The Warrior's Bond

by Juliet McKenna

  Allin bit her lower lip. “You know how Demoiselles fuss over getting the best feathers, making up their fans with hidden messages in the colours?”

  Temar didn’t but he nodded anyway.

  “Well, no one would dream of admitting they dyed old feathers to get the colours they needed rather than buying them new from the most expensive merchants,” Allin explained with contempt.

  He really must find out if Kel Ar’Ayen had any birds with suitably lucrative tails, Temar decided. “I see. Anyway, what brings you here today?”

  “I’m here with Velindre,” Allin answered in a more moderate tone. “She’s over there.”

  Following Allin’s gesture, Temar saw the willowy wizard elegant in unadorned azure silk and deep in conversation with Avila and the Relict Tor Bezaemar. “What is she doing here?”

  He was thinking aloud rather than asking, but Allin answered him anyway. “We’re wondering what the other Houses think of D’Olbriot’s links with the Archmage.” She sighed. “I imagine you heard.”

  “They were just a gaggle of silly girls.” Temar shrugged.

  Allin shook her head. “They’re parroting the prejudices they hear at their own firesides, and if they’re any guide the Sieur’s association with Hadrumal does him no credit at present.”

  “What is Hadrumal like?” Temar’s curiosity got the better of him.

  “Rather inclined to see itself as the centre of the world and look down on everyone else,” said Allin bitingly. “A bit like here.”

  Temar didn’t know how to answer that so squinted uncertainly at some bird perched on a balustrade confining a distant ond. Music, laughter and vivacious conversation spilled out on to the terrace from the animated gathering within and Temar felt very lonely.

  “I’m probably not being fair,” said Allin after a while. “I’m tired of new places and new people and being so far away from my home and my family.”

  Temar glanced back at her. “You and me both.”

  Allin smiled briefly. “And there’s no going back for either of us. Magebirth separates me from mine as surely as the generations have cut you off from your roots.”

  Silence fell heavily as a lively new tune struck up inside the house.

  “But we just have to get on with it, don’t we?” said Allin bracingly. “What progress have you made so far?”

  Temar offered her his arm. “I am developing an interest in art. Let me show you.”

  The Tor Kanselin Residence,

  Summer Solstice Festival, First Day,

  Late Afternoon

  Casuel hesitated on the threshold. “No need to introduce me.”

  “Are you expected?” The door lackey looked uncertainly at him. “Sir?” he added as an afterthought.

  The wizard bridled. “My name is Devoir, my title Mage. I assist the Sieur D’Olbriot on matters of vital importance to the Empire. There are people here I need to consult.” He peered into the long gallery, searching for Velindre. How had she managed to insinuate herself into such a gathering? He really was unfashionably late but he’d barely had time to dress fittingly for such a House as it was. Velindre might at least have had the courtesy to let him know where she’d be rather than just sending that offhand note saying she’d arrived in Toremal. If he hadn’t got the address of her lodging off the lad, if he hadn’t gone to call, hadn’t demanded the landlady tell him what Velindre was up to, he’d never have found out she’d be here.

  The lackey was looking at him with interest. “Are you related to Amalin Devoir?”

  Casuel drew himself up indignantly. “He has the honour to be related to me. May I pass?”

  The door lackey moved aside with a low bow. Casuel looked at him suspiciously for a moment. Was the fellow just being a little overservile or was that some sarcasm in his gesture? Deciding it wasn’t worth pursuing, he hurried into the broad room, taking a glass of straw-coloured wine from a passing footman’s tray.

  He sipped it as he walked to look out on to the terrace.

  No, Velindre wasn’t there. The excellence of the vintage brought a smile to Casuel’s face. Perhaps he should take a little time for himself now Festival was here. He’d worked ceaselessly since the turn of the year, after all. A few days socialising with the educated and influential was no more than he deserved. He edged his way through the assembled nobility, careful to bow to anyone looking in his direction, waiting politely until anyone in his way stepped aside.

  Temar was deep in conversation with a youth some years his senior, a handsome man in coat and breeches of rough silk as black as the martlet badge repeated on every link of a heavy chain looped around his shoulders. “Yes, it’s an heirloom piece, cursed heavy of course, but one has to dust these things off for Festival.”

  “I would swear Den Bezaemar as was favoured an ouzel in my day,” Temar was saying thoughtfully.

  “These things doubtless change over the generations. One little black bird is much like another, after all.” The Esquire Tor Bezaemar was sharing his attention between Temar and the rest of the room with practised ease. “I believe someone wishes to speak to you, D’Alsennin.”

  “Casuel!” Temar turned to greet the mage with a flattering heartiness that was a little uncultured in present company. “Oh, forgive me, may I make known Esquire Kreve Tor Bezaemar. I have the honour to present Casuel Devoir, mage of Hadrumal.”

  “We are honoured,” Kreve said politely. “I can’t imagine when any Festival reception last entertained three wizards.”

  “Good day,” Casuel said stiffly. “Hello, Allin.”

  “I’m here with Velindre.” The girl blushed, as well she might. What did she think she was doing, aping her betters in her ill-styled dress?

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Kreve Tor Bezaemar bowed deftly. “There are other people I must speak to.”

  Casuel bowed to his departing back before turning on Allin. “And what is Velindre’s business with Tor Kanselin?” he demanded. He looked around the room again. How could such a gawky, ill-favoured woman be so hard to find among elegant ladies?

  Allin smiled sweetly at Casuel. “She’s here at the personal invitation of the Maitresse. They met at a feather merchant’s.”

  “Quite by chance?” Casuel’s sarcasm made it clear what he thought.

  “Hardly,” Allin shrugged. “Velindre made it her business to fall into conversation.”

  “Does Planir know what she’s up to?” snapped Casuel.

  “You’d have to ask her that,” said Allin with a touch of spirit. “She’s talking to the elder Demoiselle Den Veneta at present but I’m sure she’ll give you a few moments.”

  “I have too many calls on my time to wait on Velindre’s convenience,” said Casuel sourly. “Tell her to call on me later and explain herself.”

  “So what did you come here for?” asked Temar brightly. “Apart from showing everyone your new haircut.”

  Casuel raised an involuntary hand to wiry brown hair cut and brushed in a close approximation of Camarl’s style. “Naturally, as Planir’s envoy to D’Olbriot, I have a duty to represent Hadrumal to the nobility during Festival.”

  Temar laughed loudly, the hearty chuckle turning curious heads. So much for archaic noble manners, Casuel thought crossly. Didn’t the boy realise he was letting down the dignity of Kellarin just as surely as Allin was disgracing Hadrumal in that frumpy gown? How was wizardry ever to achieve due recognition in Toremal if it couldn’t even manage to dress decently?

  Allin was looking over at the other side of the room. “Excuse me, Velindre wants me.”

  Casuel watched the close circle of lace-covered shoulders in the far bay open to admit the girl before closing against curious glances from a fair few people. “What are they talking about?” the mage wondered, frustrated.

  Temar hesitated.

  “You know something?” Casuel narrowed his eyes. “What is it? Keeping something from me could have serious consequences, Esquire. I don’t think you realise—”

&n
bsp; “I believe they are discussing someone’s betrothal,” said Temar.

  “Yours?” gasped Casuel. That would be something to report to Planir. But what if the Archmage disapproved? He quailed at the thought of conveying unwelcome news.

  “No,” said Temar scornfully. His expression turned rueful. “I hardly think these Demoiselles would entertain my suit, not for all the gold in Kel Ar’Ayen, not as long as I know nothing of their fashions and fancies.”

  “I could have told you such things,” sniffed Casuel. “But it was rather more important to teach you at least the barest bones of all the history you slept through.”

  “True enough,” agreed Temar. “I owe you an apology for my inattentions.” He waved aside Casuel’s hasty demur. “But it seems which Emperor reigned when and the badges of all these Houses is merely the start of what I need to know. Can you explain all this business with feathers and fans to me?”

  “Oh, yes,” Casuel assured him. “My sisters—”

  Temar smiled. “Good. Let us go back to the D’Olbriot residence and we can go over it together.”

  Dismay had left Casuel’s mouth hanging open and he shut it hastily. “But I only just got here.”

  Temar fixed Casuel with an unblinking stare. “Unless you have some means to force your way through that rampart, you are hardly going to find out what Velindre is discussing.” He gestured at the intimate circle in the far bay. “But I asked Allin to call on me this evening, to share a supper or something. If you are helping me with my studies, you can see what you can get out of her then?”

  “You don’t want to encourage her,” said Casuel bitingly. “She’s of no consequence in Hadrumal, and hereabouts she’s quite below your notice. If Velindre had any sense, she’d never have brought the girl. That Lescari accent alone—”

  He saw Temar wasn’t even doing him the courtesy of listening. “Let us make our farewells.”

  Casuel wondered how Temar’s expression could seem so warm while those pale eyes stayed as cold as ice. “But I only just got here.”

  “I have been here since just after the sixth chime of the day,” said Temar crisply. “Which is quite long enough for these girls to treat me as if I were missing half my buttons and for these elegant Esquires to hint tactfully I have no real business here as long as I have barely a copper to scratch my stones with.”

  “There’s no need for mercenary vulgarity,” Casuel said plaintively. “Where’s Esquire Camarl?” He’d make Temar see sense, the wizard thought.

  “Making the better acquaintance of the younger daughter of the House out in the grounds.” Temar smiled thinly. “Interrupting would hardly be tactful.”

  “We can’t leave without him,” Casuel protested uncertainly.

  “Everyone keeps telling me how informal this gathering is,” insisted Temar. “We will make our bow to Resialle and she can inform Camarl. Come, Master D’Evoir.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Casuel hissed urgently. “It’s not appropriate.”

  “What’s not appropriate?” asked an unwelcome voice. “Some beggar the ocean washed up pretending to rank and title, or D’Olbriot infesting the place with wizards?”

  “And who might you be, sir?” Casuel turned indignantly. “Ah, Den Thasnet, I see.” He tried for a more conciliatory tone. “I think you mistake the nature of magic—”

  “Esquire,” Temar interrupted. “Do as my shirt tail does.” He caught the wizard’s elbow in a grip like steel pincers and moved him forcibly away.

  “What did you mean by that?” asked Casuel in confusion.

  “You prefer I tell him plainly to kiss my arse?” Temar let go of Casuel’s arm and glanced back at Firon, who was frowning as he tried to work out Temar’s insult. “And I will not play lickspittle to some fool who puts an afternoon of wine on top of a morning of thassin. I wager his head will collapse when he next visits the privy.”

  “We’d better make our farewells.” Casuel shuddered at the spectre of such coarseness being overheard, leaving him to excuse Temar to Planir or the Sieur D’Olbriot. “And I think you’re spending too much time with Chosen Tathel if that’s your notion of politeness.” Casuel stopped to let a stout youth past him and had to hurry to catch Temar up. How was the boy to learn decent manners if he never listened to anyone, the mage thought crossly.

  “Demoiselle,” Temar was bowing low before the eldest daughter of the Name. “I thank you for a most pleasant afternoon and regret that other duties call me away.”

  Naturally Casuel recognised Resialle Tor Kanselin. He’d spent several days of Spring Equinox walking outside those Houses closest to the D’Olbriot residence. The wizard made his most respectful bow to the pretty girl. He hadn’t actually managed to fall into conversation with anyone of rank, but he should be able to do so, if he was Temar’s guide over the next few days. “Casuel Devoir, my lady, mage of Hadrumal.”

  She nodded a polite acknowledgement. “You’re Temar’s tutor, I believe?”

  Casuel smiled. “More of a friend, really.”

  Resialle’s mouth quirked prettily and Casuel smoothed the front of his coat with some satisfaction. He’d certainly made an impression there, and if Temar could only recall D’Evoirs of his own day Casuel would have rank to socialise in these circles as of right, not merely through association with D’Olbriot. This business of feathers could wait until he’d jogged the lad’s memory about more important matters.

  “Please make my farewells to your mother and to the Relict Tor Bezaemar,” Temar was saying. “And let Esquire D’Olbriot know I have gone home.”

  Out in the cool of the marble corridor, Casuel hurried to catch Temar up. “You met the Relict Tor Bezaemar? I hope you were polite!”

  “She was the nicest person there,” said Temar with some force. “And she and Avila look set to be firm friends.”

  “That is good news,” Casuel said with satisfaction.

  “How so?” Temar looked at him. “I mean, I take it the title Relict still means she is the widow of the late Sieur, but is there more to her rank than that?”

  “You really must study the annals I lent you,” said Casuel severely. “She’s the widow of the late Sieur who was brother to Bezaemar the Generous. If the Convocation of Princes hadn’t opted for Den Tadriol, she’d have graced the Imperial throne. No one’s better connected in Toremal.”

  Temar smiled. “A useful ally to have won.”

  When they got outside Casuel looked appreciatively at the methodical design of gardens and house. “My father has rebuilt in the modern style,” he remarked. “We have rather less space, obviously, but the effect is very much the same.”

  The boy still wasn’t listening, the mage realised with irritation, seeing Temar’s curious face turned to rising noise beyond the gatehouse. “What’s to do?” he asked Casuel.

  “It’s beggars and hawkers hoping to wheedle coin out of the nobility.” The wizard drew Temar aside beneath the broad arch as the gate-wards opened to a coach. “Riff-raff always comes flocking up from the lower town at Festival.”

  “I have no coin with me.” Temar looked regretful. “Do you?

  “Not for the likes of these,” retorted Casuel.

  Temar peered through the barred and studded double gates and saw people thronging the broad road outside. Liveried men-at-arms cleared space for a portly Esquire and his lady to depart in their carriage and Temar saw two scrawny girls entertaining the crowd with a pair of battered wooden puppets, hands deft on sticks moving jointed wooden limbs. “Come on.”

  “We’ll send word for D’Olbriot’s carriage, if you please,” said Casuel indignantly.

  Temar raised his eyebrows. “We kick our heels while a boy runs to D’Olbriot’s stables and wait still longer for the coach to be readied and arrive? We can walk back in less time.”

  “Persons of rank do not walk in the common road,” Casuel told him severely.

  “As several people have told me this afternoon, my rank is by no means established,” sai
d Temar sarcastically. “And I would like to get some exercise.” He nodded to the sworn man on the gate, who looked rather doubtfully at Casuel.

  “Let’s at least keep out of the dirt.” He guided Temar towards the welcome shade of trees that edged the road, scowling fiercely at a tattered ne’er-do-well who raised a grubby hand to Temar. White and yellow flowers dotting vines that were threaded round the trees perfumed the air but Casuel’s nostrils still twitched, apprehensive of some stink of poverty. “What are you doing?” he exclaimed as Temar accepted something from a tousle-headed child in ragged motley.

  Temar studied the coarse piece of paper. “What is a rope dancer?”

  “Some foolish mountebank risking life and limb to entertain the uncouth.” Casuel tried to take the handbill off Temar.

  “Exotic beasts can be seen at Vaile’s Yard, birds of the Archipelago and a great Aldabreshin sea-serpent,” Temar peered at the crudely printed text, smudgy promises of delights cramped close together. “Or there are any number of puppet shows, a wine-drinking contest, a display of tumbling and feats of strength, it says here. I see the Houses still put on plenty of entertainment for their tenantry.”

  “None of this has anything to do with the nobility.” Casuel pushed away the arm of a lass trying to give Temar some other piece of rubbish stamped out with lamp black on a woodcut. “The rabble amuse themselves gulling each other out of their coin with such stuff.

  Temar had taken one anyway. “An infallible cure for green wounds, yellowing of the eyes, disorders of the brain and the scald. What is the scald?”

  Casuel coloured to his hairline. “Not something you’re likely to encounter if you steer clear of the brothels.”

  “A tincture formulated according to the most recent Rational principles to combat the effects of summer heat by promoting effective perspiration.” Temar whistled mockingly as he studied the apothecary’s list. “As opposed to the ineffective sweat we manage without its help.”

  Casuel beckoned to a crossing sweeper as they reached a sandy lane leading off the main highway to the rear of the Tor Kanselin residence. “You might as well throw your coin in a pond.”