A lutanist walked past and Casuel tried to match the musician’s nonchalant saunter down the steps. Keeping that brown coat in sight was no easy task down on the crowded floor of the theatre, but this was neither the time nor place to work magic. Overlavish perfume and stale sweat caught at the back of Casuel’s throat and he coughed. At least that made those closest step away with distasteful glances and Casuel caught a glimpse of the sombrely dressed man among the bolder colours all around.
This was no time for civility, Casuel realised, with these wastrels paying no one any heed, shoving and jostling without a by-your-leave. Biting his lip, Casuel used elbows and shoulders to worm his way between laughing embraces and belligerent disputes, ducking a retaliatory swing of some Esquire’s arm, scarlet with embarrassment as he inadvertently set a covey of girls fluttering apart with shrill rebukes.
Finally gaining the fresh air outside with a gasp of relief, he couldn’t delay to recover his composure. The man in brown was heading towards the old city, steady pace suggesting some specific destination. A gap opened up ahead of Casuel and he moved to outflank a goodwife laden with packages but a sturdy dray rattling past made him think again. Better to suffer the jostling on the flagway than risk being squashed flatter than a frog’s foot. Casuel forced his way on through the crowd, apologising, tripping, heart pounding and hoping against hope the man in brown wouldn’t hail a passing gig.
Den Murivance Residence,
Summer Solstice Festival, Fourth Day, Afternoon
Are you enjoying the music?” Camarl offered Temar a crystal goblet of pale pink wine.
“Is this what they call the Rational style?” Temar asked cautiously.
Both men looked at the elegant quintet playing under a rose-garlanded bower in the middle of an immaculate lawn. Smartly dressed and richly jewelled nobles walked past, pausing here and there to admire the precisely patterned flowers. A riot of summer colour around the serene grass was confined within strictly clipped box hedges, an arc of orange here, a square of scarlet there, framed by sprigs of gold and green. Tall yew hedges rose dark behind the flowers, and beyond Temar could hear polite laughter. The musicians finished their piece with a decorous flourish, rewarded with appreciative applause.
“No, this is something new, reworking country tunes in the style of old shrine liturgies.” Camarl sounded a little vague. “Adding counterpoint, harmonies, that kind of thing.”
“It is very pleasant.” Temar sipped the scented wine to hide his disdain. The gods couldn’t even hold their music sacred any more.
Camarl was still talking. “Amalin Devoir’s one of the leading composers in the new style.”
Temar looked up. “Casuel’s brother?”
“Yes,” Camarl chuckled. “Not that you’d ever know it from our mage. He’s made quite a name for himself, Amalin that is. He started as a double-pipe player, I believe, but was soon hiring out his own troupe. He must have an eye for business because he built one of the biggest theatres in the city from the ground up a year or so ago.” He looked at the slowly circulating Esquires and Demoiselles. “We should go down there one evening, once Festival’s over. It’s all very informal, just light-hearted nonsense.”
“That would make a pleasant change,” agreed Temar.
“Festival’s all entertainment for the commonalty but that kind of leisure’s a luxury our coin can’t buy,” Camarl said frankly. “There’s so little time to see everyone. But you can take a little more time to enjoy yourself. The Sieur and I will secure Kellarin’s interests.”
“For which you have my thanks,” said Temar politely. He looked round the myriad unknown faces and insignia. He’d still far rather be managing Kel Ar’Ayen’s concerns himself, if only he had the faintest idea where to start.
“There’s Irianne Tor Kanselin.” Camarl’s tone brightened.
“Go and talk to her,” urged Temar. “Unless you think I need a chaperone.”
Camarl’s laugh surprised Temar. “I’ll see you later.” Camarl walked briskly towards his affianced and Temar watched as the girl’s face lit up.
Temar sighed; Guinalle had never greeted him with that kind of delight, even during the brief dalliance that had meant so much more to him than to her. He began his own leisurely circuit of the Den Murivance gardens, exchanging polite nods and smiles. Whenever someone looked as if they might do more, Temar picked up his pace. He couldn’t face trying to remember Names and families, more questions about his unexpected injury, his hopes for Kellarin, subtle enquiries as to his precise standing with D’Olbriot and what he thought of the arguments before the Emperor. A growing sense of inadequacy aggravated Temar. He hadn’t spoken to a fifth the people Camarl had, arranging later discussions about ships for Kel Ar’Ayen, suggesting merchants who might link the distant colony’s riches to a given House’s resources. The knowledge he should be grateful to Camarl exasperated Temar still further, so he walked away through an arch of well-trained yew.
Shallow turf steps ran up to a broad terrace at the northern frontage of the house. Den Murivance’s home had little of the harsh angularity of Tor Kanselin’s, every brick and stone unmistakably ancient. But as Temar has been taken on a suspiciously extended tour, he’d noted all the furnishings looked brand new, quite the height of fashion.
Servants were still clearing away the remains of the recent elegant meal. Temar watched liveried footmen deftly piling plates and serving bowls, maidservants rolling table linen in neat bundles for the laundresses. Lackeys in workaday clothes waited to carry trestles and boards away while more outdoor servants dismantled the garlanded canopies that had shaded guests from the uncaring sun.
Temar castigated himself with painful honesty. You wouldn’t know where to start organising an entertainment like this, never mind running the affairs of a House in this new Tormalin. So why was he here? This wasn’t his place, and never would be. Why wasn’t he out doing something to save those people still senseless in Kel Ar’Ayen, where he really belonged?
“D’Alsennin! You’ll escort a lady into the maze, won’t you?” A fresh-faced Esquire hailed Temar from the entrance to a circle of green hedge. He and a friend were gently teasing a group of Demoiselles somewhere between Temar’s own age and Camarl’s.
Temar identified the Esquire’s marten mask badge as Den Ferrand. “If she wishes.” He bowed politely to the girls. The closest giggled, hazel eyes huge behind her fan of black and azure feathers, but Temar couldn’t identify the malachite insignia inlaid on the silver handle.
“I’m less concerned about escort in than escort out,” said a taller girl. Her chestnut hair was braided in a no-nonsense style and a tiny jewelled sword pinned her lace veil decorously to either shoulder. At least Temar could identify her as Den Hefeken.
“There’s a summerhouse in the centre,” volunteered the youth, brushing unruly black curls with a hand beringed with a sizeable cameo of a rearing horse. “There’s always a steward there with directions out.”
“I’ll go with Meriel,” Den Ferrand took the giggling girl’s hand. “Esquire Den Brennain, will you do me the honour of escorting my sisters?” He bowed extravagantly to the lad with the horse ring and then to two of the girls. One swatted her brother with her grey-and pink-feathered fan but the other blushed prettily as Den Brennain offered his arm.
“Demoiselle Den Hefeken?” Temar bowed.
“My pleasure, Esquire.” She smiled in friendly enough fashion.
“Which way do we go?” The girl Meriel looked around as they moved inside the ring of hedges.
“Do we split up or stay together?” Den Brennain paused as they reached a junction.
“Split up,” said Den Ferrand promptly. “First ones to the middle win—”
“Head of the set at the Emperor’s dance tomorrow?” suggested Demoiselle Den Hefeken.
The general approval suggested this was a prize worth winning. Temar didn’t much care but he followed the Demoiselle obediently as twists and turns took the others down differ
ent pathways, conversation muffled by the tall hedges.
“Is this a popular form of entertainment?” he asked the Demoiselle, trying to get his bearings.
“More than listening to our elders and betters negotiating access and revenues and leaseholds,” the girl said cheerfully.
“Indeed,” said Temar with feeling. “So, Demoiselle, do we turn or continue?”
“Call me Orilan.” She considered their options with a slight frown. “Turn, I think.”
Temar followed, but after an abrupt corner the path delivered them into a dead end. Orilan Den Hefeken looked apologetically at Temar, but before she could speak a voice sounded from the far side of the hedge.
“Are you seriously thinking of marrying D’Alsennin, Gelaia?”
“My father’s very keen to point out all the advantages.”
Orilan Den Hefeken smiled tightly at Temar before trying to step past him. He smiled back but didn’t move out of her way.
There was more than one girl giggling beyond the wall of green. “What advantages? He’s handsome enough but he’s four parts foolish! Ressy Tor Kanselin said he hasn’t the first idea about anything.”
“I have, which is what matters to the Sieur D’Olbriot.” Gelaia sounded unconcerned. “D’Alsennin can go back to digging ore and lumber out of his wilderness and I can turn it all into coin this side of the ocean.”
“So you wouldn’t be going with him.” This new voice sounded relieved.
Gelaia was startled into laughter. “Jenty! Have you had too much sun? No, he can keep all the delights of exploration and bad sanitation. I’ll stay here with decent servants and some real influence to play with at last.”
“My Sieur says that D’Alsennin won’t ever be more than a bastard line of D’Olbriot.” It was the first girl again, sounding dubious.
“That depends what I make of it,” countered Gelaia. “And there are worse places to be in D’Olbriot’s shadow. I’ll still be Maitresse of a House, which is more than any of my other suitors can offer.”
The murmurs of agreement were coloured with envy.
“It’ll be a mighty small House, just the two of you,” commented Jenty slyly.
“He’ll need to come over for Winter and Summer Solstices for the first few years,” Gelaia said airily. “It shouldn’t take too long for him to get me breeding. In the meantime, I’ll be entitled to a married woman’s consolations.”
“Don’t get caught wrong-footed,” Jenty warned. “Everyone’ll count the seasons when your belly swells.”
“I’m sure Lady Channis will advise me.” Scandalised laughter drowned the rest of Gelaia’s words.
“But, Gella, taking him to your bed—” A young voice hovered between consternation and longing.
“Whatever else’s changed since the Chaos, I imagine that’s done the same way,” giggled Gelaia.
“My sister say a man generally wakes with a keen interest in his wife,” Jenty remarked with spurious innocence. “What must a man be feeling after sleeping away twenty-some generations?”
Temar had heard enough. He offered Orilan Den Hefeken his arm and escorted her back down the path. She glanced at Temar over the orange feathers of her fan, colour high on her cheekbones. “Gelaia wouldn’t have spoken like that if she’d known you were there.”
“That is scant consolation,” said Temar tightly. “I am old-fashioned, I know, but I look for mutual affection to prompt a wedding, not well-matched ledgers.”
“Affection grows, given time and good will on both sides, that’s what my mother taught me. A good match with love to gild it is certainly a blessing, but marrying for passion is hardly rational.” Orilan stopped, forcing Temar to halt. She looked at him, grey eyes searching. “Tell me it wasn’t ever thus, even in your day?”
Temar recalled some his grandsire’s forthright lectures. “Certainly Raeponin always set restrictions in the balance against the privilege of rank.”
“Shall we try this way?” Orilan started walking. “Forgive my frankness, Esquire, but surely you need someone to guide you through the complexities of Toremal, just as surely as we need some way through this maze.”
“Are you offering?” Temar tried for a flirtatious tone.
Orilan laughed. “I was affianced at Winter Solstice. By the turn of the year I will be happily learning to love my husband under Den Risiper’s roof.”
“My felicitations.” Temar concentrated on finding a path through the maze. In fewer turns than he expected, the hedges ushered them onto a small lawn around a little pool where Arimelin stood demure in greenish bronze beneath a tree-shaped fountain. A newly painted gazebo shaded a polite steward holding a jug.
Temar bowed to Orilan. “Some wine?”
Orilan nodded as Den Ferrand appeared with a furiously blushing Meriel. Temar felt uncomfortably excluded by their laughter as he waited for the servant to fill a tray full of glasses. Worse still, Temar realised Gelaia and her friends were sitting behind the summerhouse.
“Esquire?” The lackey was waiting. Temar nodded and followed the man over to his new acquaintances.
“Well done, D’Alsennin.” Den Ferrand congratulated him with a friendly air.
“But you didn’t have mazes in your day!” Meriel looked at Temar with eager inquisitiveness.
Orilan hid a smile behind her fan. “We didn’t have them in our grandsire’s day, Meri.”
“You certainly have much we never knew, but equally it seems you lost much in the Chaos,” said Temar with studied carelessness. “Customs, provinces, Artifice.”
“Is it true magic held the Old Empire together?” Meriel’s eyes were wide and beseeching.
“A form of enchantment,” Temar replied carefully. “Not this elemental magic of the Archmage and Hadrumal. We knew it as Artifice, and yes, it has many uses.”
“My Sieur says that magic is all tricks and fakery.” Den Brennain’s words were half challenge, half curiosity.
Meriel exchanged an excited shiver with the Demoiselles Den Ferrand.
“You’re in deep with wizards,” Den Brennain persisted. “What have you seen?”
Temar sipped his wine. He’d hardly win any trust with tales of monsters spun from raging water, of lightning ripped from clouds to spear men where they stood. He didn’t even want to remember magical fire crawling across empty ground to consume the enemy Elietimm without mercy. “I have seen mages appear and disappear in empty air, crossing leagues in the blink of an eye. They can summon the image of someone far distant and speak with them. They can feel the passage of a river through unseen caves beneath the ground.”
“Or find gold within a mountain?” Den Ferrand looked speculatively at Temar. “A House with such resources to call on would have significant advantages.”
Temar spread deprecating hands. “Mages answer only to Hadrumal and Planir curbs any abuse of power.”
“You know the Archmage?” Meriel sounded disconsolate. “I’ve never seen so much as a hedge wizard make candles dance.”
“No?” Temar ran a nervous hand over his close-cropped hair. “When there are mages in Toremal?” He pulled a closely folded handbill from a pocket and cleared his throat. “This is to give notice to all lovers of the magical arts and admirers of ingenuity that the famous Trebal Chabrin intends to fly from the Spring Gate to the Vintners Exchange at the seventh chime of the fourth day of Festival. This feat will be followed by such diversions as the elements permit. All those attending are invited to make such payment as they are pleased to give.”
“A wizard’s going to fly?” Den Ferrand was incredulous.
“I have no idea,” Temar laughed. “The words are rather too carefully vague, after all. I confess I’m curious though.”
Den Brennain looked up to check the sun. “We could get there if we called for a carriage at once.” He sounded tempted. “But it’s hardly courteous to our hosts.”
“Yes, let’s!” Meriel looked eagerly around. “We’ve all been dutiful enough for one day, have
n’t we?”
“I’ve talked to everyone I was supposed to.” Den Brennain jabbed a finger at Den Ferrand. “You wouldn’t have suggested the maze if you still had people to meet.”
“Gelaia’s just over there,” Orilan observed. “We can make our farewells to her.”
She walked swiftly past the summerhouse. Temar heard a note of curiosity rising among the hidden girls. He forced a smile when Orilan returned with Gelaia and the other girls in tow.
“You’re going to see a wizard?” A sallow girl with close-set eyes and a discontented mouth fiddled with expensive lace covering thin and lustreless hair.
“Esquire D’Alsennin, may I make known Demoiselle Jentylle Tor Sauzet,” Esquire Den Ferrand said perfunctorily. “Either that or some charlatan. Either way, it’ll be more interesting than staying here.”
“My thanks, Esquire.” Gelaia pretended outrage. “I’ll convey your compliments on his entertainments to my Sieur.”
Den Ferrand grinned. “My gratitude, my lady.”
“Are we going or not?” demanded Meriel.
“Why not? I take it everyone’s served their Name as they were instructed over breakfast?” Gelaia asked archly.
As everyone nodded, Gelaia led them confidently out of the maze. Outside, she summoned various lackeys with a wave of her fan, dispatching them with messages for her parents, her Sieur and concise instructions for the stableyard. Den Ferrand stepped aside to talk briefly to someone resemblance suggested was an older brother while Den Brennain made a bow to an elegant lady who soon sent him back with an unconcerned smile.
“I had better let Esquire Camarl know I am leaving,” Temar said suddenly.
“I’ve sent word we’re going out together.” Gelaia took his arm with a proprietorial air. Temar managed to smile with apparent pleasure, even when he caught an avid glance from Jenty not meant for him.
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