Temar shrugged and continued walking. The two men did the same, passing Ryshad with eyes firmly fixed on the ground. Their steps crunched with increasing haste.
Ryshad stopped and looked at Temar. “I didn’t recognise them, did you?”
Temar shook his head. “And I have this old-fashioned habit of actually looking at servants.”
“And they look at you, more to the point, and bow.” Ryshad frowned. “All the visiting servants have been told you’re entitled to every courtesy, in no uncertain terms.”
They turned to see the two unknown men disappear abruptly behind a thick yew hedge.
“They’re cutting round the residence to the stableyard.” Ryshad was scowling.
“Honest servants with permission to go out would surely leave through the main gate?” Temar’s own suspicions were growing.
“Dast curse it,” Ryshad said crossly. “It’s probably nothing, but sometimes sneak thieves take advantage of Festival comings and goings. I’ll go back and tell Naer to verify anyone trying to leave. You get over to the stables and tell whoever’s on watch to get his thumb out of his arse. Tell them to shut the gates.”
Temar didn’t need telling twice and ran down the shadowed path on light feet, settling his sword on his hip out of old habit.
The stableyard opened on to the lane running round behind the residence. The main block was a low, wide building and Temar passed doors warm with the scent of horses stalled within, more animals housed in wings reaching back into the darkness on either side. A steeply gabled coach-house flanked the stables on one hand while on the other a squat granary perched on stone-flanged pillars to foil greedy vermin. A newer dwelling for grooms and stable boys presented a squarely Rational face to these buildings, sharp stone corners and rigidly parallel windows in contrast to older, curving lines and ornate cornices. Beyond the beaten expanse of earth where coach wheels wore a rutted circle, wrought-iron gates stood open to the night. Carefully shuttered lanterns illuminated a couple of grooms playing an idle game of Raven on an upturned barrel.
Temar ran up to the liveried sentry on duty in a cubby hole by the gate. “You — has anyone passed in the last few moments?”
The sentry stood smartly upright. “No, Esquire, no one.”
Temar had never seen him before but the sworn man knew to recognise D’Alsennin with due courtesy. Ryshad was right. “Chosen Tathel suspects thieves are in the grounds,” he said curtly. “Close the gates and let no one pass without someone vouching for them.”
The sentry immediately blew three sharp notes on a whistle hung round his neck. Four sworn men appeared from the new building.
“Ryshad says there’s rats in the garden,” the sentry explained. “You two, start looking. Iffa, rouse the barracks.” The remaining man helped him swing the heavy gates closed.
“What’s to do?” A voice called down from the parapet high above their heads.
“Ryshad reckons he saw sneaks in the grounds,” yelled the sentry.
“There’s no sign up here.” But the voice was already moving away in the darkness where the trees beyond hung black shadows over the walls.
“You’d best get yourself safe inside the residence, Esquire,” said the sentry with faint apology. “The ladies are having a musical evening, aren’t they?”
Temar nodded but didn’t reply. No, he’d go and find Ryshad. He had a blade after all, and he knew how to use it, more than could be said for whatever fashionable nobles were hiding inside the house. Shrill whistles sounded, some high on the walls, some closer at hand, answering trills from the gatehouse.
Heavy boots thudded and a liveried guard skidded to a halt in front of Temar. “Identify yourself! Ah, Esquire, beg pardon, but shouldn’t you be inside?”
“Where is Ryshad?” Temar summoned all his grandsire’s authority.
“Over yonder, sir, going to check the kitchen yard,” the man replied promptly.
“I will assist him.” Temar turned down what he hoped was the right path. These gardens were cursed confusing in the dark, he thought crossly. Light spilled across his way as an upper window in the house was unshuttered. Curious faces looked briefly out into the night and a spinet faltered to a halt before picking up its heedless merriment a moment later.
Temar tried to get his bearings, a hand on his sword hilt to balance it. If that was the new, west front, then the kitchens were on the other side of the house, beyond what would have been the great hall in his day, now given over to servants’ quarters. He rounded the low wall skirting the kitchen yard and the two men with Ryshad levelled blades at him in a single movement.
“D’Alsennin!” Temar identified himself with a catch in his voice.
“Seen anything?” asked Ryshad.
Temar shook his head. “But the stable gates are closed and the men on the walls alerted. And do not tell me I should be safer within doors,” he shot a warning look at Ryshad. “I have two sound hands, which is more than you.”
Ryshad acknowledged that truth with a grin. “Then watch my back.” He hefted a borrowed cudgel in his good hand. “You two, turn the yard inside out. We’ll take the physic garden.”
As the other two started a thorough search of every nook and cranny, Ryshad led Temar through a rose-garlanded arch into a small enclosure. At the older man’s nod Temar moved to the far side, following a narrow path between low hedges of lavender framing tidy patterns of pungent herbs. A small plinth at the centre of the garden bore a dutifully garlanded statue of Larasion, the goddess proffering a stone branch bearing bud, blossom and fruit all at the same time. Temar tasted familiar scents waking beneath the rising dew as his steps stirred thyme growing in dense mats and sage lifting downy leaves silver in the light of the lesser moon. Mint waved scatters of black leaves as he brushed past.
“We’ll check the store.” Ryshad pointed at a stone hut hidden in a thick holly hedge that screened the mundanities of the kitchen yard.
Temar peered into the recessed doorway, wondering if he saw movement or a trick of the darkness. He drew his sword.
Three urgent blasts sounded over towards the north wall. Ryshad and Temar turned as shouts rang out and in that instant a hooded figure darted out from the shelter of the holly, trampling sprays of fennel and comfrey. Temar sprang at the man but crushed slickness beneath his boot betrayed him. He fell to one knee and the thief kicked out, knocking Temar’s sword out of his hand. Temar scrambled up, catching the man round the waist and knocking him backwards. The thief fought hard, twisting, hammering at Temar with brutal fists. He punched the younger man hard on the side of the head and Temar’s grip slipped.
“No you don’t!” Ryshad was there, swinging his cudgel low, catching the intruder behind one knee. The man fell and Temar nearly had him pinned among the heady crush of herbs but the thief wriggled free with some inexplicable twist of his body. Ryshad couldn’t reach the man with his club, could only chase him out into the darkness of the gardens. Temar raced to his side, breathing hard, salvaged sword bright in the night.
“Where did he go?” Ryshad turned slowly. Temar searched the patterned shadows of hedge and flowerbed, head pounding. Whistles rang out in the distance, beyond the wall as far as Temar could judge. Had one of them got away? Saedrin’s stones, they’d best catch the other! The sound of a careless boot gouging into gravel rewarded his inarticulate prayer.
“Behind the stables,” Temar kept his voice as low as he could.
Ryshad nodded agreement and they walked warily through the dark, haste balanced by vigilance.
With the light of the lesser moon still all but full Temar noticed a black shape lying along the pentice roof of an outhouse built along the inside of the hollow square of the stables. He pointed it out to Ryshad in tense silence. The chosen man nodded him over into the angle of the buildings and moved towards the open end of the range. Temar walked carefully through stray straw, eyes fixed on the black shape. It lay motionless and Temar suddenly hoped it wasn’t merely some trick of the
shadows.
No, it was a man, abruptly kneeling upright as instinct or noise alerted him to their approach. Weight spread on hands and knees, he edged across the sloping tiles, away from Ryshad. Temar discarded his sword in sudden decision, climbing quickly on to a water butt. Startled, the thief froze and made to move back. Temar swung himself up, one boot on the edge of the roof. The intruder stood and ran up the slope of the pentice, only his speed saving him as tiles slid and broke beneath his feet, crashing down. Finding some handhold he swung himself up on the gutter, on to the roof of the stables, balancing as he ran along the roof ridge towards the outer walls.
“Shit!” Temar saw Ryshad hadn’t the strength in his injured hand to pull himself on to the pentice roof. “Temar? Can you get up there?”
“I think so.” Bracing himself in the angle of the walls he used every bone and muscle to press arms and legs against the unyielding stone, scraping skin, cloth and the leather of his boots as he forced himself up. Chest heaving he pulled himself awkwardly on to the stable roof, heart sinking as he saw the empty expanse of tiles.
Temar moved cautiously up to the roof ridge, fingers pressed flat. He wasn’t about to give up. Ryshad was waiting below so the thief couldn’t get off the roof unseen, could he? Moss squelched dangerously beneath Temar’s hands and knees and he breathed a sigh of relief when he could swing a leg over the ridge, trying to ignore the bone-breaking drop on either side.
A noise pulled Temar’s head round, nearly overbalancing him, but it was just a cat, hair fluffed to an indignant halo in the moonlight. Temar drew in a sharp breath of relief but a heavier sound beneath the light patter of paws made him hold it in. He let it go slowly, turning carefully, looking at the tall chimneystack foursquare at the angle of the stable buildings. The cats in his grandfather’s yard had always favoured chimney corners, hadn’t they? What had startled that mouser out of its cosy nook? Sliding down, Temar used the roof ridge to shield him and worked his way closer.
The thief was there, motionless in the shadow of the chimney-stack, intent on the sentry pacing the parapet of the outer wall beyond, the only thing between him and escape. Temar watched, heart in his mouth as the sentry moved slowly away and the thief bent in a cautious crouch. Was he going to try and jump the gap? No, the man lowered himself over the edge of the roof, at full stretch to drop into the black shadows below.
Even if he called him, Ryshad couldn’t get round in time. Temar scrambled as fast as he could across the roof, swinging himself over the edge as the intruder hit the ground with an involuntary grunt. The stone dug cruelly into Temar’s hands. Curse it, he couldn’t chance this, risk breaking a bone or worse. But it was too late, his own weight committed him, breaking his grip on the stone. Temar fell, landed, relaxed and rolled to break his fall, instinctive reactions learned from years in the saddle coming unexpectedly to his aid. He was on his feet with a speed that startled himself as much as the thief now crouching below the perimeter wall.
The man was on him before Temar could shout an alert, murderous purpose contorting his face. The thief threw a punch but Temar caught it in an open hand, gripping and twisting, grabbing the man’s other shoulder as he did so. The thief kicked, nearly knocking Temar’s foot out from under him. Temar stumbled and lost his hold, letting the man drive a brutal fist straight at his face. Temar knocked it aside with his forearm, the impact jarring him to the shoulder, then swung all his weight behind a punch of his own, catching the thief full under the chin and snapping his head back.
The thief hooked a fist to clout Temar’s ear but Temar raised arm and shoulder in an instinctive block. The thief grabbed his sleeve, trying to pull him off balance. Temar smacked his fist backhanded into the man’s nose and the thief let go, ducking backwards. Temar stepped in but the intruder met him with fists striking one after the other, spitting blood and fury. Temar took a blow on the ribs, another, a punishing blow to the stomach. The thief drew back his arm and Temar brought his knee up into the man’s groin. The intruder went down like a sack from a broken hoist, retching and gasping.
Ryshad and a couple of sworn men came running up as Temar rolled the thief over, twisting unresisting arms behind his back. “So we’ve got one at very least.”
“Got him in the stones,” Naer the gateward observed, seeing the man’s agonised grimace and drawn-up knees.
“Always a good trick, if you can do it.” Ryshad grinned approval at Temar.
“Those mercenaries been teaching you their trade, Esquire?” Naer asked, harsh voice not unfriendly. “Take a tip from a real warrior, eyes or knees is as good as stones and most men are slower to defend them.” He was searching the intruder as he spoke, rough hands brutally thorough. “Nothing on him but that means naught. Lock him up.”
“A good kick on the side of a knee can send a man spewing,” added one of the sworn men as they dragged the unresisting thief along the path. “We’ll show you, Esquire, if our pal here doesn’t give up his friend’s den. What do you say?”
But the thief was too sunk in his present misery to worry about any new threat, from what Temar could see. “What happens now?”
“He spends tonight in the gatehouse cell,” Ryshad replied. “He’ll face the Sieur’s justice in the morning. In the meantime, let’s find out what him and his mate were after. Naer! Me and D’Alsennin, we’ll check the shutters.” He turned to Temar. “Look for sprung hinges, loose slats, bent struts. Chances are it’ll be an upper window.”
“Halcarion be thanked for at least one good moon,” Temar murmured as Ryshad began a slow circuit of the residence.
Ryshad spat as they rounded a corner. “Shit!”
“What?”
“There.” Ryshad pointed to a louvred shutter where a strip of wood hung loose to cast an angled shadow over the rest.
Temar tried to work out what room might lie behind it. “That must be where they tried to get in.”
“You think Messire’s steward would let any shutter stay broken for Solstice, when half those bearing the Name come to stay and half the nobles in the city will be visiting?” asked Ryshad grimly. “And those two were on their way out, Temar, so chances are they didn’t just try, they got in. Come on.”
Temar followed Ryshad in through a side door, the chosen man giving his frustrations free rein as they went up a servants’ stair. “We can’t lock every door, every gate, not with so many people going in and out. It’s always the same at Festival, guests arriving right round the chimes, coaches calling to take visitors hither and yon.” He stopped suddenly as they were halfway up a flight of servants’ stairs. “And half the best men will be down at the sword school this evening, three-fifths drunk. Do you suppose that’s what the challenge was all about? Clearing the way for some theft here tonight? Curse it, I’m starting to sound like Casuel, seeing Eldritch-men conspiring in every corner. Here we are.”
Temar looked past Ryshad’s shoulder into a small room cluttered with everything the ubiquitous maids needed to keep the residence in good order. Glass from the window shone like fragments of moonlight on the shadow-striped floor and the catch on the casement had been broken clean off.
Ryshad pushed the shutter open, setting moonlight free inside the room. “We’d best set the valets and maids checking jewel cases. So, is this just theft or some new plot to discredit D’Olbriot? All these if’s and maybes could drive a man distracted!”
Mention of jewel cases turned Temar’s thoughts instantly elsewhere. “What lies beneath us here?”
He saw a reflection of his own fears spark in Ryshad’s eyes. “The library.”
Temar was out of the room, running down the stairs, Ryshad hard on his heels. They reached the library door together. Temar reached for the handle, praying it would be locked, his heart sinking as it gave way on silent hinges. “Raise some light,” he snapped.
Ryshad turned to take a lamp from a table in the corridor. The subdued glow was too feeble to reach the book-lined walls but was enough to show them an expanse
of crumpled linen empty on the table, a few remaining trinkets scattered beside the gaping emptiness of the ancient coffer.
“Poldrion’s pustulent demons’ arseholes!” Temar felt entitled to echo his grandfather’s extravagant rages. “Come on.”
Ryshad moved to stop Temar storming out of the room. “Where to?”
“To see what that fellow in the gatehouse has to say!” Rage and dismay threatened to choke Temar. He’d had those artefacts, he’d held the means to restore so many people in his hands. How could this have happened?
“Justice within his own walls is a Sieur’s prerogative, Temar.” There was regret as well as reproof in Ryshad’s voice. “You can’t usurp it.”
Temar stared at him. “So what do we do?”
“The one we caught will go before the Sieur in the morning.” Ryshad looked round the library and Temar realised the man’s face was hollowed with exhaustion. “But the other man must have got away with the loot. Do you think Demoiselle Avila has any Artifice that could help us find him?”
Temar was silenced by the appalling realisation that he’d be the one telling Avila about this disaster. He swallowed hard as two hesitant maids and a footman appeared in the doorway, eyes wide and wondering.
“Find out if anything’s been stolen elsewhere,” Ryshad ordered them curtly. “Come and tell me as soon as you’ve checked your mistresses’ coffers, your master’s jewels. Go on!”
Temar found his voice as the servants hurried off. “Who would do this?”
“I don’t know.” Ryshad spaced his words with barely controlled anger. “Just like I don’t know who broke into the warehouse in Bremilayne. Just like we don’t know who stabbed you in the back, or who set me up for a sword in the guts today.”
“He was Den Thasnet’s man, wasn’t he?” Rage seared Temar’s throat. “Den Muret, Den Rannion, they were setting themselves up against us in the court. Can’t we just call out the barracks and challenge them to prove their innocence?”
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