But the housemaids wouldn’t even have unshuttered Avila’s windows yet, so that would have to wait. I walked out of the gatehouse, sorely tempted to send round to the stables for a coach. No, the fewer people who knew what I was about the better. At least it was all downhill to the Spring Gate, and once I’d climbed the steps to the walls of the old city I had a cool salt-tinted breeze to clear my head.
As with most things, the old walls of Toremal hold up an example many lesser cities would have been wise to follow. Cities like Solland and Moretayne are both protected by a ring of masonry topped with a parapet three men wide, watch turrets set at every angle. But Solland fell to Lescari raids three times in the days of Aleonne the Resolute, and Aldabreshin pirates sailed forty leagues up river to raze Moretayne to the ground. It took Decabral the Pitiless to burn the isles of the eastern coast to barren ashes and finally drive the Archipelagans out.
The walls of Toremal have never been breached, not even in the worst excesses of the Chaos. On the outer face an immense wall of massive stones carries towers at regular intervals, each big enough to hold a fighting troop and close enough to reinforce its neighbours. They’re backed with a colossal rampart of raised earth, levelled and reinforced in turn by an inner wall, the finest work any mason will see inside a season’s travel. Three men can walk abreast round the walls of Solland or Moretayne; three coaches can drive abreast round Toremal’s rampart.
But I was too early for the elegant gigs and smartly groomed horses that carry the wealthy and fashionable around the walls in these peaceable times. The nobility don’t lead their cohorts in defence of the walls these days, they come to see and be seen, to flaunt their status and compete with their rivals far above the heads of the common folk. The serious business of socialising would start when the heat of the day had passed, so this early in the morning the rampart was deserted but for a few individuals taking a walk. I followed the neatly swept earthen path, grass on either side clipped short around fragrant trees planted to shade benches for discreet conversation or safe flirtation. Passing the sharply pitched roofs of the old city on the one hand and the sprawling mass of newer building on the other, I looked briefly inside the Flemmane tower. Along with several others, it had been transformed into an elegant summerhouse where a lady might take a tisane or perhaps a little chilled wine carried up by dutiful servants.
There was no one inside. Where was Charoleia? I finally found her as the ramparts approached the Handsel Gate, where the Prime way leaves the city for the road to the north. Her elegance was unmistakable even draped in a sedate dun cloak. She was talking to some maidservant clutching a creamy shawl over a brown gown smudged with ash. I walked past, pausing some way beyond to examine a statue. It turned out to be Tyrial, Sieur D’Estabel, Adjurist to the Convocation of Princes under Bezaemar the Canny. I’d never heard of him.
“Good morning.” Charoleia appeared at my side. “I’m sorry I wasn’t at home when your message came.”
I smiled at her. “This morning’s soon enough.”
“Shall we walk?” She looked for me to offer a gentlemanly arm.
I did so with some reluctance. “Please mind my hand.”
She tucked her hand lightly through my elbow. “I heard about your exploits in the practice ground. Most impressive.”
I wondered if she were teasing me. “Have you heard anything? Who put out the challenge in my name?”
“I’ve heard nothing beyond discreet satisfaction that you put Den Thasnet’s man down. That’s not a popular Name at present.” Charoleia shook dark hair dressed loose in glossy ringlets and I caught the same alluring, elusive scent that had perfumed her letter. She wore a light, rose-coloured gown beneath her cloak and a single ruby ring graced her delicate hand. “So what did you want? Your boy told Arashil it was urgent.”
A Relshazri name; that must be the maid. “Thieves broke into the residence last night. We snagged one, the other got away and, Dast drown it, he was the one with the loot.”
“Naturally.” Charoleia’s fingers tightened. “What do you want of me?” She was looking apparently idly from side to side, her shrewd violet eyes marking every individual taking the morning air up here.
“We had valuable artefacts stolen, Old Empire work.” I hesitated. “They’re bound to the colony and its enchantments. We have to find them if we’re to restore those still sunk in sleep.”
“So when you say valuable, you actually mean priceless?” Charoleia turned guileless eyes to me, framed in the flawless beauty of her face.
“To us, yes,” I admitted. “To whoever stole them, well, they may have no idea what they’ve got. The man we’re holding doesn’t seem to know much beyond Master Knife paying him enough gold to outweigh the risks.”
Charoleia laughed. “Master Knife? Who might he be in his own coat? Come to that, who’s pulling his strings? Do you think this was just theft for profit or another move to embarrass your Sieur?”
“All good questions and I want answers,” I said bluntly.
“Without Livak to turn over the stones where these people hide, you’re my best hope.”
Charoleia frowned, a delicate cleft appearing between finely plucked brows. “What’s more important? Catching the thief or recovering the spoils?”
I chewed my lip. “I’ll trade the thief’s neck for the artefacts if I have to. We must get them back. I’d certainly like to get a line on this Master Knife, but I don’t suppose he’ll have left any loose threads.”
“If I help, I want your word you’ll keep my name out of this.” Charoleia sounded dubious. “I mean it, Ryshad. I can’t have your Sieurs or Esquires even knowing I exist, let alone anything more about me.”
“On my oath,” I promised.
“Are you prepared to pay?” Charoleia was all business now. “To ransom the goods?”
“If we must,” I said reluctantly. “I’ll stand surety for anything you spend.” Gold won from my slavery would be well spent securing others’ freedom.
“It all depends who’s got the goods.” Charoleia pursed inviting cherry red lips. “They may have already sold on the decent pieces, to be broken up or melted.”
“Saedrin save us.” Cold knives between my shoulder blades made me shiver with revulsion. What would happen if an artefact were destroyed? Would the hapless sleeper simply fall oblivious into the shades? Would they feel the furnace consuming their mind?
“Are you all right?” Charoleia was looking at me with concern. “You’ve gone very pale.”
“It was a late night,” I offered lamely.
Charoleia pulled at her cloak falling away from one shoulder. “What else do you know?”
“This Master Knife, he recruited our man Drosel and whoever his partner was, in a tavern called the Valiant Flag.” I grimaced. “That’s all. Naer took a troop down there last night and turned the place inside out but all he got was lice for his trouble.”
“Hardly surprising,” commented Charoleia with disdain. “All right, I’ll ask a few questions in the right quarters. I might hear something.”
“Send word to the gatehouse as soon as you do,” I urged her. “Tell them to get a message to me at once.”
She was looking thoughtful. “I’ve heard plenty of murmurs about D’Olbriot and D’Alsennin this Festival. What’re they worth to you?”
I turned to face her. “What have you heard?”
“In a moment.” Charoleia raised a perfectly manicured hand. “I’ll catch you up.”
She released my arm, giving me a gentle push, so I went to pretend an interest in a plaque on a crenellation. It celebrated the life of some D’Istrac long since ashes in an urn, who’d managed to kill himself falling off his horse.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a thin-faced youth approach Charoleia. Glancing furtively around, he couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d been carrying a scarlet pennant. Charoleia looked unconcerned, walking slowly with the boy, her elegant curls close to his cropped scalp. Charoleia reached ben
eath her cloak and passed the boy some coin. As he scurried off, still looking in all directions, she tucked a tightly folded bundle of letters securely within her cloak and came to join me looking out towards the sea.
“What was that?” I asked as she took my arm with easy familiarity.
“Information.” She smiled serenely.
“So you do have some game in play?” Had she been lying to me?
“Not as such.” Charoleia shook her head airily. “I always walk here first thing in the morning, two full circuits of the walls. I wouldn’t stay trim enough for close-cut gowns if I didn’t.” She flashed a mischievous periwinkle glance at me and I tried not to think of the slender figure beneath her cloak. “Servants with something to sell soon learn I’ll be interested and this is the time and place to find me.”
“So what’s worth your coin this morning?” I demanded. “Anything to do with D’Olbriot?”
“No.” She took a step and I had to go with her or look churlish. “At the moment it’s nothing of any importance. But I’ll keep this little bird in my coop, and when the time is right I’ll send it flying out. One way or another, gold comes winging back.”
I decided that was best left unchallenged, like so many aspects of Livak’s life. “So what have you heard about D’Olbriot or D’Alsennin?”
“That the Name D’Alsennin will soon be as dead as ashes. That this colony over the ocean is a fool’s smoke dream. But there’s a hint of something more than gossip and spite.” Charoleia chose her words carefully. “If I can find the right threads to pull, I might get a tug back from someone with word about that attack on your Esquire.”
“It’ll be gold in your purse if you do,” I assured her.
She smiled. “As for D’Olbriot, the chimney corner gossip says take his silver before you give him credit, because however high his flag flies at present, it’ll be struck before long.”
“How?” I demanded.
Charoleia shook her head. “That’s where people get vague, which often means there’s no substance to a rumour. Then again, there’s this business with the courts fascinating everyone. There’s gossip that the Sieur’s fallen out of favour with Tadriol, that Lady Channis has returned to Den Veneta, that Tor Kanselin have broken Camarl’s betrothal because D’Olbriot won’t confirm him as Designate.” Charoleia’s face was serious and all the more captivating for that. “Which could all be the usual scum on a boiling pot, but someone’s stoking the fire beneath it. I’ll stake my stockings on that.”
“Can you find out who?” Dastennin save me, but she was beautiful.
She gazed at me with those entrancing eyes. “If you make it worth my while. If you get me a card to the Emperor’s dance tomorrow.”
I let slip a grunt of frustration. “I told you before, I can’t promise that.”
“Not even to save your Sieur’s skin?” She held my hand tight.
I winced and shook her off. “Dast’s teeth!” I tried to flex my injured fingers and hissed with the pain.
“What have you done here?” Charoleia began undoing the bandage, ignoring my protests.
“I took a bad blow but I had to keep on using it,” I explained curtly. “I’ve had worse.”
“I’ve no doubt, but this doesn’t hurt any less, does it?” She sniffed in delicate reproof at the mottled bruising patterned by the pressure of the bandage. “Halice and Livak are the ones used to patching up mercenaries; I prefer to stay within call of a decent dressmaker. But I’ve learned a few of their salves and tinctures. Come and have breakfast with me and I’ll see what I can do to ease this.”
I was tempted, no question. “I can’t,” I said with real regret. “The Sieur will pass judgement on that thief this morning and I have to be there.”
“Why don’t you call on me this evening?” Charoleia’s mouth curved in an engaging smile as she competently rebound my wrist. She stroked one finger across the hairs on my arm beside the tender line of the stitches. “I can tell you if I’ve any news and you could stay for supper.”
“Some time around dusk?” I stood there awkwardly as she rebuttoned my shirt cuff.
“I look forward to it.” She tilted her head on one side, but just as it occurred to me to kiss her she turned swiftly, walking away, cloak floating lightly round her in the summer breeze.
I shoved my hands in my pockets as I headed for the nearest stair down by the Handsel Gate. Dastennin drown me but Charoleia was a piece of perfection. A man might do something really stupid in the face of such loveliness if he wasn’t careful.
I reminded myself of all the reasons I had to be careful all the way back to the residence. Then I reminded myself of all my reasons for staying faithful to Livak, not least because she’d probably carve my tripes out with a dagger if I strayed—and I’d deserve it. I groaned with exasperation. Where was Casuel when I needed him? I still hadn’t found time to persuade the mage to bespeak Usara for me, to get some news of my absent beloved.
A coach with the D’Olbriot lynx on its door panels was slowing for the incline as I reached the conduit house so I jumped up on the running board beside the footmen, ignoring their frowns of disapproval. I swung myself down when we reached the gatehouse and watched as the coach turned down the lane to the stables.
“Ryshad!” Verd was the duty guard hailing me. “We’ve just had word to send the thief over for the Sieur’s judgement. You’d better get over there or you’ll be neck deep in it!” His anxiety was mixed with justified reproof.
I hurried over to the residence, combing my hand through my hair and pulling shirt and jerkin straight, using my cuff to buff up my armring.
The sworn man guarding the audience chamber gave me a warning look. “You’re late.” He eased the door open just enough for me to slip inside the room.
The great audience chamber of any House is both a public space and a private one. It must welcome the supplicant while subtly reminding the importunate that rank should always be observed. The heart of D’Olbriot’s residence reminds any and all coming before the Sieur that this Name has lasted more generations than most and still leads at the forefront of fashion and influence. It’s an airy chamber, light pouring through tall windows with muslin drapes softening the sun. The room rises clear through two storeys and high above the white plaster ceiling is an orderly pattern of interlocking circles and squares, where borders of discreet foliage frame the D’Olbriot lynx and insignia of every House married into the Name. The walls are panelled with soft ash, the floorboards a welcoming gold, softened still further with a thick green carpet patterned with yellow flowers.
This sympathetic modernity has been carefully chosen because the fireplace harks back unashamed to antiquity. The massive hearth is framed by dark marble pillars and a great overmantel in grey stone reaches almost to the lofty ceiling. The central panel is inlaid with every colour of rock, crystal and semi-precious gem that those long-dead craftsmen could command. Marbles in every shade mimic the living blush of flowers, the vibrant green of leaves, marbled gold, smoky grey, lustrous blue, rich brown and smouldering orange. At the top, in the centre, Saedrin wears robes as bright as the morning sun, keys in hand with the door to the Otherworld closed behind him. Poldrion holds his ferry pole on one side, outstretched hand in inky black demanding his fee. Raeponin stands on the other side, gowned in blue, hooded in white, scales raised in mute warning. Below these three stern deities, Arrimelin is a girl dancing in a dream of delight, movement in every line of her white stone arms and scarlet skirts. Next to her, in a simple tunic the colour of rich brown earth, Ostrin holds out bread and wine, wheat and grapes springing around the feet of Drianon standing beside him. She smiles with motherly warmth, one hand resting lightly on the fecund belly beneath her harvest-gold gown. The whole is framed with black stone inlaid with every symbol of the gods, a riot of animals, leaves and tools in creamy marble relief.
The Sieur’s face was as impassive as those of the stony-faced gods and he looked about as cheerful as Poldrion. H
e had the only chair, a heavy oak throne with a high-canopied back. Camarl sat beside him, upright on a cross-framed stool of reddish wood. The Sieur’s brother Fresil stood to one side, glowering with Myred, who was carefully cultivating the stern indifference of his elders. Temar was straight-backed on a stool over by a window, face pale but determination in every line of him. Avila sat beside him, hands folded decorously in her lap, ankles crossed beneath her skirts, face emotionless. All the D’Olbriot men were in sober green, Avila wore a muted blue and Temar was an ominous figure in unrelieved grey, the great sapphire on his finger the only note of colour apart from his icy blue stare.
Stolley and Naer stood either side of the prisoner, polished and liveried, and I could see Stall’s collar cutting cruelly into his fat neck. A good number of other sworn and chosen were crowding the room along with most of the lesser Esquires of the Name. The air was tense with expectation and I could hear more feet scuffing above. A gallery rings the upper half of the room, and plenty of visitors had come to see the Sieur administer justice in their Name.
“You’re late,” Casuel murmured, all but inaudible as he appeared at my side.
“What’s happened?” I breathed.
“Naer and Temar explained how he was taken.” Casuel wavered on tiptoe, trying to see past a taller man. I took his elbow and we moved discreetly to get a better view.
“Was I called?” Not being on hand would be a mark against my name and no mistake.
Casuel shook his head but whatever he whispered was lost in the expectant shuffle of the crowd. The Sieur was speaking.
“You were taken within these walls uninvited. You have robbed us.” Messire’s voice was calm. “The only thing that could improve your situation is naming your accomplice and returning the goods you stole.”
Manacled behind his back, the prisoner’s hands were shaking. “Can’t be done, my lord,” he said hoarsely, chin on his chest.
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