The Warrior's Bond toe-4

by Juliet E. McKenna

  “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.”