“And this is what you think of me, of Guinalle and the other Adepts, of Avila?” Temar was outraged and hurt at one and the same time.
“The Demoiselle wanted to get that thief to talk. How did she plan on doing that?” I demanded. “With kind words and honeycake?”
Temar took a moment to consider his reply. “Granted, there are ways to compel someone to speak the truth against their will, but those were only ever used when a death was involved or every other evidence indicated guilt. In any event, no one ever suffered as you did, my oath on it,” he insisted defiantly.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but the idea still makes my skin crawl.”
“And your alternatives are so much more humane?” Temar challenged me. “You trust a man to tell the truth when he has been beaten bloody? That hardly served you with Jacot, did it? Will a man not merely say whatever you want to hear, just to stop the torment?”
I had no answer to that. Temar sighed unhappily in the tense silence. “I wish you could see all the ways Artifice can be a boon, rather than mistrusting it.”
“It’s nothing personal.” I did my best to sound sincere. “It’s just—oh, as if I’d burned myself badly on a naked candle. Even a nice safe lantern would give me a qualm, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose so.” Temar grimaced. “At least you accept wizardry, which precious few others seem to. Do you think your contemporaries will be as suspicious of Artifice? Do you think they will ever come to understand the differences between the arts?”
“It’s hard to say. It depends how they see it used.” One reason I could keep my composure around mages is that I’d always had their spells used for me rather than against me, thus far at least. “That worries you?”
Temar shook his head, eyes distant. “I cannot see Kel Ar’Ayen surviving without Artifice.”
“The mercenaries are getting used to it.” I tried to sound encouraging.
“I think they have seen so many horrors, so many unexpected twists of fate, that nothing surprises them any more. And Halice would make a deal with Poldrion’s own demons if they were going to be somehow useful to her.” Temar laughed, but there was still that lost look about him. “But what if this mistrust of all magic deters those who might come from Tormalin to help us? We need them as well.”
Temar fell abruptly silent as the door opened and Charoleia came in with a tray of bread, meat and a bottle of wine.
She arched a teasing eyebrow. “You two look very serious.!
“It was nothing of importance.” Temar shook his head. “So, you want a card for the Emperor’s dance tomorrow?” I wasn’t the only one countering questions with questions.
“I think I’ve earned it.” Charoleia sat with composure that suggested she ate supper every evening in the company of partly dressed men.
“Have you been before?” Temar accepted a crystal goblet of pale golden wine.
“I’ve stood on the sidelines.” Charoleia talked about some previous Festival when she’d inveigled herself into the palace, being careful neither to name names nor specify the season. I helped myself to food, trying to recall if I could ever have been about my sworn man’s duties when she would have been there. If I had been, I concluded, Charoleia had done nothing to bring her to my notice, which was presumably why she was quite so successful in her chosen line of work.
“Did you have such events in the Old Empire?” Charoleia refilled our glasses.
“Festival was very different in those days, first and foremost a time for due observance at a House’s shrines. There was plenty of feasting and all the rest of the fun, but that was different as well, a way of bringing nobles closer to their tenantry.” For an instant Temar looked very young and very lost. “Everyone knew they could rely on the protection of the Name they owed fealty to. It was not simply a tie of rent and duty paid, there was a real bond—”
“Things haven’t changed so much,” I tried to reassure him, touched by the pain creasing his brow. “The tenantry will be well fed and entertained tomorrow, and any of the commonalty who want to come besides. Messire will welcome them all, thank them, and anyone who needs his help can ask it.”
“How many times does that happen in a year?” Temar challenged. “How many Sieurs do as much? How many begrudge the coin it costs them?”
I finished my wine, not wanting to argue with him, but Temar wasn’t about to leave it.
“How long will D’Olbriot be available for his people? For a chime or so in the morning, before everyone of noble blood escapes the commonalty by hiding themselves at the Emperor’s dance?”
I stood up. “I’m sorry, but this wine has gone straight to my head.” That was partly true, and I certainly had neither the energy nor the inclination for arguing the social and political intricacies of the present day with Temar. “I really must get some rest.”
“Arashil will have made up the beds by now,” Charoleia said easily. “Sleep well.”
“Temar?”
But Charoleia was kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet up under her maroon skirts.
“Tell me, just who among the D’Olbriot Name are visiting for the Festival?” Her tone was warm, maternal and inviting.
I smiled to myself and went upstairs. Charoleia was welcome to whatever information she could get out of Temar. It was her currency after all, and it might go some way to settling our debt with her.
CHAPTER SIX
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 considerabl
e 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.
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