“Don’t wizards dance in Hadrumal?” I’d never really thought much about how mages might enjoy themselves.
“Sometimes,” Allin replied. “But there are precious few musicians, and most wizards dance as if they’d their boots on the wrong feet.”
“It’s one of the things that make a mage-born army an impossibility.” Velindre came up on my other side, her clear tones cutting through the well-bred murmur. “Nine out of ten wizards seem incapable of holding a beat so they’d never be able to march in step.”
I smiled at her wry tone but dubious expressions around us suggested few others appreciated the joke.
“Planir, as you might expect, is remarkably light of foot and dances a very pretty measure,” Velindre continued, with unmistakable sarcasm. “But then, he’s so often the wizard that tests the rule.”
“You think rules should be observed?” I queried. “Weren’t you Otrick’s pupil? He bends rules until they splinter.”
Velindre’s face hardened into unflattering angles. “At least those rules were the same for everyone, not one set for Planir and his cronies and another for the rest of us.”
“Have you any news of Otrick?” Allin peered round me with wide, anxious eyes.
“No.” Fleeting brilliance rose and vanished in Velindre’s hazel eyes. “And it’s time Planir faced up to the truth. He cannot use this Kellarin business as the excuse for continually ignoring Hadrumal’s concerns.”
“There’s Casuel.” Allin seemed more concerned with matters in hand than quarrels in distant Hadrumal.
The mage was edging his way apologetically through the crowd, clutching his card in one sweaty hand. “Has anyone asked either of you to dance?”
“Are you offering?” Velindre smiled innocently.
Casuel hesitated just a breath too long. “Naturally, if you would do me the honour. Who else has asked you? Of what rank?”
Velindre showed him her unmarked card. “You have your choice of dances, Cas.”
He frowned. “Do you think Esquire Camarl would agree to me asking some of the ladies from the lesser families? From cadet blood lines?” The wizard looked around the crowded room. “Where is he?”
I scanned the throng but couldn’t see Esquire Camarl at all. What I could see were unmistakable knots of allied families. Firon Den Thasnet was standing with two Den Muret Demoiselles while his sister hung on the arm of the Sieur Den Rannion’s youngest brother. Close by the Sieur Tor Sylarre was smiling as he chatted with an elder Esquire Den Muret. Even given the increasing press of people, they were keeping an emphatic space between themselves and Gelaia Den Murivance as she laughed with her brother Maren and Jenty Tor Sauzet. Further round the room Orilan Den Hefeken was talking to her affianced Esquire Den Risiper, other Esquires of both houses agreeing dances with a knot of minor Den Ferrand and Den Gennael girls. Beyond the stony-faced Sieur Tor Priminale stood with his extensive array of cousins in an unapproachable circle.
As I watched, a lackey in palace colours came up to whisper politely to the Sieur Tor Sylarre. A lifetime’s training kept the Sieur’s face impassive but he bid an immediate farewell to Den Muret and followed the lackey through a discreet door on the far side of the wide salon.
Temar came over, waving his dance card to dry the writing. “Be careful not to brush against my leg, ladies,” he said breezily. “Some clumsy girl has just spilt ink down me. I believe her badge was Tor Priminale.” Anger showed momentarily beneath his light words.
I looked at the barely visible dampness on his dark blue breeches. “Fortunate that the Sieur suggested that colour.”
“Quite so,” smiled Temar thinly. “Sadly, the Demoiselle’s pretty orange feathers are now an unappealing brown. What might that signify in this complicated code these girls have concocted?”
I grinned at him. “I hate to think.”
“Where does that lead?” Temar nodded towards the door Tor Sylarre had disappeared through.
“It goes round to the throne room,” I replied.
“Esquire Camarl and the Sieur were summoned as soon as they arrived.” Temar and I exchanged a speculative look.
“When’s this dance going to begin?” Casuel demanded crossly. “It’s unbearably hot.” He fidgeted with the fronts of his heavy robe.
“Just be grateful this isn’t an evening dance,” I told him. “Add the heat of candles and we’d be melting faster than the beeswax.”
The salon ran the full width of the palace but even with upper windows open to breezes too high to disturb the ladies’ elegant hair, the temperature was rising fast.
“We could work a little judicious magic, Cas,” Velindre remarked. “I can start some air moving, and drawing the heat away would be a good exercise for Allin’s fire affinity.”
“We can’t use magic here.” Casuel was horrified. “Not without the Emperor’s permission.”
“We could ask him. Where is he?” At that moment, the brass-ornamented doors into the ballroom swung open and people spilled gratefully into the cooler space. Velindre looked into the ballroom as the crush in the anteroom cleared. “Isn’t your Emperor supposed to be receiving people?”
“The Sieur Tor Arrial’s just been sent for.” Temar was still looking at the single doorway where a lackey now stood unobtrusive guard.
That prompted me to look for Avila and I soon saw her with the Maitresse Tor Arrial. The Maitresse’s brother, Esquire Den Harkeil, was writing on Avila’s dance card with a smile that was positively flirtatious.
“I am glad to see someone is enjoying the day,” remarked Temar rather tightly as he followed my gaze.
“I don’t think Esquire Camarl is.” I nudged Temar as Camarl appeared through the side door, face impassive as he hurried to his uncles. The friendly smile on Ustian’s face faded as we watched, and Leishal positively glowered. Fresil snapped his fingers abruptly to summon Myred, starting a buzz of speculation among more than the Tor Kanselin ladies so abruptly deserted.
Temar looked to me for answers but I hadn’t any to give him. Then a stir in the ballroom turned every head but it was only footmen with trays crowded with glasses.
“I hope incautious drinking does not loosen too many inhibitions.” Temar beckoned with an authoritative hand.
I took a glass of deep golden wine. “I’ve never heard of one of these dances turning into a free-for-all, but I suppose there’s always a first time.”
“You don’t seriously think there’ll be violence?” Casuel asked nervously.
“He was joking, Cas,” Velindre told him scornfully.
Looking round the gathering, feeling the increasingly fervid undercurrents, I wasn’t so sure.
A flurry of carriages outside caused another distraction. I welcomed it until I saw the late arrivals were a solid phalanx of Tor Bezaemar. The Sieur entered with his aunt the Relict on his arm, each son and nephew behind escorting dutiful daughters of the House. Every cadet line was represented, wearing the Tor Bezaemar martlet worked into pendants, rings and brooches, combined with the badge of every line subsumed into the Name over the generations. After pausing on the threshold until Dirindal was satisfied with the impact of their entrance, the family scattered like a flock of birds, alighting on every group and conversation, prompting smiles and welcomes, some less convincing than others. Dirindal relinquished her nephew to his wife and took her grandson Kreve’s arm for a slow circuit of the wide salon. I saw a Tor Tadriol lackey heading immediately for the Sieur.
“This could be interesting.” Temar’s discreet nod directed me to Dirindal, who’d drawn level with Lady Channis. Messire’s lady was deep in laughing conversation with the Maitresse Tor Kanselin and neither drew so much as a breath as they turned dismissive shoulders on the Relict. Gathering the covey of assorted Demoiselles fluttering nervously around with brisk gestures with their fans, the two ladies walked away, never once making so much as eye contact with Dirindal. The Relict was left standing, a moment of unmistakable fury on her face before she raised a sweep of mossy f
eathers to conceal imperfectly an expression of wounded amiability. The Esquire managed no such masquerade, plainly outraged.
“Saedrin save us, Ryshad, you’ve certainly brought me to a fascinating occasion.” Charoleia’s voice at my elbow nearly made me spill my wine. “Good day to you, Temar.”
“My Lady Alaric.” He bowed to her, eyes sparkling and won a demure half-smile in return.
I did hope he wasn’t going to make a fool of himself in public, but then again that might distract the assembled nobility. All those families with ties of blood and loyalty to D’Olbriot were taking their cue to ignore Tor Bezaemar, some with more grace than others. Indignation was swelling among Den Muret, Den Rannion, Tor Priminale, leaving minor Houses exposed as the room divided into undeclared battle lines. Den Hefeken was looking to Den Ferrand for support while Den Gennael and Den Risiper drew into a defensive circle with Den Brennain.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Casuel’s voice seesawed between rebuke for Temar and fawning in Charoleia’s direction.
“My apologies. May I make known Lady Alaric of Thornlisse. This is Casuel Devoir, Velindre Ychane and Allin Mere. All mages of Hadrumal.” The laughter just beneath Temar’s words set Casuel looking suspiciously for some hidden slight.
“You know Ryshad?” Velindre was measuring Charoleia with frank curiosity.
Charoleia returned the candid appraisal. “We have acquaintance in common.” Her words were coloured with sufficient Lescari accents to lend a hint of foreign glamour, just as her pale lilac gown had a subtly northern cut. The gentian lace overlaying the silk brought out the colour of her eyes as well as emphasising the whiteness of her skin. A single silver chain carrying an amethyst and pearl pendant circled her elegant neck and more pearls studded a silver crescent lifting hair dressed high in an unmistakably Lescari style.
Velindre swung the fan chained at her waist. “There’ll be plenty here keen to make your acquaintance.” She sounded amused.
“That’s what such functions are for,” Charoleia replied sweetly.
We were certainly attracting a fair degree of notice. An unknown beauty, three wizards and a chosen man who’d rather be outside holding the horses were certainly a welcome neutral topic for speculation in the tense atmosphere. I wondered how long we’d serve as a diversion, seeing Firon Den Thasnet draining yet another glass of wine, angry colour high on his cheekbones.
“Open hostilities here will suit no one’s purpose,” Charoleia said softly. She was looking at two Tor Sylarre youths who were casting provocative sneers at a trio of Den Murivance Esquires, stiff-necked in their first appearance at such an exalted gathering.
“It’s all this talking that’s stoking up resentments,” I frowned. “But it’s the Emperor’s privilege to open the dance, and he’s nowhere to be seen.”
“But I am so ignorant of modern courtesies,” said Temar breezily. “My lady?” He offered a hand to Charoleia.
She shook her head, smiling. “I don’t care to be quite so noticeable, Temar.”
He grinned and I realised whatever he felt for Charoleia was a fair cry from the prickly devotion he’d lavished on Guinalle. That puzzle had me tongue-tied just long enough to stop me calling Temar back when he sauntered off, idly swinging the card on its ribbon at his wrist.
I watched a touch nervously as he tapped Orilan Den Hefeken on one shoulder. The Demoiselle greeted him with a ready smile but that faltered as he spoke. She turned to appeal to her Sieur. Camarl strolled over as Temar spread beseeching hands to Orilan. Several other people drew near and a new murmur rippled outwards. We watched as the Sieur Den Hefeken sent a footman hurrying to the chamberlain, whose face was betraying considerable strain. Master Jainne was standing by a circle of musicians silent at the far end of the ballroom, pipers with single, double and double-reeded instruments of differing sizes and curves backed by lutanists and bowed lyres.
“Oh look, Cas,” said Velindre brightly. “Your brother’s leading the music. What an honour for your family.”
The mage’s strangled reply was drowned beneath a lively chord. Temar led Orilan Den Hefeken into the centre of the floor and four other couples rapidly formed a set behind them. I hadn’t seen Messire return, but he appeared on the far side, Lady Channis graceful on his arm. Assorted scions of Den Murivance, Tor Kanselin and Den Castevin followed suit. Kreve Tor Bezaemar promptly led one of Tor Sylarre’s innumerable daughters out and Firon Den Thasnet followed with another.
“Competing over who dances the neatest figures should prove harmless enough,” said Charoleia with satisfaction. She took my hand and I found myself walking out to join the nearest set. She curtsied with consummate grace and I bowed, listening hard for the beat of the music, counting silently until I could move to one side with the other men. Charoleia swept past me with a sensuous whisper of perfumed silk and we both turned to join hands and follow the set in a series of rapid twists and turns, dropping and swapping hands as we went. I hadn’t danced since Winter Solstice and that had been a servants’ affair where errors were greeted with laughter rather than the contempt I could imagine here. Livak fitted into the lower halls well enough, but with the best will in the world I couldn’t see her dancing these complex measures with a tenth the grace of Charoleia.
I managed the exchange of partners without error and when Charoleia came back to me could breathe a little easier.
“You look very serious,” she observed as the music changed to a partner dance.
I took her in my arms. “Did you and Temar—” The words were out before I could bite my tongue.
Charoleia arched exquisite brows over limpid eyes. “Is that any concern of yours?”
I felt ashamed. “No, I suppose, forgive me.”
She laughed delicately. “Since you ask, yes we did. But rather more importantly for that young man, we talked long into the night and again in the cool of the morning. I think you’ll find him rather wiser to the differences between love and lust.”
I looked hastily from side to side in case anyone was overhearing this but we were safely isolated in the midst of the circling couples.
“I’d forgotten how tender an innocent can be,” Charoleia continued in an amused undertone. “But I think I convinced him passion alone rarely sustains a love affair beyond first rapture, no matter how hot and strong that flame burns. I think he’ll learn it’s best to temper that charming ardour with friendship.”
Charoleia’s indulgent satisfaction roused my indignation on Temar’s behalf. Then I wondered if such newfound wisdom might help cut the tangle of emotions binding him to Guinalle. “You had to take him into your bed to tell him that?”
“And to show him the delights of the flesh can be enjoyed simply for their own sake,” she replied easily. “Don’t tell me you’ve lived this long without learning that? I don’t imagine Livak would have bedded you otherwise.”
I took up the challenge in those periwinkle eyes. “What would you have done if I’d taken up your offer of such pleasures the other morning?”
“Compared notes with Livak.” Charoleia’s smile was instantly ruthless. “To let her know what manner of man you were, in case she thought different.”
I took a slow breath. “Halice just promised to knock me senseless if I didn’t do right by her.”
“That sounds like Halice,” Charoleia agreed lightly. “We both look out for our friends in our own way. Wait until you meet Sorgrad and ’Gren.”
“That’s something to look forward to,” I said with equal flippancy. “If we get to the end of Festival unscathed.”
We finished the dance in silence and parted in mutual accord. I watched as Charoleia artlessly insinuated herself into a laughing group of Den Breval ladies escorted by various men from a cadet Den Haurient line. Then I went to escort Allin on to the dance floor.
The Imperial Palace of Tadriol the Provident,
Summer Solstice Festival, Fifth Day, Afternoon
Have you passed a pleasant Festival?�
�� Temar could spare enough attention to attempt conversation with Gelaia Den Murivance now that the dance simply required them to advance hand in hand. At least he’d made his initial missteps with the amiable Orilan and various D’Olbriot Demoiselles. “It’s certainly been the most memorable of recent years.” Temar thought Gelaia was about to say something else but they reached the end of the figure and had to turn away from each other. He smiled politely as he swept some unknown Demoiselle around, skirts swirling as he set careful hands on her slim waist. Gelaia raised her fan as they stood waiting their turn to pass down the middle of the set. “Have you made any progress learning the language of feathers?” she asked archly. Temar shook his head. “It has been a busy five days.” Gelaia’s eyes kept sliding away from Temar’s gaze. “There are plenty of people here interested to see what colours I carry. But then no one knows what a D’Alsennin livery would be, do they?”
Temar studied her fan, a spread of glossy crimson layered over darker maroon plumes clasped in a golden handle studded with rubies and softened with a flurry of down. Vivid scarlet tendrils with tufted ends trembled on either side and Temar wondered what kind of bird those came from. He realised Gelaia was looking expectantly at him between glances at the rest of their set. “You carry Den Murivance colours, do you not? Rather than the white plumes you used before?”
Gelaia raised a defiant chin. “Which signifies I have no interest in any other House at present—and none has an interest in me.”
Temar took a moment to catch her meaning. “Messire D’Olbriot will be disappointed.”
“Is he the only one?” Gelaia demanded with some indignation.
Temar took her hand to lead her down the middle of the other couples. “I had barely realised I was being considered as a suitable candidate for your hand. Why am I now so quickly rejected?” Completing the last steps of the dance Temar turned with Gelaia to bow to the rest of the set.
Gelaia fanned herself, faint colour rising beneath her mask of cosmetics. “There are too many complications.”
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