The Warrior's Bond

by Juliet McKenna

  “Where is everyone?” Temar asked, bemused. “Do Tor Tadriol not gather as a family for Festival?”

  “Not here they don’t. This place is purely ceremonial. Their residence is over beyond the Saerlmar.” Ryshad fell into step a pace behind Temar. “Remember, you’re not asking the guard to let you pass. You’re telling him you’re going in.”

  “Not without Casuel,” retorted Temar. About to wipe sweaty palms on the skirts of his coat, he realised that would mark the silk and reached for a kerchief. “Where is he?”

  “Over there.” Ryshad sounded relieved but Temar silently cursed the mage. If he had a little longer perhaps he could prepare himself a little more. “What in the name of all that’s holy is the fool wearing?”

  Ryshad disconcerted did nothing to soothe Temar’s qualms but the sight of Casuel in a long gold-brocaded brown robe raised a reluctant smile. “That is the style the mages of Hadrumal wear, I believe, when they feel the need for ceremony.”

  “It’s the style everyone’s great-grandsire wore on his deathbed hereabouts,” muttered Ryshad. “Oh well, it’ll distract the guard if nothing else.”

  Casuel was walking rather too fast for the length of his garment, the cloth catching around his knees and ankles. “Are we ready?”

  “You tell me,” Temar demanded in sharper tones than he’d intended.

  “Lady Channis and Demoiselle Tor Arrial are at the feather merchant’s,” Casuel confirmed hastily. “Velindre and Allin are on their way, and Allin will send word as soon as the Relict arrives. If she arrives.”

  “Lady Channis seemed certain she would,” Ryshad reminded the wizard.

  “I wonder what was in that note.” Realising the mage was even more nervous than he was put perverse heart into Temar. “You look very formal.”

  “Velindre suggested people will take us more seriously if I reminded them I’ve the power of Hadrumal behind me,” Casuel said with a sickly smile that soon faded. “I’m sure she’ll claim the credit for this with Planir, if it works. You’ll put him right, won’t you?”

  Temar stifled a curt response. “What now, Ryshad?”

  “We have to be with the Emperor when we get Allin’s message,” the chosen man frowned. “It won’t take the Relict long to get to the feather merchant, and we can’t risk not hearing all the conversation.”

  Temar saw the others were both looking expectantly at him. “What do I say to the guards?”

  “You’re acting as Sieur of a House,” Casuel said acerbically. “You need explain yourself to no one, least of all a gate ward.”

  Temar drew a deep breath and walked towards the iron gates. Ryshad’s solid footfalls behind him were some reassurance, though Casuel’s hesitant steps made him worry the mage was going to tread on his heels at any moment.

  “Fair Festival.” Ryshad took a pace to the side to address the sentry. “Make your obeisance to Temar D’Alsennin.”

  “Fair Festival, Esquire, my duty to you.” The man bowed briefly, eyes never leaving Temar’s face.

  “Fair Festival.” Temar smiled graciously. “I wish to see the Emperor.”

  “Are you expected?” asked the guard politely.

  “As senior surviving member of my House, I claim the rights of a Sieur,” Temar said just before Ryshad’s prompting cough. “That includes immediate access to the Imperial presence.”

  The guard bowed again. “Indeed.” Face impassive, he beckoned a sworn man waiting alert in the doorway of the gatehouse. “Escort the D’Alsennin to the Steward.” He nodded at Ryshad and Casuel. “Do you vouch for your companions?”

  “Naturally.” Temar realised the guard was still looking at him expectantly. “Chosen man Ryshad Tathel, of D’Olbriot, and Casuel Devoir, wizard of Hadrumal.”

  The man’s expression did not flicker. “They may enter on your surety.”

  Temar turned to see Ryshad unbuckling his sword-belt and moved a hand towards his own before Ryshad’s minatory frown stopped him.

  “Are you armed, Master Mage?” The guard looked warily at Casuel.

  The wizard smiled with a superior air. “Only with my skills.”

  The guard looked dubious and glanced at Temar. “Do I have your oath you’ll keep him in check?”

  “Poldrion be my witness.” Temar spoke loudly to cover some indignant noise from Casuel. He turned his head briefly to see the wizard rubbing a sore arm while Ryshad looked blandly ahead.

  “This way, if you please.” The second guard walked ahead of them through the blazing colours of the gardens. Temar noticed inconsequentially that the paths were not carpeted with gravel but with crushed seashells and wondered why.

  The shade cast by the north front of the palace offered welcome relief from the sun. It was a wide building rather than a tall one, only two stories above a cellar floor whose half-windows were shaded by deep arches at ground level. Steps down to the basement in the centre of the frontage were framed by a double stair curving up from the path to meet before double doors standing open. A spacious portico shaded steps and entrance, rising on faceted pillars to meet the roofline. Broad windows were set at regular intervals on either side, muslin blinds half drawn.

  “When was this built?” Temar asked without thinking.

  The man looked at him uncertainly. “When Den Tadriol ascended to the throne.”

  Once through the open door Temar found they were in a square room rising the full height of the building. Their escort was speaking to a man sitting behind a table set precisely in the centre of the grey and white chequer of the marble floor.

  “D’Alsennin to see the Emperor, as of Sieur’s right.” The guard leaned closer but the echoing room amplified his words. “He’s got a wizard with him.”

  Temar couldn’t resist a glance at Casuel, who was visibly preening himself. Ryshad was as stony-faced as the statues flanking the iron-balustered stair rising to the upper floor.

  The Steward dismissed the man at arms and rose from his seat. “Fair Festival to you, D’Alsennin.”

  “Fair Festival.” Temar fixed the man with his best imitation of his grandsire’s piercing gaze. “I wish to see the Emperor.”

  The Steward was a tall man, sparse grey hair clipped short and face mild above the Tadriol badge at his collar. He took a moment to answer. “It’s hardly convenient.”

  Temar wondered if that was a refusal or merely a hint he’d be well advised to take. Either way, he ignored it. “I appreciate the Emperor must be very busy, but I have to see him.”

  “His highness will be at leisure this evening,” the Steward offered.

  “I cannot wait,” Temar said firmly.

  “He is preparing for the dance.” They could waste half the morning in these futile exchanges, Temar realised. He wondered how to shake the man out of his courteous obstruction. Then he realised the man was wearing a golden bull’s head with enamelled horns and eyes set with chips of black opal.

  “I must have approval for an insignia, before noon, that I may wear it at the dance.” Temar looked the Steward in the eye and hoped it wasn’t too obvious he’d just thought of the excuse.

  The Steward took a pace back and bowed. “If you’ll await the Emperor’s convenience.” He walked briskly up the broad staircase without a backward glance.

  “We wait here.” Ryshad indicated the maroon velvet chairs lining the walls.

  Temar sat and looked at the portraits hung in regular lines framed by plaster moulding. “So which one’s your Tadriol?”

  Ryshad nodded to a youthful figure holding a horse in front of the portico they’d just come through. “Tadriol the Provident.”

  “Fifth of his line, as you recall.” Casuel couldn’t resist reminding Temar. “Tadriol the Thrifty built this palace.”

  “Does that happen every time there is a change of Name?” Temar looked at the mage. No wonder these Houses were all so obsessed with coin, if highest honour came at such a heavy price.

  “It’s only since Inshol the Curt that the Old
Palace was turned over to the law courts,” Ryshad remarked. “Tor Bezaemar built themselves a new palace but they weren’t about to hand it over to Den Tadriol when they lost the throne.”

  Casuel leaned forward in his chair. “Tadriol the Vigilant wanted to build somewhere open to the populace, noble and common. One of the reasons Tor Bezaemar were deposed was their inclination to hold themselves aloof.” The wizard warmed to his theme. “The Relict’s late husband was caught up in quite a scandal in his youth. The House raised their rents at every Festival one year, not just at Winter Solstice, so when Solstice came round again a mob of their tenants turned up and pelted anyone bearing the Name with copper coin any time they showed their face. They claimed to be paying their dues, but—”

  Temar turned to Ryshad. “Is this place always so empty?” The silence was eerily disconcerting after the constant mass of people swirling through the D’Olbriot residence.

  Ryshad shook his head. “You wouldn’t get a seat here after mid-morning outside Festival, and that Steward would have twenty men backing him up. But today everyone’s getting ready for the dance.”

  “The Emperor can hardly be polishing the silverware. Why isn’t he free to see us?” demanded Casuel petulantly.

  Temar turned his attention to statues set on plain white plinths between the paintings. Saedrin held his keys, Raeponin his balance, but a scaly snake curled round Poldrion’s feet, head raised to the god’s caressing hand. The beast’s mouth was open to reveal disconcertingly sharp teeth. Temar wondered if that had any significance beyond idle decoration. He was ignorant of so much in this perplexing age.

  He stared at the opposite wall, at the massed Sieurs of the House of Tadriol. All he could see in those varnished eyes was accusation. He was claiming to be their equal? Just what did he think he was Sieur of? Did he imagine he’d ever win respect, even if he did claw back some remnant of D’Alsennin lands? What difference would a few holm oak leaves make?

  Temar gritted his teeth. They could judge him if they chose, but he would answer to his own conscience, his own values. D’Alsennin need not answer to any of these latterday Names. Even if this attempt to pull D’Olbriot’s chestnuts out of the fire failed, he could return to Kel Ar’Ayen with his head held high. He’d recovered nigh on all the lost artefacts, hadn’t he? He’d used Artifice in ways that would never have occurred to Guinalle, so she’d better not try putting him down as she was so apt to. A more beautiful, more intelligent woman than her hadn’t scorned to take him to her bed and he’d acquitted himself creditably there as well.

  “Are you ready?” Allin’s distant voice startled Temar out of his reverie. He looked up to see a shimmering circle of air rippling in front of Casuel, Allin’s homely face distorted as if through thick glass.

  “We’re still waiting for the Steward to take us to Tadriol,” said Casuel tartly.

  “But the Relict’s carriage has just pulled up.” Allin’s anguish was clear if her image wasn’t.

  “We have to find the Emperor ourselves — now.” Temar was first to his feet, Ryshad a scant breath behind him.

  “The backstairs are this way,” Ryshad pointed.

  Casuel was winding the long sleeves of his robe round his hands in agonies. “He’ll call down the guard, we’ll end up in chains—”

  “You said I have the right to immediate audience.” Temar pulled Casuel to his feet. “My grandsire says rights are like horses — useless unless you exercise them.”

  “This way.” Ryshad opened a discreet door hidden beneath the grand stair. Temar dragged Casuel along by his stiff sleeve. They ran through empty marble corridors, down a long hall, up a flight of stairs.

  A liveried servant on a stool beside a door looked at them in surprise.

  “You’re wanted below,” said Ryshad before the man could speak. “The Sieur D’Alsennin has private business with the Emperor.”

  Temar opened the door himself with as much authority as he could convey and strode into a small anteroom. Ryshad closed the door behind the lackey and wedged a chair back under the handle. “In there.”

  Temar clenched his fists before opening the plain single door. He found it a pleasant airy room hung with small paintings. A single band of floral moulding ran round the top of the walls but the room was otherwise plain white plaster, carpeted with thick bronze rugs. Walnut chairs softened with cushions in autumn hues were ranged to one side of a broad marquetry table, where a slightly built young man had been looking into a hand glass as he combed his hair into crisp waves, a jar of pomade to hand.

  “What is this?” The habit of authority belied his simple shirt and plain brown broadcloth breeches.

  “Esquire D’Alsennin, claiming Sieur’s right to audience.” Temar bowed stiffly.

  “Of course, I thought you looked familiar. But this is neither the time nor the place—”

  The Emperor was already reaching for a silver hand bell resting on a stack of papers.

  “Cas!” Temar snapped his fingers at the agonised wizard.

  Casuel looked at him blankly but as the first note rang out he flung a handful of blue fire to knock the bell from Tadriol’s hand. Documents fluttered in all directions as the bell toppled to the floor in uncanny silence.

  The Emperor pushed his carved wooden chair backwards in visible consternation. “I’ll have your hide for that!”

  “Forgive me,” stammered Casuel.

  “Work your magic, wizard,” Temar ordered him urgently. “Find Lady Channis.” He turned to the Emperor. “We will explain ourselves presently, but I beg your indulgence.”

  “It had better be a good explanation, D’Alsennin,” the Emperor retorted, wary eyes taking in every detail of his unexpected guests. “You, D’Olbriot’s man, does your Sieur know you’re here?”

  “Lady Channis does, highness,” Ryshad answered promptly. “Messire is otherwise engaged.”

  “Then what is so urgent—”

  “I need something metal, something shiny.” Casuel looked vacantly around.

  Ryshad grabbed a tray of glasses from a side table, dropping one in his haste. It shattered in a spray of crystal shards. “Here.” He set the other goblets aside and threw the salver at Casuel who caught it as it hit him in the chest.

  “I’ll wait for my answers, shall I?” The Emperor’s self-possession was returning. Nevertheless he unobtrusively retrieved his hand bell and set it on his desk in mute warning. “But don’t try my patience too long.”

  “A candle?” Temar snatched a virgin taper from a small pot on the mantelshelf. He caught Casuel’s arm and forced the wizard on to a chair facing the ornate table. Sweeping aside a clutter of letters, he thrust the taper at the wizard.

  “Do you need a tinderbox?” asked the Emperor with faint courtesy. “I take it you’re one of the Archmage’s underlings?”

  “One of his associates, his liaison with D’Olbriot,” Casuel stopped to smile ingratiatingly. “It has to be a conjured flame, your highness.”

  “Then conjure it,” snapped Temar.

  The mage snapped hesitant fingers, once, twice, but no scarlet magic flared to light the wick. Temar swallowed a curse and felt the blood pounding in his chest. A tentative knock sounded at the door and Ryshad moved to brace one booted foot firmly against the wood.

  “You have done this often enough,” Temar encouraged the wizard in a tight voice. “Even Allin can work thus.”

  The taper spat a flicker of crimson fire, the spark strengthening to a modest flame. Temar handed Casuel the shiny tray. It rattled against the table as the mage’s hand shook but a pinpoint of gold reflected steadily from the centre of the polished metal. It spread raggedly outwards like fire burning through paper, brilliant edges leaving a smoky void behind. Scars sparked across the emptiness like lightning splintering a stormy sky.

  “It’s Velindre,” Casuel said crossly. “She’s manipulating the spell from her end.”

  “Then work with her, as best you can,” Temar urged him.

 
; “She’s not cooperating,” Casuel grumbled, but as he spoke voices came out of the emptiness to echo round the silent room.

  “My Lady Channis, I confess I was surprised to get your note.”

  The Emperor looked at Temar, surprise and curiosity joining forces to win out over the last of his indignation. “That sounds like Dirindal Tor Bezaemar.”

  “Please look into the magic,” Temar begged. “Then we will explain, I swear.”

  The Emperor rose slowly from his chair to move behind Casuel. “What’s going on?”

  Lady Channis was speaking. “Granted gossip runs through this city like rabbits through corn but this particular rumour always seems to track back to your door.”

  Temar looked into the magical reflection of distant reality. Lady Channis was sitting beside a round table covered with a plain white cloth where an array of gaudy feathers was carefully laid out for her inspection.

  Dirindal Tor Bezaemar was standing by a fireplace filled with blue and purple flagflowers. “I may have mentioned it, but only to try and find out who’d be saying such things.” Her genial face creased in a plump smile. “Now I remember. That foolish Tor Sylarre girl was letting her tongue run away with her. I told her I didn’t believe a word of it.”

  Channis picked up a long grey plume banded with blue. “That’s curious, because Jinty Tor Sauzet is quite certain that you told her.”

  “Talagrin himself couldn’t tame Jinty’s tongue.” The Relict’s face turned a little weary. “You know she was languishing after Kreve last year? Since he turned her down she’s done all she can to make trouble for our House.”

  “And what’s Tor Bezaemar’s excuse for brewing trouble for D’Olbriot?” Lady Channis laid down the grey feather and began examining a curling pink plume edged with black.

  “My dear!” Dirindal sat down on a softly cushioned daybed.