The Warrior's Bond toe-4

by Juliet E. McKenna

  “That’s a spurious claim and you know it,” retorted Den Thasnet angrily. “That was our mother’s settlement. Den Fisce only wants it back because we’ve doubled the rents.”

  “By rebuilding and reletting to lately come tradesmen with more money than lineage,” countered Den Murivance. “Perhaps Den Fisce’s concerned about the tenants you threw on to the streets when you tore down their houses.”

  Temar kept his mouth shut and wondered who these families were, what their quarrels might be and whether or not he should make some effort to find out. A girl on the edge of the group tittered behind a fan shading from black to palest grey and Den Thasnet coloured unpleasantly. “At least I’m not begging charity round the coat hems of my betters. You’ve made quite the fool of old D’Olbriot with your nonsense, haven’t you?”

  He thrust his face belligerently at Temar, who realised everyone close by was waiting with interest for his response. He wondered if punching the lout in the mouth would split the seams in this tight-sewn coat.

  “Believe me, friend,” he laid ironic emphasis on the word, “with the wealth of Kel Ar’Ayen behind me, I need no one’s charity.” He smiled winningly at Den Thasnet but his heart was pounding. Was someone going to challenge that idle boast?

  “Surely you’ve heard of Nemith the Last’s colony?” said Resialle sweetly.

  “I doubt it,” chimed in Den Murivance. “Firon’s as ignorant of history as he is of manners.”

  “Is it truly as rich as they say?” breathed the girl who’d been giggling behind her fan.

  Saedrin save me from clever ideas, thought Temar with a sinking feeling, realising all eyes were fixed on him.

  “This is hardly a very edifying display of your breeding.” The entire group started like children caught in mischief and parted in front of Temar to reveal a stout woman well beyond her middle years. Her rose gown, covered with a grey lace overdress, belied its cost with simplicity of cut. But there was nothing simple about her heavy necklace, bracelets and rings, and her hazel eyes were as bright as her diamonds, her plump and kindly face taut with displeasure. “When will you grow out of making cheap taunts to show how clever you are, Maren? As for you, Firon, if you must indulge in stableyard habits you should stay there till the effects wear off.” Den Thasnet’s hand moved involuntarily to his mouth.

  “Temar, Esquire D’Alsennin, may I make known Dirindal, Relict Tor Bezaemar,” said Resialle nervously.

  “Esquire, I’ve heard a great deal about you.” She linked her arm through Temar’s unresisting one and led him inexorably away from the group. “Were they being very childish?” Her voice was sympathetic but loud enough to be heard by the abashed group.

  “They all know each other and I do not. Awkwardness is inevitable.” Temar realised he was still the centre of attention.

  The Relict smiled at him. “You got Firon’s measure soon enough. He chews thassin of course, which addles the little wits he was born with and gives him a quite unwarranted confidence in his attractions. You can load an ass with gold but he’ll still eat thistles, won’t he?”

  Temar laughed. “My grandsire used to say things like that!”

  The Relict patted his arm with a comforting hand. “Doubtless a great deal has changed in all the time you slept, but some truths remain constant.” She looked beyond Temar’s shoulder and nodded to someone he couldn’t see. A moment later a trio of double pipes struck up at the far end of the long room and curious heads turned away. “Let’s take some air.”

  She led Temar out on to a smoothly paved terrace where precisely trimmed trees in elegant pots shaded two couples sitting not quite close enough together to be in an actual embrace. “As the sun moves, we move from terrace to terrace,” the Relict explained to Temar in a deliberately carrying voice. “This northerly one for the afternoon, to the west for the morning, to the east for the evening. That way we always have shade, a most rational scheme. Zediael, Tayha, Fair Festival to you.” She smiled benevolently on the closest couple who nevertheless took themselves inside, quickly followed by the other pair.

  “Do sit down, my dear.” The Relict tucked a cushion at her back with a sigh of pleasure. “My ankles swell if I have to stand for long in this heat.” She waved at a lackey peering anxiously out of the door. “We can have a quiet glass of wine and get to know each other a little better.”

  Temar perched on the edge of a bench. “You have the advantage of me, my lady Tor Bezaemar.”

  “Call me Dirindal, my boy, she urged him. “Ah, there’s Demoiselle Tor Arrial. Avila, my dear, do join us!”

  Temar wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not to see Avila emerge on to the terrace but he found himself grinning as she manoeuvred the train of her overdress past a table. Creamy lace laid over dove grey satin suggested Avila had found a maid well informed as to the colours of the Tor Kanselin gallery.

  Temar bowed. “You look most elegant, Demoiselle.”

  “I must be wearing a year’s worth of work for a lacemaker.” Avila sat next to the Relict. “But at least it covers me up. I would look like a plucked chicken in a neckline like those girls are wearing.”

  “Which is why we matrons have set the fashion thus,” chuckled Dirindal. She smoothed a hand over her discreetly draped bosom, where a little black bird held her lace secure in golden claws. “Now, my dear, has Lady Channis been introducing you to the people you wanted to meet?”

  “Indeed.” Avila smiled with unfeigned pleasure. “I had a most interesting conversation with the current Maitresse Tor Arrial.”

  “Did she introduce her brother?” Dirindal twinkled. “Esquire Den Harkeil is quite a charmer, so be on your guard against his flattery.”

  “Camarl did say Tor Arrial was a House that survived the Chaos.” Temar wasn’t sure that he wanted Avila to find herself a whole new array of family, leaving him as alone as he had ever been.

  “We have come down in the world, Temar,” Avila told him without visible regret. “Tor Arrial’s little more than a minor Name around Zyoutessela, but the Sieur has hired a house here for Festival. He has invited me to dine tomorrow and says he will invite Den Domesin’s designate.”

  “Another minor Name but well enough esteemed,” Dirindal said judiciously. “You’ve a son of Den Domesin over in Kellarin, I believe?”

  “Albarn.” Avila nodded. “But he decided to stay behind and help with the harvest.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose he wanted to come and see all the changes reminding him of everything he’s lost,” said Dirindal shrewdly. “And I don’t suppose that’s any too easy for either of you. If you need to ask who’s who, what they warrant by way of notice or caution, don’t be afraid to call on me. That’s doubtless one of the reasons I was invited here today. I’m usually quite idle these days.” She looked from Temar to Avila and back again. “And I don’t suppose you came all this way just to make merry at Festival.”

  Temar and Avila exchanged a glance. “That is very good of you, my lady Tor Bezaemar—” began Temar.

  “Dirindal, my dear,” she chided him gently. “We’re related, so I think I can allow it.”

  Temar was startled. “Related?”

  Dirindal smiled, delighted. “Of course, my boy. My grandmother on my father’s side was born Tor Alder.”

  Temar stared, his mind scrambling frantically to make sense of her words. “My mother? She married Rian Tor Alder not long before we sailed—” His voice cracked.

  “Oh, now I’ve upset you.” Dirindal took his hand between her own soft beringed ones and held it tight. “How thoughtless of me. I’m so sorry, my dear.” She snapped her fingers and a lackey with a glass appeared at Temar’s elbow.

  A long swallow of wine did much to restore his composure. “So it’s a marriage connection of how many degrees?”

  “A blood connection, my dear,” Dirindal assured him. “Your mother bore Rian Tor Alder two sons. She was widowed very young, after all.”

  Temar choked on his wine. “I had no idea!�
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  “Well, I don’t suppose young Camarl’s had a chance to discuss such matters with you. But it’s true, you have plenty of connections you can pursue if you want to settle fools like Firon.”

  “Been getting yourself into quarrels, Temar?” asked Avila with a touch of asperity.

  “Not of my making,” he retorted.

  “One of Den Thasnet’s sons was making himself offensive.” Dirindal defended Temar.

  “Saying I am here to beg charity or steal property from D’Olbriot,” said Temar grimly. “And no one contradicted him.”

  Dirindal looked at him, eyes alert in her plump face. “It’s a fact you’d have a legal claim on your mother’s dower, even after all this time. Tor Alder would be honour-bound to grant you something, and that would undeniably give you some standing, some independence from D’Olbriot. But no matter, everyone knows Firon’s a fool.”

  “But we do have some begging to do,” said Avila with the first hint of embarrassment Temar could recall seeing in her. “There are valuables we need to trace if we are ever to bring the remaining sleepers of Kel Ar’Ayen back to themselves.”

  Temar explained as briefly as he could while the Relict’s eyes grew round with astonishment.

  “Vahil, Sieur Den Rannion as he became, he brought all these back?” Dirindal nodded slowly. “Yes, as heirlooms such things would be all the more precious.”

  And these modern nobles see no higher duty beyond conserving their coffers of gold, thought Temar sourly.

  “How do we request such things without causing offence?” Avila asked hesitantly. “If we are seen as making some improper request—”

  “You certainly need to be discreet.” The Relict looked pensive. “Would you be willing to make fair recompense?”

  Avila shared a grimace with Temar. “Kel Ar’Ayen is a rich land but more in resources than minted metal.”

  “But Camarl will be spending his Festival arranging the very best returns for your trade,” Dirindal encouraged them both. “That’ll soon bring the coin in. The first thing is to find these things you’re seeking. You don’t want to risk an approach until you’re certain where some piece is.”

  Temar sat up straight. “I have an idea about that. Heirloom jewels are often shown in portraits, Avila.”

  Dirindal nodded. “Indeed they are.”

  “If we visit families we believe hold artefacts, we might be able to find them in their paintings,” Temar explained. The uncertainty shadowing Avila’s eyes lifted slightly.

  “Let’s see what invitations you and I can accept together over the next few days, my dear.” Dirindal patted Avila’s knee. “At my age, I know everyone. No one will think anything of me showing you round a House’s gallery, to explain dealings between the Names in the generations you’ve missed.” She held up a forefinger. “Let’s find Channis. She can wheedle invitations out of anyone not holding some Festival gathering.”

  She got to her feet with a little puff of exertion and Temar hastily offered his arm. Dirindal waved him away with a smile. “No need, my dear.” She rustled ahead of them, small feet in high-heeled shoes tapping on the terrace.

  “Who’s this Lady Channis?” Temar hissed with a hand on Avila’s arm. “Camarl’s mentioned her, but I can’t figure out her standing.”

  “She’s the Sieur’s paramour.” Colour rose on Avila’s sharp cheekbones. “But it’s not the same as in our day. She’s a Den Veneta with widow’s rank in her own right. She and the Sieur don’t marry for inheritance reasons but they’ve been acknowledged lovers for years. She has her own apartments at the D’Olbriot residence and acts as his hostess for things like this. Don’t make a fool of yourself when you’re introduced.”

  “And this isn’t scandal to set the ashes of the dead rattling their urns?” gaped Temar. “And have you seen that painting of the Maitresse Tor Kanselin?”

  “And several others just as startling.” Avila fixed Temar with a steely gaze. “We must take the realities of this new order as we find them, my lad. Refusing to acknowledge a truth that’s biting your ankles has always hampered you.”

  She shook off his hand and Temar watched her go with rising annoyance. He was about to pursue her, to finish that conversation to his own satisfaction, when he saw the Relict Tor Bezaemar with the original of that scandalous painting, a statuesque woman whose iridescent lace overdress was pinned back to her shoulders. The golden silk of her gown barely covered the milky swell of her breasts, but little could be seen beneath an inordinate display of opals. Her dark hair was piled high with jewelled combs above a face expertly masked by cosmetics, lips painted in a sharp blood red line. Dirindal was introducing Avila, who certainly looked the poor relation beside that wealth and beauty, Temar thought with some satisfaction. It was short-lived. If Avila wove herself into the web of gossip and cooperation that women of every age seemed to perpetuate, she’d be the one returning in triumph to Kel Ar’Ayen. How was Temar supposed to impress Guinalle then?

  The music ended with a flourish and muted conversation burst into renewed life on all sides. Temar realised he was the focus of covert attention from more than one group of giggling girls and lifted his chin in defiance.

  One maiden, bolder than her companions, moved closer and, catching Temar’s eye, made a low curtsey, her cerise dress whispering on the woven matting. “The musicians are very fine, don’t you agree, Esquire?”

  “Most pleasing,” he smiled hopefully at her.

  “Do you prefer the traditional style or the more Rational composers,” she asked artlessly, but her eyes were sly behind a fan of frivolous magenta plumes.

  “I know nothing of either mode, Demoiselle, so am unable to judge.” Whatever game she had in mind, Temar wasn’t about to play it.

  The girl looked disappointed before tossing her head with elaborate unconcern. “No matter.” She turned a dismissive shoulder on Temar, returning to her friends without acknowledging his bow.

  He gritted his teeth, seeing expressions of faint derision pass between the girls. He hardly had time for music lessons, not with everything else he was supposed to accomplish in these scant five days. Were there any familiar faces in this room? Did he know anyone here who might help him achieve something to equal Avila’s undoubted successes?

  As he looked round the room a knot of girls in a far corner drifted apart for a moment and Temar was surprised to see a familiar face. It took him a moment to place the little mage girl from Bremilayne; Allin, that was her name. He frowned. She had her back to the wall while the other girls pressed round, faces clearly malicious. Temar feared the mage girl was close to tears, face scarlet and hands pleating the front of what even he could tell was a hopelessly unfashionable gown. He made his way though the busy room and arrived without attracting undue attention.

  “We were surprised to see you here,” one girl was saying sweetly.

  “But you could hardly expect to go unnoticed in that dress,” said another, not bothering to honey her malice.

  “I don’t know how these things are done in Lescar,” began another, and from the contempt in her voice she clearly had no wish to know. “But here it’s accepted that wizards leave the concerns of the Names well alone.”

  “My father only hopes D’Olbriot is making that clear to you people,” added the one who’d criticised Allin’s dress.

  “No House would dream of meddling with Hadrumal’s affairs,” chipped in the first.

  “My lady mage!” Temar put all the pleasure he could into his greeting. “How delightful to see you again.”

  He bowed low and Allin managed an abrupt curtsey. “Esquire D’Alsennin.” Her voice was steadier than he had expected and he realised it was anger rather than upset colouring her round face.

  “Someone else who doesn’t know when he’s not wanted,” murmured one girl behind a canary yellow fan. A sudden lull in conversation all around left her words clearly audible.

  Temar inclined his head at her. “You would be Demoiselle Den T
hasnet?” A silver and enamel trefoil blossomed at her freckled neckline, twin to one the odious Firon had worn. “I recognise your House’s style.”

  “You should be careful with that fan, Demoiselle,” Allin remarked. “You don’t want to get that dye on your gown.”

  Satisfied to see the young women all disconcerted, even if he didn’t know why, Temar decided to leave before someone launched some jibe he’d no defence against. “Allin, shall we take some air?”

  “Thank you, Esquire. It’s more than a little stale in here.” Allin took his arm and Temar escorted her out on to the nearest terrace. It turned out to be the western-facing one so there was little shade but the sun had spent the worst of its heat.

  Allin fanned herself with one hand. “I wish I didn’t blush so much,” she said crossly.

  Temar wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Do not let them upset you.”

  “I don’t,” snapped Allin.

  Temar looked around the terrace. “What did you mean about that girl’s fan?” he asked after an awkward pause.

  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.”