Temar was trying to find something to say to that when a new thought diverted Camarl. “Where’s Ryshad? He should be attending you.” He looked around the thronged gatehouse with growing displeasure.
“I had errands for him.” Temar met Camarl’s frown with a challenging look. “I have that right, do I not? To set him small tasks?”
Camarl sighed. “We have plenty of servants for such things. Ryshad really does need to appreciate a chosen man has quite a different status to the merely sworn.”
Temar dutifully followed Camarl through the crowd waiting in the gatehouse as a succession of small carriages and gigs were brought round from the stable yard at the rear of the residence. “Is everyone going to Tor Kanselin’s reception?” He smiled faintly at a young girl who was white with suppressed excitement.
“Oh, no.” Camarl snapped his fingers and the next gig drew up smartly in front of them. “The first day of Festival’s very informal. People mostly visit old friends and call on relatives in other Houses.”
He urged Temar into the open carriage and they were carried along the highway. Temar looked down the hill, trying to work out exactly where the D’Olbriot residence was in relation to what he remembered Toremal to be. So far he’d seen nothing of the walled city he had known, arriving after dark and then being jolted through seemingly endless crowded streets in the coach that had taken them to the archive. He’d seen nothing he recognised and found this lack of any bearings disconcerting. But the trees blocked any view of the land sloping down to the bay, so Temar turned to looked with some interest at a knot of buildings tight inside an ancient bank and ditch incongruous beside the square-cut wall of the residence. “What is that?”
Camarl smiled. “Grace houses, workshops, that kind of thing.”
Temar recognised a frail, silvery carillon of traditional bells. “You have a shrine there?”
“Sacred to Poldrion,” nodded Camarl absently. “A D’Olbriot priesthood for generations. The Sieur granted it to one of my cousins at Winter Solstice, I believe.”
So much for the hallowed observances the god expected from the Head of a House, thought Temar indignantly.
Their carriage halted as a wain loaded with freshly cut blocks of stone negotiated an awkward little bridge over the stream. Temar turned to watch it heading for a building as yet no more than a promise of scaffolding poles beyond the shrine enclosure.
“Here we are.” Camarl stepped lightly down from the carriage.
“Already?” Temar wouldn’t have bothered harnessing the horses for this distance.
Lackeys in bronze and beige escorted them through the gatehouse. “As you see, the late Sieur Tor Kanselin rebuilt in the Rational style,” Camarl told Temar in an undertone.
Temar only just managed to stop himself stumbling on the steps to the gravel walk when he saw the edifice before him. While later wings had clearly been added to the D’Olbriot residence, Temar had approved the new building as a sympathetic mix of old and new. It was evident Tor Kanselin had scorned such compromise. A square, unbroken frontage was pierced by regular windows, longest on the lower floors, graduated in size to the small garret rooms half hidden by the pediment topping the wall. Every line was straight, every corner exact, the pale stone ornamented with precisely parallel carving framing rigidly geometric designs. These angles were reflected in the sharply delineated gravel walks and hedges of the gardens, the potential unruliness of flowers banished and patterns of coloured gravels laid out instead. Where trees were permitted, they were clipped into tightly disciplined shapes, not a sprig out of place.
“What do you think?” chuckled Camarl.
“It is rather startling to my eye,” Temar said cautiously.
“It’s a fine example of Rational architecture,” Camarl commented, ‘and yes, it’s a bit severe for my taste. But the old Sieur was one of the first, so it’s one of the strictest examples you’ll see. Styles have softened around the edges these days.”
He smiled to a waiting lackey as they walked up to the door precisely in the centre of the frontage. “Fair Festival, Getan. No, don’t trouble yourself. I know my way.”
As the retainer bowed low, Camarl immediately turned down a long corridor leading to the rear of the building. Mock pillars of polished golden stone were set in the white plaster of the walls, supporting a complex frieze running above the tops of doorways and blending into the ornate decoration of the coffered ceiling. “That looks a bit more lively,” Temar remarked.
“Yes, Rational style is all very well, but you do have to recognise the heritage, don’t you?” Camarl sounded amused. “Watch your footing.”
The glassy marble floor caught Temar unawares as he tried to identify the mythic figures among the intricate detail.
“When we were children we’d get a hearthrug and slide along here if we could escape our nursemaids,” grinned Camarl, gesturing at the white expanse inlaid with mottled tawny lines.
Temar laughed but thought all those choice ceramics set on spindly tables must have been horribly vulnerable to rampaging children. There had been no such hazards in the halls of his youth, where plain panelled walls were only relieved by stern-faced statues on plinths it took three men to shift. Banners hung overhead from dark hammer beams and plain silken drapes only framed the long windows to baffle drafts from ironbound shutters. But he liked the idea of the staid Camarl causing havoc hereabouts.
A florid platter displayed on a side table caught his eye. Arimelin sat weaving dreams in her bower and the trees reminded Temar of the tracery engraved on his sword, his grandfather’s gift before he sailed for Kel Ar’Ayen. The blade had been made for the uncle expected to be the next Sieur D’Alsennin before the Crusted Pox blighted all their lives.
“Holm oak,” Temar said suddenly. “Could I take the holm oak as my badge?”
Camarl cracked his knuckles absently. “I can’t think of a House using it, not anyone of significance. The Archivists would have to check the lesser Names but we could argue for D’Alsennin precedence.”
Would that help put him on an equal footing with these nobles always flaunting their finery, wondered Temar. His grandfather had never needed such display; face and Name were enough to command respect from equals and subordinates alike.
“Here we are.” Camarl nodded to the waiting lackey as they reached the end of the corridor. The leaves and flowers of the plasterwork frieze framed a marvellously lifelike swan, wings bating in defiance and neck arched with its head hovering right above the lintel as if it might peck at those passing beneath. Temar laughed.
“Just to remind people who they’re dealing with,” smiled Camarl.
The lackey flung open the double doors with the efficiency of long practice and Camarl strode casually through, Temar rather more stiffly by his side.
“People will call in through the afternoon, then go on to other things,” murmured Camarl. “We’re here to socialise, not talk trade, so don’t let anyone press you on colony business.”
Temar wondered just how exactly he was to manage that without giving offence, but he followed Camarl obediently down the vast room. This high ceiling was another triumph of the plasterer’s art, swags and garlands framing flowers, knots, beasts and birds, too stylised and too fantastical to be anything but insignia, Temar decided. The plain walls, by contrast, were a mere backdrop to an imposing array of gilt-framed paintings. Glazed doors in deeply recessed bays in the three outer walls gave on to terraces where Temar saw tempting glimpses of green foliage. The inner, southern wall had bays to match the doors furnished with intimate circles of chairs upholstered in deceptively plain silver brocade. Fireplaces of clean-cut white marble held vast arrays of lilies, while bowls of golden roses scented the air from fruitwood side tables.
Two young ladies occupied one of these bays, prettily pink but appropriately demure in dull silk gowns of honey gold and jessamine yellow, collars of diamonds and pearls around their necks.
“Demoiselles.” Camarl’s dark eyes w
armed with affection. “May I make known Temar, Esquire D’Alsennin. Temar, I have the honour to present the senior Demoiselles Tor Kanselin, Resialle and Irianne, two of my dearest friends.
Both swept elegant curtseys, first to Temar, then to Camarl. “You’re horribly early,” accused the one in the honey-coloured gown, hazel eyes charming in a strong-featured face.
“Lady Channis arrived just before you. She’s calling on our lady mother,” piped up her younger sister, light brown gaze fixed on Camarl.
Resialle, the elder, stepped past Temar towards the empty length of the gallery. “Let’s walk a little, before the room becomes too crowded. I’m sure you’ve been wanting to see the pictures.”
Temar could take a hint as plain as a kick in the shins. “Demoiselle.”
She led him briskly out of sight of Camarl and her sister, silken shoes whispering on the woven rush matting. “This is the Sieur Tor Kanselin who was uncle to Inshol the Curt,” she said brightly, indicating a portrait of a balding man, chin on chest and arms folded, swathed in a black robe barely distinguishable from the vista of storm clouds dark behind him.
“He looks half asleep to me,” said Temar critically.
“That’s a pose of earnest contemplation, I believe. In a time of uncertainty, a show of wisdom helped maintain confidence in the Name.” Resialle stole a glance at Temar from behind a raised hand. She adjusted a discreetly jewelled comb pinning a long fall of lace to the back of her high-piled black hair before folding her hands demurely at a trim waist girdled with a heavy golden chain with a pomander and a fan hanging from it.
Temar winked at her. “You need not play the tutor just to get your sister and Camarl a little privacy.”
Resialle looked a little abashed. “He said you weren’t stupid.”
“Festivals were always a favoured time for match-making.” Temar smiled, resolutely looking her in the eye rather than letting his gaze fall to the low circular neckline of her gown.
He did permit himself a brief glance at her cleavage, where a jewelled swan fashioned round the body of a single, splendid pearl hung on gold and white-enamelled chains linked by a diamond clip.
“Oh, the deal was done at Equinox, but they’ll be more than just a match.” Resialle caught up her fan and smoothed the pristine white feathers clasped in a golden handle set with fiery agates. “Irianne’s adored Camarl since before we put up our hair or lengthened our skirts.”
“Since he slid down corridors with her?” hazarded Temar.
Resialle laughed. “He told you about that? Yes, and shared sweetmeats with, and consoled over lost cage-birds—and teased mercilessly about her hopeless singing.”
“So when will the wedding be?” Temar asked idly.
“Mother’s doubtless planning it as we speak, but she’ll keep it to herself until the very last minute,” Resialle shrugged.
Temar was puzzled. “Why so?”
Resialle looked askance. “We hardly want people claiming a marriage entitles them to some handout from the Name. It can cost a small fortune to stop that kind of nonsense turning into a riot.”
So the nobility no longer celebrated a wedding by rewarding their faithful tenantry with feasting and gifts. Trying to conceal his disdain, Temar turned as the double doors opened for a handful of richly dressed young men and women.
Resialle laid a hand on his arm. “You could drop Camarl a hint, you know, that Irianne’s a grown woman. She’s threatening to have herself painted by Master Gerlach if he doesn’t at least kiss her soon.”
Her laugh, half scandalised, half admiring, plainly told Temar some response was expected. Unfortunately he had no idea what it should be. “That would make him realise?”
“You don’t know Gerlach’s work?” Resialle’s colour rose a little. “Of course you don’t.” She led Temar to the gallery’s most remote recess. “That’s one of his, our mother, painted as Halcarion, you know, in the allegorical style.”
Temar’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t decide what was more shocking, that any woman could be so impious as to have herself portrayed as the goddess or that she would do so in diaphanous gauzes clipped negligently over one shoulder leaving one glorious breast all but naked to be rendered in loving detail by the artist.
“It’s very good, isn’t it?” said Resialle admiringly. “But Mother would have five kinds of fit if Irianne suggested it before she was married.”
How was he ever supposed to meet this Maitresse Tor Kanselin without dying of embarrassment? Temar turned hastily to look for something more familiar, walking rapidly and gratefully towards a clutch of smaller pictures hung close together on the far wall. “This is more the style I remember,” he said inarticulately.
Resialle wrinkled her nose at the stiffly formal figures. “We consider that kind of thing very old-fashioned.” Her attempt to make light of her opinion fell as flat as the faces in the ancient portraits. “But there aren’t many families with pictures from before the Chaos, so we keep them on display.”
Awkward silence hung in the air until a steward broke it with ringing declaration. “Esquire Firon Den Thasnet and Demoiselle Dria Tor Sylarre.”
Resialle let slip a glance at the girl who looked back with avid curiosity.
Temar didn’t think he could cope with two of these girls and hurried to start some conversation to forestall introductions. “So how do we get from these to that?” Temar waved vaguely in the direction of the scandalous picture.
Resialle managed an uncertain smile. “Tastes change gradually, naturally. These old styles, the figure on a plain background, they were to convey presence, power, weren’t they? That square stance is all about strength.” She was clearly repeating something some tutor had drilled into her.
Temar shrugged. “I suppose so.” He’d never really thought about it, but then there’d never been anything different to look at.
Resialle moved down the gallery to some smaller canvases.
“These are from just after the Chaos.” Her tone became more animated. “That’s the Sieur D’Olbriot whose cousin was wife to Kanselin the Pious. It’s the old pose, but see the map beneath his feet. There’s Toremal with the sun’s shining on it, to show hope and renewal, while the lost provinces are all still in shadow.”
Temar studied the ominous darkness behind the solemn figure, broken only by a single shaft of light edging the clouds with gold. “I see,” he said politely.
Resialle’s smile betrayed relief. “Even when the backgrounds stay plain, the people become more natural-looking.” They walked slowly down the length of the room, gazing at the portraits increasingly viewed from an angle or the side, some looking away from the artist, clothes painted with soft realism.
“Later you have to look at what they’re holding,” explained Resialle as they halted in front of a hollow-eyed man with a forked, greying beard and an odd-shaped hood to his enveloping cloak.
Temar obediently studied the silver-banded staff in the old man’s hands. “And that means—?”
Resialle looked faintly disconcerted. “It’s the Adjurist’s rod.”
“Of course.” Temar hoped he sounded at least half convincing. He’d better remember to ask Camarl what in Saedrin’s name that was. No, he’d ask Ryshad. He looked up at the long-dead old man and realised this sombre elder’s father’s grandsire hadn’t even been thought of when Temar had left Toremal behind.
Resialle retreated behind noncommittal remarks as they continued their slow progress and Temar didn’t dare venture any comment of his own. A lackey brought crystal glasses of sparkling wine, which at least gave them both an excuse for silence. More people were arriving now, mostly much of an age with Resialle, but Temar noticed a few older ladies whose satin gowns were overlaid with lace from throat to hem. Resialle was casting longing glances at her friends so Temar stared at the pictures to avoid catching her eye. That was how sensible clothing had drifted into this nonsensical attire, he realised, seeing lengthening jerkins becoming ever more full cut. At
least he’d not been woken to some of the more ludicrous excesses of fashion, he thought, gaping at a bloated lordling in a puff-sleeved coat, shirt poking through slashes in the fabric caught together with jewelled clasps. And if breeches had turned too close-tailored for Temar’s liking, at least that was better than the bagged and frilled style that cursed some earlier generation.
“Tiadar, Tor Kanselin as was, who married into the D’Olbriot Name nine generations since.” Resialle was beginning to sound bored, Temar realised. He studied the painting, desperate to find something intelligent to say about it. “That jewel!” He stared at the swan pinned to the scalloped neckline of the painted lady’s gown, faithfully rendered in minute detail. “That’s the one you’re wearing, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes,” said Resialle, brushing it with a finger and a touch of smugness. “It came back to our House with a daughter in the next generation but one. It’s been a Tor Kanselin heirloom piece since the Modrical era. It’s in all the portraits.”
“Are many jewels handed down like that? Do people make a point of having them painted?” Temar leaned forward to study the swan but remembered himself just in time.
“Yes,” Resialle said slowly. “The lately ennobled buy things and then break them up for new settinp, but decent families have a proper sense of history.”
Temar startled her with a beaming smile. “Most of those still sleeping in Kel Ar’Ayen entrusted themselves to their choicest jewels, rings and lockets. Vahil, my friend, Vahil Den Rannion brought them back to the Name that gave them leave to go,” he explained. “Do you think we might find them in a House’s pictures?”
Resialle looked nonplussed. “I don’t see—”
“Hello, Ressy. Doing your duty by Camarl’s poor relations, are you?” A spotty youth dressed in startling purple with silver edging to his lace appeared at Temar’s shoulder. “You want to be careful. Leeches are cursed hard to shake loose.”
“Esquire D’Alsennin, may I make known Firon Den Thasnet,” said Resialle without enthusiasm.
The Warrior's Bond Page 11
