“Ryshad!” A hiss from an upper landing stopped me and Temar ran lightly down the main staircase.
“On your way to the library?” I enquired.
“Indeed.” Temar strode through the house, oblivious to discreetly curious servants sliding past, an unobtrusive girl with an armful of fresh flowers, a shirt-sleeved valet with a pile of pressed linen. “Arimelin be blessed, we are finally achieving something!”
I waited until we were in the corridor to the library and no one else was within earshot. “I meant what I said last night, Temar.” He looked at me as I laid a warning hand on his arm. “If you go off without me again, I’ll take you round the back of the stableyard and beat some sense into you, Esquire or not! It all turned out well, but that’s no answer, not to you risking your neck. You’ve responsibilities to more than yourself now. How would Kellarin fare if Guinalle had to drop everything and come over here because you’d got yourself skewered in some back alley? I’m not saying you shouldn’t have gone, but you sure as curses shouldn’t have gone alone.” I’d lain awake long into the night, chilled by the thought of what could have happened to the lad and the mage girl.
This morning Temar had the grace to look faintly ashamed of himself. “I understand your concerns.”
I nodded. “Just don’t do it again.” But I’d finally slept when it had occurred to me that Temar had probably been as safe in the Lescari quarter, where no one knew his Name or face, as he would have been among Houses where Dastennin only knew what malice lurked behind the tapestries. Not that I was about to tell him that.
We reached the library and Temar rattled the handle with more irritation than was strictly necessary. “Locked, curse it!”
I knocked cautiously on the bland barrier of polished panels. “Messire? Dolsan?”
“Ryshad?” I heard Demoiselle Avila’s firm tread. “And Temar?”
“Of course,” he said crossly.
The key turned with a swift snap. “You took your ease this morning, did you?” There was a spark of laughter in her dry face as she opened the door.
“I should have realised you would scarce let the dew dry off the grass,” Temar retorted.
I followed him in and we both looked rather nervously at the coffer open on the library table. Gold, silver, enamel and gems gleamed lustrous on a broad swathe of linen.
Avila made some uninformative sound. “Since you are here, you can help.” She handed us each a fair copy of the list of artefacts so eagerly sought by the waiting folk of Kellarin.
Temar and I shared an uncertain glance.
“Oh get on with it. You need not even touch anything.” Avila picked up a distinctive ring, wrought with two copper hands holding a square-cut crystal between them. This morning she was wearing a plain brown dress, hair braided and pinned in a simple knot, looking more like one of my mother’s sewing circle than a noble lady.
“Can you tell which ones carry enchantment, Demoiselle?”
I tucked my hands behind my back as I bent over the array of treasures.
“Sadly, no.” Avila sounded more irritated than regretful. “We would need Guinalle for that.”
Temar made some slight noise but subsided under Avila’s glare.
An elegant pomander caught my eye. Shaped like a plump purse tied with cord, the gold was cut away around a circle of little pea flowers on either side, blue enamelled petals undimmed through all the generations even if its perfumes had long since perished. I searched the list in my hand, where five artefacts were still untraced for every one with a note of success beside it. Temar’s stomach growled, the only sound to break the silence.
“There’s bread and fruit.” Avila nodded absently to a side table.
“Can I bring you anything, Demoiselle?” I offered politely.
“Thank you, no. So Temar, what are your plans for the woman and her child?” Avila asked in that deceptive tone women have, the one that sounds so relaxed when in fact the wrong answer will bring the ceiling down on your head.
“We will recompense her,” Temar said cautiously.
Avila reached for a pen laid across an inkstand. “Hand her a heavy purse and send her on her way?”
Temar hesitated. Agreement would plainly be the wrong response but he was struggling for the right one. I kept my eyes firmly on my list.
“You take no responsibility for their fate?” Avila noted something with a decisive flourish of her quill.
“Perhaps the mother could be found work within the residence?” hazarded Temar. “Some menial task?”
I glanced up to see him looking hopefully at me. “The House Steward won’t be interested,” I said slowly.
“If the Sieur instructs him, as a charity?” Temar suggested with a hint of pleading.
“Messire won’t do that,” I told him reluctantly. “The Steward earns his pay and perquisites by taking all responsibility for servants’ concerns, and the other side of that coin is the Sieur doesn’t interfere.”
Avila sniffed. “In a properly regulated House, master and mistress know all their servants by name and family and treat them fittingly.”
Hearing an echo of loss beneath her tart words, I kept quiet. I found the pomander and ticked it off my list with an absurd sense of achievement. One more to be woken from the chill of enchantment; Master Aglet, a joiner, according to the record.
Temar took the quill from me and dipped ink for his own note, our gazes meeting for a moment. “Sheer luck or not, you’ve made a success of your trip with this haul alone,” I commented.
“Grant Maewelin her due,” said Avila in quelling tones. “The goddess surely took charge of these hidden minds, just as she holds seed and bud sleeping through the dark days of winter.”
“Which would explain how the pieces came to her shrine,” Temar nodded thoughtfully.
He was convinced, no question, but few people I know give Maewelin more than a passing thought beyond the close of Aft-Winter. Hunger in the lean days after Winter Solstice prompts some to cover all options with an offering to the Winter Hag, but even then it’s a cult mostly limited to widows and women past any hope of marriage. That reminded me of something.
“The shrine to Maewelin in Zyoutessela is a refuge for women without family or friends. I know the Relict Tor Bezaemar makes donations to all manner of shrines, Demoiselle. You could ask if there’s any charitable sisterhood in Toremal that might take in the woman and her daughter?”
Avila’s severe expression lightened a little. “I will do so.”
“I have one,” said Temar with relief as much to do with my answer to the question of Maedura as with identifying an artefact. He pointed to a ring, modest turquoise set within silver petals. An inexpensive piece in any age but for some reason I knew beyond doubt it had been given with love and cherished with devotion.
“The woman with three children.” I shivered on sudden recollection of a little group still lost in the vastness of the Kellarin cavern. The sorrowful wizards hadn’t wanted to wake two children to the news that their sister and mother couldn’t yet be revived.
“The boy had my belt, with the buckle you recovered from the Elietimm.” As our eyes met I saw the lad through Temar’s memory, wide-eyed but determined not to show his fear, clinging to the buckle of Temar’s belt and to the promise that everything would be all right.
“This was for the youngest child.” Avila held up a tiny enamelled flower strung on an age-darkened braid of silk, her voice rough.
“Then we can wake them all.” Tangled emotions constricted Temar’s voice.
Avila looked down on the motley collection of valuables and trinkets. “But so many of the men held to knives or daggers,” she said softly. “Where are those?”
Sudden inspiration mocked me for a fool. “Weapons would’ve been laid in sword school shrines! I’ll wager my oath on it!”
I’d have explained further if Messire’s clerk hadn’t come in.
“Oh.” He stood in the doorway, nonplussed.
“You have something to say, young man?” Avila asked with all the confidence of rank.
“Surely you should all be getting ready to attend at the Imperial Law Courts, my lady.” Dolsan bowed respectfully but there was no mistaking his meaning as he looked at Temar’s creased shirt and Avila’s plain gown.
“In my day, substance counted for more than show among persons of high birth,” said Avila with a stern glare.
“In this age, my lady, show and substance are often one and the same.” Service to the Sieur made Dolsan equal to this challenge. “Chosen Tathel, Esquire Camarl’s valet was looking for you.”
I excused myself hastily to Avila and Temar and hurried upstairs. The Esquire was still in his shirt and an old pair of breeches, sorting through his own jewels for suitable ornaments for public appearance. “You weren’t in the gatehouse or the barracks, Ryshad. How’s my valet supposed to find you if you don’t leave word where you’ll be?”
“I was in the library.” I apologised. “That coffer looks to hold a lot of the pieces Temar’s hunting.”
“That’s fortunate.” Camarl’s expression was uncompromising. “That could well be all the spoils D’Alsennin wins from this Festival.” He set down a broad collar of curling gold links and tossed a letter at me.
“I learn you are interested in acquiring certain heirlooms of my House,” I read. “Certain others have also expressed a desire to acquire these pieces. Accordingly, I intend to have three jewellers unbeholden to any Name appraise the items in question. Once I have established their value, I invite you to make an offer. From Messire Den Turquand, given at his Toremal residence, Summer Solstice Day.”
“His man must have been waving it in the breeze to dry the ink on his way here,” muttered Camarl. “What do you make of it, Ryshad?”
“Den Turquand got wind of the value of Kellarin artefacts,” I said slowly. “And he’ll sell to the highest bidder, no question. Some of the Names offering argument to D’Olbriot before the courts will be only too glad to pay thrice their value to use them as bargaining counters.” I couldn’t contain my anger. “But these are people’s lives! Hostage-taking belongs back in the Chaos.”
“How did he get wind of this?” Camarl demanded.
I looked him in the eye. “I’ve been asking various of my acquaintance if their masters or mistresses have heirlooms that might date from the loss of Kellarin.”
“Perhaps it might have been wise to discuss that with myself or the Sieur,” Camarl said bitingly. “Servants gossip and share titbits with their betters, Ryshad.”
“I’m sorry. I’m accustomed to use my own judgement in service of the Name.” I managed a fair appearance of regret. That all the Demoiselles and Esquires gossiped just as eagerly among themselves and Camarl learned all manner of valuable things from his own valet was neither here nor there.
“This is just not a priority.” Camarl screwed up the letter, hurling it into the empty hearth. “These people under enchantment—let’s be honest, a few more seasons, even years, would make no difference, not after so many generations. Setting the colony on a sound footing, stopping interest in Kellarin degenerating into an ugly scramble for advantage—that’s what’s important. This business of artefacts, it’s simply a complication. What’s the Sieur to do, Ryshad, if someone comes demanding concessions on trade in return for one of these cursed things?”
I kept my eyes lowered, expression neutral. I’d spent long enough in the service of the House to realise the Esquire’s anger wasn’t really directed at me. Although everyone treated him as such, Camarl wasn’t yet formally confirmed as the Sieur’s Designate. If all the black crows hovering round the House this Festival came home to roost, the Sieur’s brothers and all the other men bearing the D’Olbriot Name would be looking for someone to blame.
“Go and get yourself liveried,” Camarl said after a moment of tense silence. “Attend us to the law courts before you go off to answer that challenge.”
I bowed to the Esquire’s turning back and closed the door softly behind me.
Back in the gatehouse I dug my formal livery out of the depths of my clothes press. Dark green breeches went beneath a straight coat of the same cloth, more a sleeved jerkin in style really. Banded with gold at the wrists and around the uncomfortably constricting upright collar, it had a gold lynx mask embroidered on the breast, eyes bright emeralds among the metallic thread. There’d be no doubt that I belonged to one of the most ancient and wealthy Houses of the Empire as we travelled through a city gaping for a glimpse of nobles they only knew through gossip, scandal and broadsheet tales.
I scowled into the mirror and went to wait in the gatehouse. This was evidently a day to show I knew my place.
“Not going to be fighting in that?” Stolley laughed from the seat where he was reading the most recent broadsheet. It was his privilege as senior Sergeant to be first to see the tittle tattle culled from rumour, venal servants and indiscreet clerks.
I smiled humourlessly. “Hardly.”
“Got up and trod in your chamberpot, did you?” He shook his head. “At least your livery still fits. I need a new one every year.”
“Master Dederic must love you.” I ran a finger round inside my collar. “I don’t suppose I’ve had this thing on more than ten times since I swore to the Name.”
“Lucky bastard,” said Stolley with feeling. “Oh, and my wife says you’re to come to supper when Festival’s over. I warn you, she’s inviting her niece, saying it’s time you found a nice girl to court, now you’ll be settled in Toremal.”
“Married to you and she still wants to shackle her niece to a chosen man? They say misery loves company.” I tried for a smile to take the sting out of my words. “Any word this morning, anything on who attacked D’Alsennin?”
Stolley stood up to pin the broadsheet to the door for the men on duty during the day to read if they had the skill. “Just Tor Kanselin’s men saying the lad only got off his leash because Esquire Camarl was busy dallying in the gardens with Demoiselle Irianne. There was a bit of nonsense when one of our lads wondered if the Esquire had got round to plucking a petal or two.”
“And that’s supposed to get Tor Kanselin off the hook?” I retorted, annoyed. “And when their esquire got married last Solstice, didn’t I hear they were whispering in corners about Camarl never having a girl on his arm? Hinting he might take a less than rational view of women?”
“They can’t have it both ways,” Stolley agreed. “Yes, Demoiselle, how can I serve?”
He turned to deal with the first of a flurry of visitors arriving for a lunch party and then with a series of coaches drawing up to take cadet members of the Name to engagements all around the city. I dutifully assisted, holding fans, offering a supporting hand, closing doors, careful not to crush expensive silks or feathers as I did so. In between I watched the toings and froings outside the open gate. Several women from grace houses went past, Stoll’s own wife among them. If I was to make the step to proven man, the Sieur had to see my face, and I had to be on hand to do him some service. That meant buckling down here for a good few seasons, fetching, carrying and proving my loyalty day in and day out. I tried to imagine Livak among the placid wives and decided she’d be as out of place as a woodlark in a hencoop.
Messire’s coach finally rattled up outside the gate just as the fourth chime of the day rang out from the bell tower. The bay horses were matched within a shade of colour, the woodwork and leather shone richly in the sunlight and liveried footmen jumped down to attend to door and step. The Sieur arrived with the echoes barely died away, Esquire Camarl, Temar and Demoiselle Avila with him. For all the fullness of his figure, the Sieur moved with brisk determination, twinkling eyes keen.
Temar was looking stubborn about something. He carried his sword, and as he approached held it out to me. “I thought you might use this, for this afternoon.”
“My thanks, Esquire.” I took the scabbarded blade and bowed first to Temar and then to Camarl, who watch
ed with distant annoyance as I unbelted my own sword and gave it into Stolley’s keeping. Camarl had given me that new blade at Winter Solstice and I’d accepted it gladly, all the more so since I knew both smith and the smithy where it had been made and would wager my oath that no unquiet shades hung round it. But I couldn’t throw Temar’s offer back in his face, could I?
“At least you’ll get some fresh air down at the sword school,” the Sieur remarked genially. “Put an end to this nonsense of a challenge as soon as you can, Ryshad. Let them have their fun, but don’t risk your skin trying to prove a point.” He favoured me with a warm smile.
Another carriage pulled up and the Sieur’s elder brother appeared behind us, several clerks laden with ledgers with him, Messire’s youngest son hovering at the back. The Sieur turned. “Fresil, send Myred to find me if there’s any nonsense over the Land Tax assessment. And I want to know at once who’s behind any application to sting us over Kellarin for the year to come.”
The brother nodded, face uncompromising beneath his bald pate. We all made our bow as Esquire Fresil climbed into his coach, a ribbon-tied document clutched in one age-spotted hand that would summarise the House’s finances to the last copper cut piece.
“Your uncle will make sure no one rolls up this House in parchment, won’t he, Camarl?” The Sieur smiled with satisfaction. “If Fresil can teach Myred half his skills, he’ll make a worthy successor to assist you.”
Which was as close as Messire ever came to telling Camarl he favoured him as Designate.
“I don’t think we need fret unduly about proceedings in the Imperial court today,” Messire continued easily. “We’ve been looking into potentially contentious areas for most of For-Summer, Dolsan and myself. We’ve plenty of strings to our bow.” His expression turned cold and I turned to see Casuel hurrying down the residence steps. “But we don’t want people wondering about anything underhand. Ryshad, tell that importuning wizard to keep his distance today.”
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