“If the populace is coming here to claim their bread and meat, can we risk going home without tripping over peasants and street urchins?” asked Temar sarcastically.
“The Emperor hands out coin these days, Temar.” Ryshad stepped aside to take a dutiful stance at his shoulder. “Just smile politely and don’t commit yourself to anything.”
Temar took a deep breath as the eager Sieur Den Ilmiral hurried over.
The Imperial Palace of Tadriol the Provident,
Summer Solstice Festival, Fifth Day,
Early Evening
You must dine with us before you go. overseas again.”
“As soon as I know what my plans are, I’ll send word to your Steward.”
“Your Steward will contact his.” As the senior Esquire Den Haurient moved off, I leaned forward to murmur softly over Temar’s shoulder. The lad was doing well with polite platitudes but there were still things he needed to learn.
We were circulating slowly around the anteroom while a few indefatigable dancers begged a few last tunes from the musicians. Temar paused to exchange some observation with the Maitresse D’Istrac before raising one eyebrow at me. “What Steward?”
“You’ll need one, now you’re a Sieur,” I told him with a grin. “And sworn men, and a residence, an archive, a Designate, a Maitresse, come to think of it.”
“I hardly think all that will be needed in Kel Ar’Ayen,” he began forcefully. He stopped and glared at me. “You are joking?”
“Pretty much,” I allowed. “But you do need a Steward of sorts.”
Temar looked thoughtful, but before he could speak the doors to the outer court opened and Tor Tadriol lackeys began discreetly alerting various nobles to the arrival of their carriages. “Can we go now?” he asked instead.
“As soon as possible. We don’t want to get caught up in the crowds coming for the Emperor’s Dole.” I looked round for the Sieur and saw him coming towards us with Esquire Camarl at his side. “Messire.” I bowed low.
“Ryshad.” He acknowledged me with a friendly nod. “Temar, what are your plans for this evening?”
Temar looked nonplussed. “Are we not going back to the residence?”
“I think we deserve a little time to ourselves, don’t you?” Messire responded. “Camarl and I are going to take a drive through the city, to find a quiet eating-house. Would you care to join us?”
“The residence will be full of girls giggling over the Esquires they danced with and comparing notes about dresses and fans,” Camarl added. He seemed in a better humour now.
“I’ve no wish to spoil my dinner with Fresil and Leishal arguing over today’s surprises,” said Messire with unexpected frankness.
“Are they very displeased?” Temar enquired, equally blunt.
“Not so much displeased as wrong-footed,” said Messire judiciously.
“And yourself?” Temar asked.
“There’s no sense in repining for what never was,” smiled Messire. “Reason’s a prop for a wise man or it’s a cudgel for a fool.”
Temar looked at him somewhat uncertainly. “So we all go forward as best we can?”
“Quite so.” Messire acknowledged a hovering footman with a nod. “Are you joining us?”
“To show anyone wondering that we are still on good terms?” Temar hazarded.
“Festival is over, but the board will be set for a new game tomorrow,” Messire conceded. “There’s no harm in marking out our ground.”
“Getting ahead of those who’ve been so keen to trip us these last few days,” Camarl added.
Temar grinned. “Then we will join you and gladly.”
“We’re taking Ustian’s expensive new equipage,” the Sieur explained as we walked out into the paved courtyard. “He’s going home with Fresil and Leishal.”
Temar wasn’t listening and I saw he’d noticed Allin waiting, pleasantly pink and clutching her dance card like a talisman. “Are you waiting for someone?” he asked her.
“Demoiselle Avila, if she can tear herself away from her conquests.” Something was amusing the young magewoman. “Velindre was here a moment ago, but she’s just been invited to supper with the Maitresse Den Janaquel.”
Voices behind us made me turn my head. Casuel was stalking along beside the leader of the musicians. Amalin Devoir had shed his coat and, with shirt collar loose and sleeves rolled up, he offered a sharp contrast to Casuel’s precisely buttoned-up appearance.
“No, Cas, I insist. I’ve been well paid, and with a Festival gift from the Emperor himself I can buy you the finest meal in the city!” To my ear, Amalin’s offer stemmed less from good will than from desire to lord over his brother.
“Ah, Master Devoir, my compliments,” the Sieur called. Casuel was about to reply but realised just in time Messire was talking to his brother. “Your music was a perfect blend of the traditional and the innovative.”
The musician made a perfunctory bow. “It was a day for novelty all round.”
Casuel bridled at this impertinence but Messire looked merely amused.
“Anyway, Amalin, thank you all the same but I’d better escort my apprentice back to her lodging.” Casuel nodded proprietorially at Allin but it was clear he’d just seized on the excuse she offered.
“She can come too,” countered Master Devoir promptly.
“Come where?” The excitements of the day seemed to have lifted years from Demoiselle Avila’s shoulders.
Messire bowed. “We’re about to take a turn round the city and find a quiet place for supper.”
“I can recommend the Golden Plover,” Amalin interrupted to Casuel’s obvious irritation. “That’s where we’re going.”
Avila tapped her fan across her palm, a combative glint in her eye. “Do you propose we all travel in that?” She pointed the bedraggled blue feathers at Ustian’s open carriage, which had just drawn up, plainly only suitable for four passengers.
Amalin Devoir put finger and thumb in his mouth and split the genteel murmur of the courtyard with an ear-splitting whistle. “My gig, as soon as you please!” A man in Den Janaquel livery turned to offer a gesture that would probably have been obscene if we hadn’t had ladies standing with us. Seeing the Sieur D’Olbriot he sent a lad running out of the gates instead and a flashy gig soon came bowling into the courtyard. It was an expensive, tall-wheeled piece of work, driver’s seat perched high in front of a highly polished body whose interior was luxuriously upholstered in purple. Ustian’s carriage with its plain lines and dark green leather was a model of restrained good taste beside it.
“If you’ll ride on the box with me, my lady,” Master Devoir favoured Allin with a blatantly flirtatious smile, “there’s room for two behind us. Cas and the Sieur D’Alsennin perhaps?”
Temar’s expression instantly fixed as he tried to find some reason to avoid this. Fortunately Demoiselle Avila obliged. “I’ll ride with you, Master Mage.” Her tone suggested she was quite ready to squash the musician’s pretensions.
“Let’s make way for the other coaches.” Messire got into the open carriage with a discreet smile. “This promises to be an entertaining evening,” he observed in an undertone as I sat in front of him, my back to the driver. Temar took the seat beside me as Camarl closed the half-door. As we pulled away I saw Firon Den Thasnet looking after us with naked hatred on his face.
Temar followed my gaze. “I know Tadriol acted as he thought best, but it still galls me to think of Den Thasnet and Tor Bezaemar getting away with so much.”
“I agree.” Messire sighed. “But we know what they did, as does the Emperor. I think we can rely on Tadriol to let judicious rumour circulate as appropriate. The main thing is that they failed.”
“But what manner of punishment is that? What about the Relict?” Temar wasn’t going to let this go, and there wasn’t room in the coach for me to shut him up with a discreet kick. “She welcomed us in, all smiles and invitations, winning our trust, and all the while she was spinning snares like some
fat old spider in the middle of a web. What of justice? She does us such injury and we have no revenge?”
“Revenge is overrated. We’ve half the egg each and all Tor Bezaemar’s left with is an empty shell.” Messire’s voice turned serious. “Turn your thoughts to the future. You’ve a great deal of work ahead of you, young man, you and the Demoiselle Tor Arrial.”
“I am well aware of that,” Temar replied soberly.
“But not tonight.” Camarl acknowledged a merry salute from a group of revellers. “Who did you dance with, Temar?”
The conversation turned to safely innocuous topics as the coach made slow progress through the raucous carousing of the lower city. As usual the commonalty were determined to squeeze the last drop of enjoyment out of their holiday. The morrow would see the first day of Aft-Summer calling them back to their workshops and duties, after all. I looked past Messire to see Allin giggling with the musician, who handled his mettlesome grey horse with considerable skill. Passers-by greeted us with cheers, some from dutiful loyalty, some too intoxicated to realise who was even in the coach but joining in regardless.
Once we were through the southern gate of the old town and on to the Primeway the crowds thinned considerably. An air of relaxation hung over aristocratic celebrations now that the demands of Festival had been met. The soft light of early evening gilded the city and a warm breeze caressed high- and low-born alike. Flambeaux were being readied and torches placed in brackets either side of doorways, ready to light the street when Halcarion wrapped up the sun in the soft swathes of dusk. Despite the heat a few traders were setting out braziers to cook delicacies to tempt passing revellers into spending their last few Festival pennies.
We turned into the Graceway and drew to an abrupt halt. “What’s the delay?” the Sieur called.
“Masqueraders, Messire.” The coachman twisted in his seat. “Tumblers and jugglers.”
The footman sitting beside him looked back as well. “Shall I move them on, Messire?”
“We’re in no particular hurry,” D’Olbriot said carelessly.
“Cas was saying masqueraders are not fit entertainment for the well born,” Temar began.
I was about to give my opinion of the wizard’s snobbery when movement caught my eye. We’d pulled up by the Den Bradile building where the frontage was being renewed and a wooden scaffold stood piled high with slates and heavy stone awaiting the morning’s workmen.
A shadowy figure in an upper window jerked backwards. I’d barely time to realise he was bracing a pole against the aperture before the scaffold was levered outwards. Slates and marble came tumbling down, the heavy wood following.
“Move!” I lunged forward to grab the Sieur but Camarl was leaning sideways to see the acrobats, out of my reach. Temar was looking as well, his back to me. I sent him sprawling into the road, caught unawares by my brutal shove, as I hauled the Sieur out from beneath the deadly hail.
We fell heavily on to the cobbled road. The crash of the collapsing scaffold deafened me for a moment, muting horrified shouts and screams all around. With a cloud of dust stinging my eyes and choking my throat, I scrambled to my feet. Temar tripped and fell against me. We grabbed at each other, staggering sideways, and getting our footing we hauled the Sieur upright.
“Camarl?” Messire looked round wildly, blood oozing from a grazed cheek. The evening breeze scattered the dust and we saw the broken ruin that was the back end of Ustian’s costly carriage. Worse, Camarl lay among the wreckage, gashed and bleeding, stunned beneath the slates and stones.
The horses were whinnying in panic as the coachman struggled to hold them. The carriage lurched, dropping hard on to its back axle as both rear wheels broke beyond hope. The shafts tilted upwards, harness gouging cruelly into the beasts, races dangling dangerously near their frantically stamping hooves. Camarl gave an agonised yell as the shattered vehicle lurched forward, grating on the stones.
Messire hadn’t suffered more than a few bruises and a coat of dust so I thrust him into Temar’s hands. Ignoring the strain on my back and arms, I lifted the largest stone off Camarl’s leg to uncover a nasty break, shards of bone visible in a ragged wound.
“I won’t be dancing for a while,” the Esquire whispered shakily, face as white as the marble, blood oozing blackly down his leg.
“Hold on.” Guiding his arm round my neck, I struggled to raise him.
“Help, here, now!” Temar bellowed, looking up and down the Graceway.
A juggler came running, several masqueraders behind him. He raised a hand and in utter disbelief I saw him throw a heavy-weighted club with unerring aim. It hit the Sieur’s coachman smack in the forehead, sending the man falling backwards like a poleaxed pig. The footman had very nearly got to the horses’ bridles but this sudden disturbance sent them into a renewed frenzy, tossing their heads out of his reach.
“Ware behind!” Seeing a glint of steel in an oncoming masquerader’s hand, I yelled a frantic warning. Dragging Camarl out of the wreckage, I could do nothing but watch appalled as the masquerader ran the helpless footman clean through. Heedless of his anguished cries, I dumped Esquire Camarl in a doorway.
“Temar! They’re coming for us!” I caught up the juggler’s treacherous club with one hand, grabbed Messire with the other, and shoved him behind me into the meagre shelter of the doorposts.
Temar had already got the measure of our situation, snatching up a broken scaffolding pole and bringing it round to sweep the feet out from beneath a masquerader rushing him with murderous intent. Another charged at me, live steel shining through the paint that covered his sword. I barely evaded the deceitful blade as I sidestepped his thrust, smashing the weighted club full into his face. The blow was hard enough to split his thin wooden mask clean in two. He fell back, clutching a smashed nose, blood gushing between his fingers. I snatched his sword away and drew a killing stroke backhanded across his guts, sending him on his way with a kick to one thigh.
Temar had scavenged a sword from somewhere too. He backed towards me, the blade held low and dangerous. As he did so, Halcarion threw us a little luck and the onward rush of the masqueraders was scattered by the horses charging headlong down the Graceway. The remains of the carriage swung wildly from side to side behind them. Startled Festival-goers fled in all directions, ducking to avoid splintered fragments of wood. One unfortunate chose the wrong direction, stepping directly into the frantic animals’ path and disappearing beneath the horses’ hooves. Screams of anguish from the woman with him added to the rising hubbub.
I whirled round as the door behind us opened. A startled face appeared in a handspan gap. “Let us in, we’ve a wounded man! In D’Olbriot’s Name!” I was shouting at wooden panels. The door slammed and we heard bolts being thrust home in panic.
“I can’t stop the bleeding in this leg.” Messire had crimson stains spreading through the lace at his cuffs but his hands and voice were steady. He smiled reassurance at Camarl, who was shaking like a man in midwinter.
If one of the great blood vessels had been cut, Camarl would’ve died already. For the moment he was alive and I was more concerned with whoever might try to finish the job. The masqueraders were regrouping with malevolent intent but were now hampered by the uncomprehending crowd. People had spilled out of a tisane house across the road, wondering what was afoot. A tavern some way up the street was emptying, and confusion spread as indiscriminate attacks were launched, some on the acrobats, some on innocents mistaken for the scoundrels who’d started this.
A man in the buff breeches and plain shirt of a hireling servant hurried towards us. “Send word to the Cohort,” I yelled.
He ignored me, breaking into a run and I saw a knife in his hand at the same time as the discarded mask in the gutter behind him. I swept a hasty cut at his wrist that Fyle would have mocked me for. All the same, he recoiled, so I tried to backhand him across the face with my sword. He ducked backwards again, harder to hit than a shade, but the knife hand curving round to my belly was n
o apparition. I blocked the thrust with my off hand, the force enough to numb his arm and send the blade clattering to the road. That didn’t stop him stepping inside the reach of my sword, punching hard with his other hand, but at least my sideways step meant he only bruised my ribs rather than winding me. I brought my sword up to smash the hilt into the side of his head but the bastard threw himself bodily sideways. With an arm out before he landed, he rolled and was back on his feet with a tumbler’s grace, eyes searching for his fallen knife. That instant of inattention was enough for Temar, who lunged to thrust his blade into the acrobat’s side. The man staggered and fled, bloodied shirt flapping as he vanished into the crowd.
I looked to safeguard Temar’s back and saw two men exchanging an uncertain look some paces beyond him. As I raised my sword with menace one broke, running headlong back down the Graceway. The other spread empty hands, gabbling in panic. “Not me, your honour, not me.”
“Call out the Duty Cohort,” I bellowed at him. Looking up the road I saw other passers-by caught up in the spreading disorder, coaches and gigs held up in the distance and blocking the road. I cursed; Den Janaquel’s men would almost certainly be on their way by now but they’d have some task breaking through to us. Men on all sides were struggling with masqueraders, either in self-defence, from a desire to help us or from simple drunken belligerence. Others were trying to leave, some frenzied enough to start new struggles around the initial skirmishes, hampering those intent on murdering us still further. But how to tell friend from foe? I sent a man who’d stumbled into me sprawling with a punch to the side of the head.
Could we escape down the road? Could we drag Camarl between us, and if so at what cost to him? As I looked I saw the hapless man I’d yelled at turn straight into the arms of two eager youths. They’d come running to see the commotion and immediately tried to wrestle him to the ground. “No, let him go!” I yelled.
A whip split the air above their heads with a vicious crack. I saw Amalin Devoir’s grey horse fighting to get its bit between its teeth, nostrils flared and eyes rolling wildly. The musician had the reins bunched in one hand as he laid about him indiscriminately with his lash, Allin clutching the seat with both hands. The lads and the man I’d sent for help all fled, ducking low with hands protecting their heads.
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