I turned down a side passage to see a page was sitting on a cross-framed chair by the door at the end. He jumped up but I waved the child back to his hornbook. He’d spend enough of his day on his feet without me insisting on due deference and I could knock on a door myself. “I’m here to see Esquire D’Alsennin.”
“Enter.” Temar answered my knock at once and I opened the door. The Sieur had decreed Temar was to be treated with Imperial courtesy and thus warranted the finest, coolest quarters available. Windows broadened when this northern façade had been rebuilt filled the room with light and Temar was standing by one, arms folded crossly over his creased shirt and looking distinctly mutinous.
“Good day to you, Chosen Tathel.” Demoiselle Tor Arrial sat on a gilt-wood stool upholstered with damask that matched the curtains of the old-fashioned bed dominating one half of the room.
“Demoiselle.” I made a low bow, mindful of her Imperial heritage.
Her bark of laughter made me look up. “I am in no mood to be flattered by a title more suited to those coveys of maidens cluttering up the place. Avila will suffice.”
“As you wish,” I said cautiously. Informality was allowable on the road, but I wasn’t going to call her by her given name in Messire’s hearing. “Are you fully recovered from the journey?” She’d looked fit for her pyre the previous day, every year of her age weighing heavy on her head.
“I am quite restored,” she assured me. “A good night’s sleep works its own Artifice.”
“Ryshad, I really should come with you this afternoon,” Temar appealed to me. “This is my responsibility and my Name will lend weight to our requests.”
“How so, when no one knows your face?” demanded Avila acidly. “You need to assert the dignity of your House with these lately come nobles before you can claim the right to speak for Kel Ar’Ayen. That means exchanging the usual courtesies, just as Festival always demanded.”
“I was never any good at such things,” the youth objected.
“Because you never applied yourself and there was your grandsire to do the duty for you. You cannot escape the obligations of your rank now,” challenged Avila.
“Making yourself known will certainly smooth our path, Temar,” I interjected. Messire D’Olbriot would hardly thank me if Temar absented himself this afternoon. “And I’ve made a start on tracing the artefacts already.” I placed the box on a marble-topped table and opened it with hesitant hands to reveal the armring within.
Temar reached out an eager hand but then withdrew it.
“What is it?” Avila asked with a curious look at us both.
As one man Temar and I glanced across the room to a scabbarded blade resting on a walnut cabinet by the dressing room door. Artifice had confined Temar’s essential self within that sword through nine Imperial eras. No, he was no more about to risk handling an artefact holding a similarly imprisoned mind than I was.
“Let me.” Avila came to pick up the armring and turned it to examine an engraved device, dark lines blurred with age in the tarnished metal. “Ancel fashioned this badge when he and Letica married.”
“Maitresse Den Rannion, as was,” Temar whispered hastily to me. “Her sister, you know.”
I nodded. I’d made it my business to know all the long-dead colonists regardless, but I also seemed to have Temar’s own memories lurking in the back of my head supplying such answers. I wasn’t sure I liked it, but it was undeniably useful.
“This belongs to Jaes, the gate ward. He helped Letica plant her herb garden.” Avila ran a creased finger over the incised sea eagle’s head and tears shone briefly in her faded eyes.
“One more will be rescued from the darkness,” said Temar hoarsely.
“We can spread our efforts this afternoon,” I suggested. “I’ll take your list and try to talk to servants, men-at-arms, people like that. You make yourself known to the nobility and charm a few likely Demoiselles.”
He rubbed a hand over his hair, leaving it in unruly black spikes. “I might manage that.”
“Who is to keep this safe?” Avila put the armring back in its box and looked at us both.
I held up my hands in demur. “I’ve nowhere to keep it.”
“It is not staying in here,” said Temar hastily.
Avila gave us both a scorching glare as she got stiffly to her feet. “You would-be warriors can be remarkably chicken-hearted. Very well, I will keep it in my room. Temar, dress for this afternoon’s folderols.”
I opened the door so as to avoid her gaze but nearly betrayed myself when I saw the face Temar was pulling at her departing back. I grinned at him. “We’ll see who’s made most progress after dinner tonight.”
The D’Olbriot Residence,
Summer Solstice Festival, First Day,
Early Afternoon
Temar watched Avila and Ryshad go with some regret, then realised the page was staring hopefully at him. “I need clean clothes and I have yet to see my own luggage,” he said bluntly. “Whom do I ask?”
“I’ll get Master Dederic,” said the boy hastily and before Temar could say anything further he disappeared towards the backstairs.
Temar went back to staring out of the window, looking down on the complex interlacing of hedge and blooms that hemmed this enormous dwelling. The grounds of his grandfather’s modest hall had nourished deer and cattle, useful animals, not some empty display.
A discreet tap on the door drew him back to the present. “Enter.”
“Good day to you, Esquire.” A dapper man bowed into the room with aplomb.
“Forgive me, I do not believe we have met…” Temar apologised.
“I’m Dederic, tailor to the House.” The man clapped his hands and two liveried lackeys hurried in, arms full of garments. A hesitant youth with a ribbon pierced with pins tied round one wrist followed clutching a two-handled coffer. There must be more servants in this house than mice, Temar thought. In fact, there was probably some underling specifically dedicated to removing mice, and a separate one for the stableyard rats.
“Send the page for hot water. The Esquire will wish to shave.”
Dederic dismissed one of the lackeys before producing a length of knotted silk thread from one pocket. “I made up a few outfits for you overnight. I took measurements from your old clothing, so the fit won’t be all we might wish, but if I measure you now we can make the necessary adjustments tonight.”
The apprentice with the pins produced a small slate from his coffer and both tailors looked expectantly at Temar.
He stopped running a hand over his chin to judge for himself whether he needed to shave and stood still as Dederic moved rapidly round him. “Two fingers less in the back. If you could just raise your arms—thank you. Half a handspan long in the sleeve, Larasion help me. And your feet a little wider apart—thank you.”
The man took an impertinently intimate measurement and Temar was about to ask just what in Talagrin’s name Dederic thought he was doing when he noticed the close fit of the breeches everyone else wore. He swallowed his curt enquiry.
“It’s the Tor Kanselin reception this afternoon?” Dederic raised a fine black brow.
“It is? I mean, yes, it is,” Temar nodded firmly. “Who exactly is to be present, do you know?” he asked cautiously.
“Just the younger nobility from the better Names, mostly those from cadet lines who are visiting for Festival,” said Dederic, measuring the width of Temar’s shoulders with an approving murmur. “It’s a chance for everyone to catch up with the gossip while the Sieurs are occupied with assizes business.”
That didn’t sound too bad, thought Temar, determinedly quelling unwelcome nervousness. “What would you advise me to wear?” The last thing he wanted was to be embarrassed by his appearance.
Dederic ran a thoughtful hand over precisely pomaded curls. “Perhaps the pewter? Where is your valet?”
Temar blinked. “Camarl’s servant saw to my needs when we arrived. I have no attendant of my own.” And the stru
ggle to convince Camarl’s valet he didn’t require anyone’s help washing had put Temar right off having one.
“I’ll assist you just this once.” Dederic’s narrow nostrils flared a little. “Speak to the Steward about a valet and don’t let him tell you everyone’s so busy you’ll have to share with some minor Esquire.”
One of the ubiquitous pageboys arrived with a steaming ewer. “I can shave myself,” said Temar hastily.
“Very well, if you wish.” Dederic glared at his apprentice, who was exchanging a smirk with the pageboy. “Huke, lay out linen and the pewter coat and get back to the seamstresses.”
Temar shut the door of the dressing room on the man’s continuing instructions with a sigh of relief. He pulled his shirt over his head and poured precisely warmed water from the ewer. Lathering his face, he looked at his reflection in the mirror of the ornate fruitwood washstand. The face in the glass looked irresolute, hollow-eyed, and Temar set his jaw beneath the soft luxury of the scented soap. Remember the uncompromising civility of real court life, he told himself silently, forget the easy camaraderie of Kel Ar’Ayen. He looked at his reflection again; people had often said they saw his grandfather in his eyes, hadn’t they? Temar shaved with firm yet careful strokes of the expertly honed blade, summoning up a host of memories of the stern old man. That was the example to keep in mind. None of these modern Sieurs could have matched his grandsire.
“Can I be of assistance?” Dederic peered round the door.
“Thank you, no.” Were these nobles incapable of doing anything for themselves? Temar stifled his irritation with a last wipe of his face with a soft white towel, remembering his grandsire had little use for men who needlessly rebuked their servants. He ignored the scented unguents arrayed along the washstand and went back into the bedchamber. “So what am I to wear?” He looked dubiously at close-tailored breeches and a full-skirted coat laid on the bed.
“Your shirt, Esquire.” The tailor held up the garment and Temar shrugged it on. “Oh, no, not like that.” Dederic raised frantic hands as Temar tugged brusquely at the fine frill around the neck.
“Camarl’s shirts are plain-collared.” Temar tried to conceal his dislike of the starched linen brushing his chin.
“For everyday wear.” Dederic smoothed the fabric with deft fingers. “For Festival, we fancy a little more elegance.”
More idiocy than elegance, Temar thought to himself as he buttoned cuffs hampered by lace falling to his knuckles. “At least hose have not changed that much.” He sat on the bed to roll pearly knitted silk over one foot and then realised the stockings were a handspan shorter than he expected and had no laces, and in any case there were no points on his drawers to tie them to.
Dederic smiled briefly. “The buttons at the knee secure the hose, like so.”
Temar pulled on the breeches, shoving his shirt in all anyhow before fumbling with unfamiliar fastenings at one side.
“Please, Esquire, allow me.” Dederic looked so pained that Temar reluctantly let the man pleat the linen neatly around his waist before smoothly securing the fine woven wool. Temar grimaced at the unaccustomed snugness.
“And now the coat.” Dederic held it up proudly, light grey wool with smoky watered silk showing where the cuffs were folded over and where buttons caught the fronts back for ease of movement. Temar was relieved to find it wasn’t as heavy as he had feared but immediately felt uncomfortably restricted beneath the arms and across his shoulders.
Dederic took his chance to sort out the confusion of lace at Temar’s cuffs and arrange the frill of his shirt within the stiff upright collar of the coat. “Most pleasing, Esquire.”
Temar managed a strained smile and turned to a long looking glass in a fussy ormolu frame. He clenched fists unseen beneath the absurd lace. The colonists of Kel Ar’Ayen had worn practical shirts and functional jerkins, serviceable breeches of leather or sturdy cloth, clothes little different to those of the mercenaries who’d rescued them. If women’s gowns had changed in cut, length or neckline over the generations, that had been of little interest to Temar.
Seeing himself dressed up like this was as forceful a reminder as any yet of just how far adrift he was from his own age. Qualms knotted Temar’s belly so tight he half expected to see his stomach squirming in the reflection. He moved his arms; no wonder these sleeves were so constricting, sewn tight to the body of the garment rather than laced in, as he had always been used to. What he wanted, Temar decided, was to rip off these stupid clothes, hide in that ludicrous bed and pull that absurd coverlet over his head until all these fawning servants and this whole incomprehensible Festival had gone away.
“A house shoe will suffice for this afternoon,” Dederic continued. “But the cobbler will take your pattern for boots at your earliest convenience.”
“I have boots,” said Temar curtly, turning to the chair he’d kicked them under. But Dederic was already kneeling before him with what looked like a girl’s slipper. Temar sighed and reluctantly eased one foot into the square-toed soft grey leather.
“I have plain buckles or—”
“Plain,” interrupted Temar.
Dederic reached into the box for an unembellished silver fastening. As the tailor fussed around his feet, Temar scowled angrily at his reflection. He could run back to Kel Ar’Ayen, couldn’t he, but what would he say when he got there? How could he excuse himself when everyone was trusting him to bring home the artefacts to restore loved ones to life and light? Ryshad was right; the chosen man could talk to servants and men-at-arms but it was Temar’s duty to deal with nobility.
“Don’t you have any jewellery?” Dederic asked plaintively as he stood. “Something with your own badge on?”
“Just this.” Temar raised the hand bearing his father’s sapphire signet ring.
Dederic looked doubtful. “It’s not quite the colour for that coat. Some diamonds, perhaps?”
Of course, Camarl always wore rings and pins, some collar or chain. No matter. Temar had no wish to show off like some cockbird flaunting fine feathers. His father’s ring was sufficient for him. “I see no need for anything more.”
“Perhaps a little pomade?” Dederic offered Temar a brush.
“No, thanks all the same.” Temar dragged the bristles through his hair and gave Dederic a warning look as the man made a move towards a scent bottle. “This will suffice.”
“I’ll see if Esquire Camarl is ready,” offered the tailor and bowed out with a practised smile.
Temar was examining his sword thoughtfully when Camarl came breezily into the room some time later. “Oh, we don’t wear blades, not indoors, not at a social gathering.”
“There’s no way anyone could fight in these clothes.” At least his own spare frame was more flattered by close tailoring than Camarl’s stoutness, Temar thought. He slid the gleaming steel back into the scabbard.
“You look most stylish.” Camarl ushered Temar out into the corridor. “Though this afternoon will be quite informal, just a chance for you to meet a few people before the real business of Festival begins—” Camarl broke off and clicked his tongue against his teeth.
“What?” Temar looked sidelong at the other man, noting jewelled clasps securing the turned-back cuffs of his amber coat, rings on every finger glinting beneath the lace at his wrists.
“I was going to say you’ll be able to recognise people’s Names by their badges but I don’t suppose you will.”
Temar frowned. “We have—we had insignia, for seals and battle standards, but from what Master Devoir said your business of badges is rather more complicated. But he did his best to drill me in the important ones.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask what would the D’Alsennin emblem be,” grimaced Camarl. “People will be asking. The Archivist set his clerks looking, but there’s not one recorded, not as such. Formal insignia were mostly adopted after the Chaos and your Name—”
“Had died out by then,” Temar supplied sadly.
“Quite so.” Camar
l coughed to cover his discomfiture and for some moments they walked in silence down to the bustle of the lower floors. Camarl smiled at Temar as they turned down the final flight of stairs. “But even in the Old Empire, most Houses favoured some theme for their crests?”
“D’Alsennin mostly used leaves.” Temar closed his eyes on childhood memories of the silver clasp that had secured his father’s long hair, one of the few things Temar remembered him by. But he’d left that treasure safe with Guinalle.
“Leaves are certainly traditional, but you’d need to decide on something distinctive.” Camarl’s hand strayed to the enamelled lynx mask fastening his shirt collar. “Opting for your own badge would be a good notion, though. It’ll give us an ideal opportunity to introduce you to the Emperor.”
Temar halted on the bottom step to let a giggling trio of girls trip lightly past. “How so?”
“All grants of emblem have to be approved by the Emperor.” Camarl raised his voice above the excited buzz of conversation. “Well, that’s the formality. What’s important is our Archivist making sure any new device is sufficiently clear not to get confused with someone else’s.” He raised a hand and two stripling Esquires halted to let him and Temar pass ahead of them through the crowded hallway.
“We all just chose our own insignia,” grumbled Temar as they walked out into the sun. “No Emperor had a say in such things.”
“Life in ancient times was freer, perhaps.” Camarl stopped to look thoughtfully at Temar. “But after the Chaos, when the time came to rebuild, the Names surrendered freedoms for safeguards all would abide by. That’s why the Emperor rules on things like badges, since he’s pledged to enforce them.”
The Warrior's Bond Page 10
