“They’ll save any arguments for later. They both grew up in courtly Houses; they know the importance of appearances.” We claimed two of the stools arrayed around the edge of the room and Ryshad stretched long legs out in front of him. “They know Kellarin runs on goodwill. Neither will risk undermining that with a public squabble.”
I wondered if Temar appreciated how much that goodwill depended on Ryshad’s talents. As D’Olbriot’s man, he’d often had to unite some disparate band of men, getting a task done with a joke and a laugh, asserting his authority with steel in his voice and, if need be, in his hand. He’d been doing the same for D’Alsennin since we got here.
My beloved was watching Guinalle with a slight smile. “Did she tell you Artifice was used to curb anyone letting their mouth run away with them in the Old Empire courts?”
She had and I wasn’t entirely happy with the notion. I surveyed the crowd, some intent faces among the merely inquisitive. “Who steps up first?”
“For the moment, first come, first heard.” Ryshad looked at D’Alsennin with faint impatience. “I told Temar he’d do better to have people bring their business to his proxy before an assembly meets and to let them know he’ll hear them in order of importance.”
“You’re not taking that on?” I hoped it was plain I expected a denial.
“I’m no clerk.” Ryshad said emphatically. “It’s time young Albarn took on a few responsibilities of the rank he’s so eager to claim.”
As Ryshad spoke, Albarn Den Domesin appeared on the dais from a door in the back wall. This sprig of ancient Tormalin nobility had certainly welcomed the Emperor’s edict that the few remaining noble lineages of Kellarin should henceforth be considered cadet branches grafted on to the D’Alsennin tree. Perhaps someone should tell him that Tadriol had simply been circumventing the snarl of legalities threatening to entangle Temar as aggrieved and opportunistic Sieurs had laid ancient claims and spurious grievances before Toremal’s law courts.
Albarn settled himself at a table to one side of the dais where an unsullied ledger lay open beside an assortment of pens and ink. He didn’t look too enthusiastic for someone eager to be acknowledged as Temar’s designated successor.
“Poor lad, taking notes himself rather than lording it over copyists,” I said with light mockery. “Still, if you want to reap, you’ve got to sow.”
“I haven’t seen you doing much sowing.” Ryshad shot me a quizzical look. “But I tripped over Fras making a mess in our garden this morning. Why is that?”
“He’s as handy with a spread of runes as he is with that hoe.” I spread my hands, unconcerned. “He’ll get the job done.” And I’d washed the bed linen, so felt entitled to some entertainment today.
Halice strode through the crowd and pulled up a stool. “How long are we going to be sitting on our hands?”
“We’re waiting for their nod.” Up on the dais Guinalle was emphasising her point to Temar with sharp gestures. “What does she reckon to this notion?”
“A sensible custom long overdue some use.” Halice grinned. “If we can convince her to turn away anyone plaguing her outside of these sessions, she might learn to relax a little.”
Ryshad laid a hand on my thigh to silence me. “Here’s the old wether to break the snow.”
The crowd stilled as a white-haired man stepped forward, nodding a polite bow to Albarn before standing below Temar and Guinalle. “My duty, Messire, Demoiselle.”
“Master Drage.” Temar inclined his head and Guinalle favoured the man with a courteous smile.
He coughed. “It’s about these land grants. I’m wondering if we can’t break them up a bit. Back home, we held land in different parts of a demesne, some meadow, some plough land, all different tracts, so no one got all stones or bog.”
Temar nodded. “But there’s sufficient land here to give everyone good soil.”
“But what about hail or storm?” Drage spoke with the confidence of age and experience. “Larasion be blessed, we’ve mild enough weather here but if all a man’s crops are in the one field, any misfortune could ruin his harvest.” A murmur of agreement supported him but I could see a few belligerent faces determined to dispute this. Yeomen newly come from Tormalin liked knowing exactly where their boundaries ran and their precise rights to enforce them.
Temar bent to confer with Guinalle before answering Master Drage. “You raise a valid concern and I imagine others share it. But equally, many folk prefer their grant within a single enclosure. We suggest anyone wishing to swap a portion of their holdings with another gather in the trading hall tomorrow. We can have exchanges recorded by formal charter—”
Guinalle’s scream came like lightning from a clear sky. She stumbled to her feet, head shaking like a horse tormented by hornets, hair lashing wildly as she clutched at her temples. Temar barely caught her as she fainted, falling to his knees on the hollow dais with a thud that echoed around the stricken silence.
Ryshad’s long legs ignored the stairs, me taking them in two strides. Halice was barely a pace behind us.
“Is she breathing?” I demanded. Her colour was ghastly, lips bloodless, face slack.
Temar ripped at the lace secured around her shoulders with a silver and sapphire brooch. “Her heart’s racing.” We could all see the beat in the pale hollow of her neck.
Ryshad scooped her up in his arms.
“Through to the back.” Halice lent a steadying hand as he got to his feet.
“Keep them here.” I held Temar back before pushing him towards his seat of authority and the open-mouthed consternation below. “Carry on or gossip will have her dead and on her pyre before sunset.”
Halice was holding the rear door for Ryshad. She beckoned me with a jerk of her head. “We’ll send word as soon as we know what’s wrong.”
Temar visibly composed himself and turned to the astonished gathering. “It seems the demoiselle is taken ill.” His voice strengthened. “But she would be the last one to wish for any fuss and the first to urge us to continue.”
That much was true but the thought did little to relieve my anxiety as I closed the door on his words.
Ryshad was standing in the middle of Temar’s hall, frowning. The walls were still bare stone but Bridele was doing her best to make the place more comfortable. High-backed settles flanked the wide hearth, mismatched but well made and softened with linen-covered cushions bright with more of the housekeeper’s embroidery.
Halice was tossing them to the floor and delving in the hollow bottom of the settle to find a blanket. “Livak, have that woman find us some decent wine.”
I ran to hammer on the kitchen door. Bridele opened it, startled.
“Demoiselle Guinalle’s taken ill,” I told her rapidly. “Fetch wine or white brandy if Temar’s got a bottle hidden away.”
As she scurried away, I went to look for kindling in the cluttered inglenook. Ryshad laid Guinalle gently down. “Is she stirring?”
“Barely,” said Halice, chafing the noblewoman’s fragile wrists between her own muscular hands. “Have either of you heard of any contagion?”
We all looked at each other, relieved to see mutual head shakes. Drianon save us from another outbreak of the fever that had left Tedin orphaned and in his grandam’s care, I thought. Especially if we didn’t have Guinalle to curb its virulence this time.
Ryshad snapped open the clasp of her chain girdle. “Where are the laces on this cursed gown?”
“Under the arm.” I pointed before turning back to the hearth. “Talmia megrala eldrin.fres.” A flame sprang up among the twigs and I fed it with bigger sticks. Guinalle might scorn such Lower Artifice but she couldn’t deny it was useful. I saw a feather poking through the linen of a cushion and, recalling my mother dealing with a light-headed housemaid, plucked it out.
“On there.” Ryshad directed Bridele to set her tray on the low table between the settles. Guinalle moaned, a low sound of acute pain. He knelt beside her. “Can you tell us what’s wrong?”
He didn’t tell her she was going to be all right, dark eyes scanning her pale skin for any sign of a rash or some other ill omen. Ryshad’s sister had died of a spotted sickness and Halice and I have seen people healthy at dawn and dead before dusk.
Halice brushed Guinalle’s disordered hair aside, testing her forehead for fever. The girl caught her breath and opened frantic brown eyes like someone roused from nightmares. She tried to raise herself but Halice restrained her. I poured a goblet of dark ruby wine and stood at Ryshad’s shoulder.
Guinalle’s eyes were disconcertingly distant. “Parrail?”
“What about him?” Halice demanded.
“Is he in trouble?” asked Ryshad.
She seemed deaf to their questions. I lit the feather and waved the smouldering fragment beneath her nose. Guinalle coughed on the acrid smoke and her indignant eyes focused on me.
“Parrail’s in the most dreadful distress!” She sat up, a rush of colour to her lips and cheeks reducing her corpse-like pallor.
I handed her the wine. “Is it the ship?”
“He’s terrified.” The demoiselle took a shuddering breath.
“It’s a wonder he could work any Artifice!”
“Could you tell where he is?” Ryshad got to his feet, trying not to press her too hard.
“On land or at sea?” I amplified the question.
Guinalle drained the cup of wine before speaking. “On land, I think, but not on Kellarin. Or perhaps not. I felt the ocean hindering his enchantment.” She set down the goblet and knotted her fingers in her lap, knuckles white.
“Trouble at sea comes fast and furious.” Ryshad’s concern was plain. “Especially if they’re making landfall. Can you reach him with your own Artifice?”
Guinalle’s dogged self-possession was returning. “Give me a moment.”
I perched with Halice on the low table, trying not to look too impatient.
Guinalle sat on the edge of the settle, smoothing her skirts as she took a deep breath. She spared a vexed look for her torn lace before folding her hands slowly beneath her breastbone. Closing her eyes she spoke with measured calm.
“Lar toral en mar for das, ay enamir ras tel. Parrail endalaia ver atal sedas ar mornal.”
Her squeal made us all jump and Halice’s grab for a nonexistent sword hilt sent the tray and goblets crashing to the floor.
“What?” Ryshad was braced for action.
“He’s in fear of his life.” Guinalle was shivering like someone cloakless in the depths of midwinter.
“From the sea?” I recalled the lad was as bad a sailor as me.
“He’s not alone. He fears for the people with him.” Guinalle’s brow furrowed, eyes dark and inward-looking. The demoiselle raised a hand and I saw marks on her palm where her fingernails had dug in. “He’s surrounded by dangerous men, thieves and killers.”
“Elietimm?” Ryshad looked murderous.
“No,” Guinalle said slowly. “I’ve no sense of them.”
“Can you talk to Parrail?” Ryshad was all but pacing the floor with frustration.
“He’s scared out of his wits.” Guinalle shook her head, distraught. “He won’t hear me and for me to see through his eyes with Artifice—”
I wasn’t waiting for explanations. “We need scrying. I’ll find Allin and set Temar’s mind at rest.” I added with a smile at Guinalle. Embarrassment at the realisation of her public collapse wiped away the last of her pallor and, mortified, she looked surprisingly young.
I left her to Ryshad and Halice, slipping discreetly on to the dais in the reception hall through the rear door. Albarn had his head down, scribbling rapidly and Temar looked to have kept the business of answering appeals to his authority as Sieur going fairly smoothly so far.
“Make an offering to a shrine, that’s where it stays.” A woman with a figure like a peg-dolly was standing before Temar, hands on hips.
“Mistress Beldan, you have said your piece. Please let Mistress Treda have her say!“ I was impressed by Temar’s firmness.
His chair hid the second woman from me but from her accent, she was one of the original colonists. “I know nothing of practice over the ocean nowadays but we hold to an older custom.” Her effort to sound placatory was obvious. “If I give a cooking pot to Drianon by way of thanks, I expect the goddess to bring someone with the need for it by her shrine and have them find it there. I don’t look for it to gather dust for all eternity.”
“A cook pot’s no fit devotion—”
“Thank you.” Temar cut across Mistress Beldan’s scorn. “Does anyone claim responsibility for the shrine? Is anyone willing to take on a priesthood?”
I saw people looking at each other with confusion and reluctance. Priesthoods and confraternities for the upkeep of shrines have been hereditary for generations out of mind on the other side of the ocean but there was no such tradition here.
As uncertain muttering occupied everyone, I stepped up to Temar’s side. “Guinalle’s all right, just fainted.” That reassured him even if I wasn’t entirely sure it were true. “Parrail’s in some sort of trouble and used Artifice to call for help. It took her completely by surprise and he’s none too adept, so that made things worse.” I noted people stepping eagerly forward to listen and considered how much bad news to chew on would stop their vivid imaginations supplying worse.
“What kind of trouble?” Temar’s pale blue eyes fixed on me.
I wasn’t going to speculate with all these ears around. “We need Allin to scry for us. Do you know where she is?”
“With Master Shenred.”
I patted Temar on the shoulder. “You’re doing well. Keep it up.”
Temar allowed himself a grimace of frustration before I took myself out by the back door. I heard him return to the matter in hand with tense deliberation. “We should establish a confraternity to agree such practices for the shrine. Anyone willing to serve should give their name to Albarn and lots can be drawn. Those who prefer a different rite can set up their own shrine.”
Back in Temar’s residence, Bridele was cleaning the floor and Halice was tending the fire while Guinalle sat frozen on the settle. Ryshad looked up from searching among Temar’s charts and spared me a brief smile.
“Any idea where Shenred is?” I asked him.
He thought for a moment. “Try the slaughter ground.”
Hurrying down the tiled lane, I ran down river past the hillock that shielded the sights and sounds of the bloodier end of a master butcher’s business. Allin was by the hanging store, apron over her gown, sleeves rolled up and one hand carefully testing a vat of brine. “It’s all a question of evaporation,” she said earnestly. “With water antithetical to my fire affinity, it’s a delicate balance.”
“Sorry to interrupt, but D’Alsennin needs a little magic working.” I smiled briefly.
Shenred sighed. “Go on then, lass.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Allin apologised earnestly.
“It’ll keep, lass.” He smiled at her. “That’s what brine does.”
I forced a rapid pace to take us out of earshot as soon as possible. “How well do you know Parrail? Well enough to scry for him?”
“I don’t think so.” Curiosity followed Allin’s honest regret. “Why?”
“He’s in trouble and we need to know how bad,” I told her bluntly.
“Naldeth’s on the same ship, isn’t he?” She dried her hands on her apron. “I know him, and his brother.”
“Then that’s who you scry for.” We returned to Temar’s residence as fast as I judged we could go without attracting undue attention.
Allin stripped off her apron as we entered. “Do we have—good, thank you.”
Ryshad was already filling a broad silver bowl from a prettily glazed ewer while Halice added to a motley collection of bottles on the table. “We’ve got you all the inks and oils Bridele could find.”
Allin rapidly selected a glass vial of green oil with sprigs
of herb in it. She uncorked it with care, letting a few drops fall on to the surface of the water. “I may not be able to hold the image for long,” she warned.
The vivid green of the oil vanished as it spread across the water, a hint of thyme scenting the air. Allin cupped her hands around the rim of the bowl and set her round jaw resolutely. I joined Ryshad on one side of her, Halice and Guinalle on the other, all of us trying not to crowd the mage but increasingly anxious to see what her magic might reveal.
The invisible film of oil shone as if sunlight were playing on it. The green-gold sheen thickened, trails of radiance falling through the water, spreading and diffusing until the colour filled the bowl. It deepened to a grassy hue, then to a mossy darkness and, faint at first, a reflection formed on the glassy surface. “Don’t jog the table.” Allin concentrated on the bowl, her tongue caught between her teeth.
“Is that the ship?” I saw an ocean vessel drawn up on the shingle strand of Suthyfer’s best anchorage.
“That’s Den Harkeil’s.” Ryshad pointed to a ram’s head carved on the stern rail.
Halice scowled. “Hardly fit to sail.” The wheeling magic showed us where planking had been stripped from the ribs of the ship, leaving it broken like the carcass of a dead animal.
“What do they want the wood for?” As I wondered, Allin sent the spell searching across from the shore. We saw crude shelters sprawling over the grass, some canvas, others built from hatch covers and doors. Chests and casks were stacked beneath crude nets weighted with pulley blocks.
“Who are they?” Halice put careful hands behind her back as she bent closer to study small figures, some barefoot in shirtsleeves with an air of purpose, others more leisurely in boots and cloaks.
“Pirates,” said Ryshad coldly. “Scum of the seas.”
“Where’s Parrail?” Guinalle’s eyes went from the image to Allin and back, frustration chasing anxiety across her face.
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