel’s magic that nearly scattered the spell and he stepped back into the concealing curtains. Who was this man to dare such insult?
The blow hadn’t been hard enough to leave a mark but Firon’s face was scarlet all the same. “Show respect, have more patience, set yourself up for a mighty fall if this all goes rancid! All our dealings go just one way, don’t they?” he sneered. “When will I see some return on this venture?”
The newcomer smiled thinly before reaching into the breast of his well-cut coat. He brought out a leather pouch and folded Firon’s hand around it.
“Here’s a little on account.” The man held Firon’s fingers tight and Casuel saw pain chase perplexity across his spotty forehead. “Spend it wisely for a change and don’t let wine or thassin loosen your tongue. There are enough stupid whores, so don’t bother with another one canny enough to pick some truth out of your boasting. Some girl you had down by the docks came knocking on my door a few days ago, looking for an open purse to shut her mouth.” The man’s tone was amiable but the threat was unmistakable.
“What did you—” Firon looked sick.
“I paid her, what do you think?” As Firon smiled in hesitant relief, the man leaned close, voice cruel. “Just enough to pay her way with Poldrion, then I made sure that’s the last price the slut’ll ever bargain.”
“I’m not frightened of you!” The sweaty pallor Casuel could see soaking the colour from Firon’s face plainly contradicted his shaking words.
“Well said, your honour.” The other man released the Esquire’s crushed fingers. “Anyway, you needn’t be afraid of me. I just follow my orders, after all. It’s my principal you should worry about, who’s not best pleased, truth be told.”
“I’ve done everything asked of me,” Firon protested.
“So you have,” smiled the newcomer. “So go home and chew your thassin or find some warm little whore to cuddle. I’ll let you know when we want something else. As long as you don’t get greedy we’ll all win out in the end, won’t we?”
Firon fiddled with the purse in his hand, avoiding the other man’s eye. “When will I hear from you?”
The other man stood up. “Soon enough.” He moved away as Firon was hailed by another young noble, whose expansive movements suggested he’d already drunk mor
e than was wise so early in the day. Casuel tried to split his magic to follow both men but only succeeded in breaking the spell beyond repair, splinters of ensorcelled air darting invisibly in all directions.
The mage shifted from one foot to the other in an agony of indecision, trying to keep both men in view while staying within the protective shadow of the curtain. He drew back as Firon came closer to the stage, now intent on a girl with brassy blonde hair and a torn flounce to her gown. She was flirting with another young noble who Casuel couldn’t quite put a Name to. Firon caught the girl by the shoulder and she turned with a well-rehearsed expression of delight that faded as soon as she recognised him. Firon raised the hand holding the purse and the girl smiled again.
“That’s the only music sweet enough for her ears.” Amalin was a few paces away, studying a sheaf of music.
“Who is she?” Casuel asked.
“Too expensive for your purse, Cas.” Amalin looked up from his score. “That’s Demoiselle Yeditta Den Saerdel.”
Casuel’s face reflected the question he hadn’t dared ask.
“You thought she was a whore? No, she’s far more choosy and far more expensive. You need an old Name and a fat purse before that one spreads her frills for you. Still, you’ll get an education you’ll never find in Hadrumal if you go sniffing after her.” Amalin went to stop a dispute between a carpenter and a painter.
Casuel watched an eager knot gathering round Firon and Yeditta, reckless youths in grimy linen and girls with cosmetics clashing brutally against the hectic colour rising on their cheeks. With brash boasts and extravagant gestures they all talked at once in an unintelligible muddle. At some signal from the brazen blonde the whole collection moved towards the door.
There was no way he could follow without being noticed, Casuel decided hastily. Nor was there anything to be gained watching whatever debauch they were planning to disgrace their Names. D’Olbriot already knew Den Thasnet was hostile. What Casuel needed to find out was who was pulling Firon’s strings, as deftly as any puppeteer working Amalin’s gaudy marionettes. He sighed with relief when he saw the man in brown talking to a dissatisfied maiden with heavily shadowed eyes trailing a wine-stained shawl from one hand.
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