The Warrior's Bond

by Juliet McKenna

  I’d have preferred to face Messire clean and shaven, but didn’t dare risk delay. “Come on, Temar.”

  We hurried through the gardens. When I knocked on the door it was Camarl’s voice not the Messire’s that answered. “Enter.”

  I took a deep breath and opened the door. “Good morning, Messire, Esquires.” I bowed low.

  The Sieur was there together with all three of his brothers, sat in a close half-circle with Myred and Camarl to represent the coming generation. Painted, the faces would have looked like studies of the same man at different ages. Young Myred, dutifully silent at the back, still had the bloom of early manhood, flesh softening chin and cheekbones but waist still trim beneath his close cut coat. Camarl showed the incipient family stoutness overcoming the fitness lent by youth but the years he had over his cousin sharpened his gaze with experience gained. Next in age was Ustian, Messire’s younger brother, who still travelled seven seasons out of the eight, seeing how the House’s vast holdings were managed at first hand. He was the plumpest of the four brothers, an inoffensive, round little man with a mind like a steel trap hidden beneath leaves. Long leagues on the road showed in lines around his eyes that Camarl as yet lacked. While the Sieur was still a man in his prime, Esquire Fresil, on Messire’s left, was visibly further down the slope towards Saedrin’s door. Leishal, master of the House’s estates around Moretayne since the days of the old Sieur and seldom seen in Toremal, was not much older. But even those few years made a difference: his legs were thinned with old age, spindly beneath his paunch, his face sinking to show the bones of his skull. Where Myred’s eyes were a vibrant stormy blue, Leishal’s were faded nearly to colourless, deeply hooded beneath a wrinkled forehead. For all that, his wits were still honed sharp by three generations’ unquestioning service of his Name.

  “Good day to you, Ryshad.” Avila sat across the room beside the fireplace, expression bland, ankles crossed beneath a frivolously yellow-sprigged white gown.

  “Where were you?” barked Esquire Leishal.

  “Retrieving what was stolen from the House, Esquire,” I said politely.

  Temar took a pace to stand beside me, one hand laid on the leather bag. “We believe everything is here.”

  Avila shifted in her seat with a rustle of silk but I’d have had to turn my head to look at her. I didn’t feel that would be wise; displeasure hung in the air like the promise of summer thunder.

  “You didn’t have time to tell anyone where you were going?” asked Ustian.

  “I chose not to, Esquire.” I faced him squarely. “The person who gave me the information asked me to keep it in confidence.”

  “There are no secrets between sworn man and master,” snapped Fresil. “What do you mean by taking D’Alsennin into danger? The boy’s barely out of bandages!”

  “Your pardon, but I answer neither to Ryshad nor to any D’Olbriot.” Temar’s face was stern. “I crossed the ocean to seek these stolen treasures. Life and honour are both my own to risk in that quest.”

  “Maitresse Den Castevin has no high opinion of your honour,” retorted Fresil.

  In the corner of my eye I saw Avila sit forward, mouth thin with anger. The Sieur nodded to her and she stayed silent but from the surprise on Fresil’s face I’d wager any coin she was giving him a very hard look.

  “A great number of people tell you things in confidence, Ryshad,” Ustian said genially. “Two are waiting to see you as we speak.”

  Camarl rang a little hand bell and a blank-faced footman ushered two people through the far door, my brother Mistal and Charoleia’s errand boy, Eadit, who was looking like a mouse in a room full of cats. I really did hope he wasn’t here to ask for her dance card because I couldn’t see Messire taking kindly to that.

  “Fair Festival, advocate.” Camarl’s smile was broad with all the confidence of rank. “Anything you wish to say to Ryshad can be said before the Sieur and Esquires.”

  Mistal bowed elegantly to the assembled nobility. “I’ve been trying to determine who is paying Master Premeller to act as a friend of the court.”

  “Why bring the news to your brother and not to Esquire Camarl or the Sieur?” asked Leishal sternly.

  “I did not wish to presume on their honours’ time.” Mistal bowed again.

  “Just tell us what you’ve found out,” Ustian invited.

  Mistal raised a hand to the front of the advocate’s gown he wasn’t wearing. “Master Premeller owes a sizeable sum to one Stelmar Hauxe, goldsmith.”

  “Money-lender,” commented Leishal with disapproval.

  “Quite so.” Mistal smiled without humour. “According to the advocate who shares his rooms, Premeller’s just defaulted on the interest for the second quarter running, but for some reason he hasn’t suffered the bruising that kept him in bed for most of Equinox.”

  “Why does Hauxe want Premeller snapping at our heels?” Fresil barked. “We’ve never done business with the man.”

  “Hauxe rents premises by the quarter from Aymer Saffan,” continued Mistal, “who leases them by the five-year from Tor Bezaemar.”

  “Which proves nothing,” Leishal grunted.

  “Saffan has just granted Hauxe a season’s exemption on his rent,” offered Mistal.

  “You’ll never trace that back to Tor Bezaemar,” Fresil scoffed.

  “Indeed.” Ustian was considering this news. “I could imagine a handful of explanations before implicating another noble House in deliberate malice.”

  Training in the courts made Mistal equal to this. “Would any of those alternatives explain Premeller’s unexpected hostility to D’Olbriot? Has he ever shown any predilection for honourable disinterest?”

  The Sieur raised his hand and everyone fell silent.

  “Ryshad, introduce your other visitor,” Camarl prompted.

  “This is Eadit.” I tried to put some reassurance in my voice. “He works for the person who helped us secure the stolen artefacts.”

  “Speak, boy!” barked Leishal.

  Eadit cleared his throat nervously. “I came to tell you Fenn Queal was visited yesterday morning by a valet recently dismissed by Tor Bezaemar. That valet’s been seen drinking with one Malafy Skern, a pensioner from Tor Bezaemar’s service. That’s all I know.”

  Camarl spoke up at once. “I passed on Esquire D’Alsennin’s concerns to the Sieur yesterday.” His intent look forbade me to pursue the matter in Eadit’s hearing. “Advocate, Master Eadit, you have our thanks.”

  Messire dismissed both with a gesture and Mistal hustled Eadit out of the room.

  “More conjecture and gossip,” scowled Ustian.

  “We can’t set any of this before the court,” Fresil agreed.

  “You cannot in all conscience ignore this,” said Avila with rising ire. “In the Old Empire such weight of suspicion would have been enough to call out your Cohorts against Tor Bezaemar!”

  “We have different fields of combat in this day and age,” Fresil said sharply. “Never fear, Demoiselle, we’ll set as much before Imperial justice as we can when the sessions resume after Festival. In the meantime we can take other steps against Tor Bezaemar, and who knows, sufficient provocation may prompt them to betray themselves.

  “That would lend weight to our arguments,” agreed Leishal to general approval.

  “If your Emperor declares against them in this court?” Temar folded his arms abruptly. “Will that curb their malice?”

  “We’ll have won a significant battle,” said Ustian with a smile of amusement.

  “Not the war?” persisted Temar.

  “That will take a little longer.” But Leishal’s dour words made it clear the outcome wasn’t in question.

  “That’s our concern, not yours, D’Alsennin.” The Sieur spoke for the first time. “You’re to be congratulated on recovering your artefacts.”

  “I could not have done so without Ryshad,” Temar said pointedly.

  “Quite so.” The Sieur’s bland face was unreadable. “And now y
ou can prepare to celebrate your good fortune at the Emperor’s dance.” He smiled at Avila, who raised a sceptical eyebrow. “My lady Channis will run through the etiquette.” Courteous as it was, Messire’s dismissal was unmistakable.

  “I must secure that bag first,” said Avila. “If you are finally letting your tenantry inside your walls, Ostrin knows who might slip in unnoticed with theft on their minds.”

  “As you see fit. Channis awaits your convenience.” Messire’s face showed none of the indignation darkening Fresil’s face beside him.

  Camarl rang the bell to summon the doorkeeper. I moved to follow Temar.

  “Where are you going, Ryshad?” barked Ustian.

  I turned back, opting for silence as the safest response.

  “Sit down, Ryshad,” Messire invited. I took a chair by the table as the door closed behind me.

  “If you recovered D’Alsennin’s spoils for him, you must know who stole them.” Camarl leaned forward. “Why isn’t he chained in the gatehouse?”

  “His name is Jacot, and if I’d been able I’d have dragged him here by his heels,” I answered readily. “But Temar and I would’ve had to fight through twice our number to do that. I’d have risked it with another sworn or chosen, but I wasn’t about to chance D’Alsennin.”

  “So he escapes to boast he robbed D’Olbriot and lived to tell the tale,” snapped Ustian.

  “Why didn’t you take enough men to capture this thief?” the Sieur asked mildly.

  “I thought discretion more important than a show of strength,” I replied steadily.

  “There’s blood on your boots, Ryshad,” Messire pointed out. “Someone spilled it. Granted I don’t see you or Temar wounded, but you’d have been safer with sworn swords around you.”

  “I didn’t want to risk the safety of the person who betrayed the thief to me,” I said, shutting my mouth on further explanation.

  “Who seems remarkably well informed as to the vermin crawling round this city’s underbelly,” Messire observed. “I take it we’re talking about that Lescari lad’s employer?

  I nodded.

  “Will you tell me who this is, if I ask?” the Sieur enquired casually.

  “I will but I would ask you not to ask.” I looked straight at him. “If we compromise that person’s safety, we can’t expect help from that quarter again. We recovered the Kellarin artefacts, Messire. I judged that more important than bringing the thief before your justice.”

  “Did you?” Fresil plainly disagreed. “Young Temar holds your oath now, does he?”

  I kept my eyes on the Sieur. “I serve D’Olbriot in serving D’Alsennin.”

  The Sieur’s smile came and went. “I don’t want to curb your initiative, Ryshad, but I said you were to inform myself or Camarl of such plans. I’m surprised I failed to make myself clear.”

  I looked at the expensive carpet. “I’m sorry, Messire.”

  “I also thought I’d made it plain D’Alsennin was to fulfil the obligations of the rank he assumes.” Messire’s voice got colder. “You knew he was dining with Den Castevin.”

  I stared at the Sieur’s diamond-studded shoe buckles.

  “Enough of this,” snorted Leishal crossly. “What are we going to do about Tor Bezaemar?”

  “We buy their timber for props and for charcoal for the Layne mines,” said Ustian promptly. “Den Ferrand has land over that way that could supply us instead.”

  “Tor Bezaemar hides keep our tanneries in Moretayne supplied,” Fresil mused. “Could Den Cascadet pick up that trade without too much loss to ourselves?”

  “We could split it between them and Den Gaerit,” suggested Ustian.

  “What about closer to home?” Leishal demanded. “Where are Tor Bezaemar holdings in Toremal in relation to our own?”

  “Myred, the city plans.” The Sieur snapped his fingers at his son before glancing at me. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Your orders, Messire,” I said politely.

  “Would you take them, if I gave them?” he asked lightly. “I’m sorry, that was unworthy of us both.” He sighed. “Finish this Festival as you started it, Ryshad, watching over D’Alsennin. You’d better attend him to the Emperor’s dance. Irianne will be there to distract Camarl, so we want someone watching Temar’s back.”

  Camarl looked up, startled, as he unrolled a detailed plan of the northern side of the bay.

  “Never mind that.” Leishal was bending over the parchment. “Look here, we own the road that gives access to all these Tor Bezaemar holdings.”

  “So we do.” Fresil smiled with happy malevolence. “I’m sure it’s time we levied a toll thereabouts to pay for remaking the roadbed?”

  “Those are mostly tapestry weavers in that district?” The Sieur stood and turned his back on me, taking a ledger from a shelf and leafing through it. “Camarl, make sure none of our spinning mills deliver yarn to any Tor Bezaemar addresses from now on.”

  I left, closing the door softly behind me.

  “So they didn’t skin you for a hearth rug, then?” The footman waiting in the corridor gave me a nod.

  “Not this time.” I walked swiftly away. If the inner house servants knew I was in trouble, I’d really fouled my own nest. Where would Temar be, I wondered, dutifully learning etiquette from Lady Channis or intent on his own concerns? Heading for the library, I heard him in heated discussion with Avila from the turn of the corridor. At least I’d won that wager with myself. I knocked.

  “Enter,” Avila snapped. She sat at the table, artefacts spread out before her, running a pointed fingernail down her list.

  “What did the Sieur want with you?” asked Temar.

  “To remind me where my oath rests.” I looked at Avila. “Is everything there?”

  “Thus far.” She looked up at me. “What plot is Guliel hatching with those brothers of his?”

  I rubbed a hand over my face and wished for a shave. “As close to outright war with Tor Bezaemar as he can manage, without actually calling out the barracks.”

  “On Temar’s unsupported word?” Avila hushed his indignation with a curt word.

  “The Sieur and Esquires must have their own reasons for suspecting Tor Bezaemar’s ill faith,” I told her. “I can’t imagine they’d be doing this otherwise.” I wondered what the Sieur knew that the rest of us didn’t.

  “What are they doing?” Temar demanded.

  “Wherever their businesses touch on each other, wherever Tor Bezaemar holdings or tenants rely on D’Olbriot services, the Sieur and Esquires will find ways to make Tor Bezaemar feel the shoe pinching. They’ll break contracts if they can, refuse to buy or sell, deny Tor Bezaemar men passage over D’Olbriot lands, refuse carriage for Tor Bezaemar goods in D’Olbriot ships.”

  “Will D’Olbriot interests not suffer? Will Tor Bezaemar not retaliate?” protested Avila.

  “Fresil and Ustian will make sure Tor Bezaemar losses outweigh any D’Olbriot suffering.” I sighed. “But it won’t do the tenantry of either House any favours.”

  “What does this mean for us?” Temar wanted to know.

  “For Kellarin? You wanted less interference in your affairs, didn’t you?” I queried. “D’Olbriot’s certainly going to be too busy with this to tell you how to run your colony.”

  “We will be caught up in this regardless.” Temar looked at me. “And if Tor Bezaemar or their allies believe hurting Kel Ar’Ayen will hurt D’Olbriot?”

  “Any artefacts we still seek at once become pieces on this game board.” Avila was pale with anger.

  I had no answer to that.

  “These Sieurs, these Esquires, they can do this?” Temar began pacing round the room. “Has your Emperor no power? Even Nemith the Whorestruck knew better than to let two Houses break each other’s horns like this! His decree to end a quarrel was law.”

  “A decision in the Imperial Courts should cut a lot of this short,” I offered.

  “When?” Temar flung an impatient question at me. “Aft-Summer
? For-Autumn? This year? Next?”

  “Who’s to say your courts deliver justice, when Raeponin is denied?” Avila was packing the artefacts back into their coffer with rapid, angry hands. “When nothing holds a House’s mouthpiece to the truth but their unsupported word?”

  I was about to protest, at least on Mistal’s behalf, when a footman followed a brisk tap on the door.

  “My lady Channis sends her compliments,” he said as hastily as was polite. “She invites you to attend her as soon as convenient.”

  “My compliments to Lady Channis, and we will be there as soon as suits.” Avila barely managed not to vent her anger on the hapless servant. “Find the mage Casuel Devoir and send him to D’Alsennin’s chamber.”

  The footman left with alacrity and I didn’t blame him. Avila headed for the door. “You two, bring that.”

  Temar and I carried the coffer between us, following Avila up the backstairs, sharing a puzzled look. We’d barely reached Temar’s opulent room when Casuel came hurrying along the corridor. “Demoiselle, Esquire,” he puffed. “How can I be of service?”

  Avila stalked into Temar’s chamber and looked around with disfavour. “Where best to hide something? Under the bed?”

  “The first place someone would look.” I was glad to let Temar give the obvious answer.

  Avila smiled thinly. “Then that is the place we want. Put it underneath.”

  “But—”

  “Master Mage.” Avila cut through Casuel’s protest with a voice like steel. “Can you make this box invisible?”

  Casuel thought for a moment. “Weaving an illusion of empty space might be more effective.”

  “As you see fit, it is your magic’ Avila looked impatient as Casuel waited, smiling hopefully. “At once, if you please.”

  “Of course.” Casuel dropped to his knees and threw a dizzying burst of magic beneath the bed, azure shifting to jade and blending to startling sunset hues. I blinked as the afterglow faded slowly from my eyes.

  “I should have done this before,” muttered Avila, pulling up a stool. She sat down and drew a deep breath, laying her hands on the cream and crimson silk coverlet. “Zal aebanne tris aeda lastrae.” She repeated the invocation, each time more softly until her words were a mere hint of a whisper in the rapt silence of the room.