The Warrior's Bond (Einarinn 4) (16 page)

“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 Thasnet?” 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.”

“They were just a gaggle of silly girls.” Temar shrugged.

Allin shook her head. “They’re parroting the prejudices they hear at their own firesides, and if they’re any guide the Sieur’s association with Hadrumal does him no credit at present.”

“What is Hadrumal like?” Temar’s curiosity got the better of him.

“Rather inclined to see itself as the centre of the world and look down on everyone else,” said Allin bitingly. “A bit like here.”

Temar didn’t know how to answer that so squinted uncertainly at some bird perched on a balustrade confining a distant ond. Music, laughter and vivacious conversation spilled out on to the terrace from the animated gathering within and Temar felt very lonely.

“I’m probably not being fair,” said Allin after a while. “I’m tired of new places and new people and being so far away from my home and my family.”

Temar glanced back at her. “You and me both.”

Allin smiled briefly. “And there’s no going back for either of us. Magebirth separates me from mine as surely as the generations have cut you off from your roots.”

Silence fell heavily as a lively new tune struck up inside the house.

“But we just have to get on with it, don’t we?” said Allin bracingly. “What progress have you made so far?”

Temar offered her his arm. “I am developing an interest in art. Let me show you.”

The Tor Kanselin Residence,

Summer Solstice Festival, First Day,

Late Afternoon

Casuel hesitated on the threshold. “No need to introduce me.”

“Are you expected?” The door lackey looked uncertainly at him. “Sir?” he added as an afterthought.

The wizard bridled. “My name is Devoir, my title Mage. I assist the Sieur D’Olbriot on matters of vital importance to the Empire. There are people here I need to consult.” He peered into the long gallery, searching for Velindre. How had she managed to insinuate herself into such a gathering? He really was unfashionably late but he’d barely had time to dress fittingly for such a House as it was. Velindre might at least have had the courtesy to let him know where she’d be rather than just sending that offhand note saying she’d arrived in Toremal. If he hadn’t got the address of her lodging off the lad, if he hadn’t gone to call, hadn’t demanded the landlady tell him what Velindre was up to, he’d never have found out she’d be here.

The lackey was looking at him with interest. “Are you related to Amalin Devoir?”

Casuel drew himself up indignantly. “He has the honour to be related to me. May I pass?”

The door lackey moved aside with a low bow. Casuel looked at him suspiciously for a moment. Was the fellow just being a little overservile or was that some sarcasm in his gesture? Deciding it wasn’t worth pursuing, he hurried into the broad room, taking a glass of straw-coloured wine from a passing footman’s tray.

He sipped it as he walked to look out on to the terrace.

No, Velindre wasn’t there. The excellence of the vintage brought a smile to Casuel’s face. Perhaps he should take a little time for himself now Festival was here. He’d worked ceaselessly since the turn of the year, after all. A few days socialising with the educated and influential was no more than he deserved. He edged his way through the assembled nobility, careful to bow to anyone looking in his direction, waiting politely until anyone in his way stepped aside.

Temar was deep in conversation with a youth some years his senior, a handsome man in coat and breeches of rough silk as black as the martlet badge repeated on every link of a heavy chain looped around his shoulders. “Yes, it’s an heirloom piece, cursed heavy of course, but one has to dust these things off for Festival.”

“I would swear Den Bezaemar as was favoured an ouzel in my day,” Temar was saying thoughtfully.

“These things doubtless change over the generations. One little black bird is much like another, after all.” The Esquire Tor Bezaemar was sharing his attention between Temar and the rest of the room with practised ease. “I believe someone wishes to speak to you, D’Alsennin.”

“Casuel!” Temar turned to greet the mage with a flattering heartiness that was a little uncultured in present company. “Oh, forgive me, may I make known Esquire Kreve Tor Bezaemar. I have the honour to present Casuel Devoir, mage of Hadrumal.”

“We are honoured,” Kreve said politely. “I can’t imagine when any Festival reception last entertained three wizards.”

“Good day,” Casuel said stiffly. “Hello, Allin.”

“I’m here with Velindre.” The girl blushed, as well she might. What did she think she was doing, aping her betters in her ill-styled dress?

“If you’ll excuse me,” Kreve Tor Bezaemar bowed deftly. “There are other people I must speak to.”

Casuel bowed to his departing back before turning on Allin. “And what is Velindre’s business with Tor Kanselin?” he demanded. He looked around the room again. How could such a gawky, ill-favoured woman be so hard to find among elegant ladies?

Allin smiled sweetly at Casuel. “She’s here at the personal invitation of the Maitresse. They met at a feather merchant’s.”

“Quite by chance?” Casuel’s sarcasm made it clear what he thought.

“Hardly,” Allin shrugged. “Velindre made it her business to fall into conversation.”

“Does Planir know what she’s up to?” snapped Casuel.

“You’d have to ask her that,” said Allin with a touch of spirit. “She’s talking to the elder Demoiselle Den Veneta at present but I’m sure she’ll give you a few moments.”

“I have too many calls on my time to wait on Velindre’s convenience,” said Casuel sourly. “Tell her to call on me later and explain herself.”

“So what did you come here for?” asked Temar brightly. “Apart from showing everyone your new haircut.”

Casuel raised an involuntary hand to wiry brown hair cut and brushed in a close approximation of Camarl’s style. “Naturally, as Planir’s envoy to D’Olbriot, I have a duty to represent Hadrumal to the nobility during Festival.”

Temar laughed loudly, the hearty chuckle turning curious heads. So much for archaic noble manners, Casuel thought crossly. Didn’t the boy realise he was letting down the dignity of Kellarin just as surely as Allin was disgracing Hadrumal in that frumpy gown? How was wizardry ever to achieve due recognition in Toremal if it couldn’t even manage to dress decently?

Allin was looking over at the other side of the room. “Excuse me, Velindre wants me.”

Casuel watched the close circle of lace-covered shoulders in the far bay open to admit the girl before closing against curious glances from a fair few people. “What are they talking about?” the mage wondered, frustrated.

Temar hesitated.

“You know something?” Casuel narrowed his eyes. “What is it? Keeping something from me could have serious consequences, Esquire. I don’t think you realise—”

“I believe they are discussing someone’s betrothal,” said Temar.

“Yours?” gasped Casuel. That would be something to report to Planir. But what if the Archmage disapproved? He quailed at the thought of conveying unwelcome news.

“No,” said Temar scornfully. His expression turned rueful. “I hardly think these Demoiselles would entertain my suit, not for all the gold in Kel Ar’Ayen, not as long as I know nothing of their fashions and fancies.”

“I could have told you such things,” sniffed Casuel. “But it was rather more important to teach you at least the barest bones of all the history you slept through.”

“True enough,” agreed Temar. “I owe you an apology for my inattentions.” He waved aside Casuel’s hasty demur. “But it seems which Emperor reigned when and the badges of all these Houses is merely the start of what I need to know. Can you explain all this business with feathers and fans to me?”

“Oh, yes,” Casuel assured him. “My sisters—”

Temar smiled. “Good. Let us go back to the D’Olbriot residence and we can go over it together.”

Dismay had left Casuel’s mouth hanging open and he shut it hastily. “But I only just got here.”

Temar fixed Casuel with an unblinking stare. “Unless you have some means to force your way through that rampart, you are hardly going to find out what Velindre is discussing.” He gestured at the intimate circle in the far bay. “But I asked Allin to call on me this evening, to share a supper or something. If you are helping me with my studies, you can see what you can get out of her then?”

“You don’t want to encourage her,” said Casuel bitingly. “She’s of no consequence in Hadrumal, and hereabouts she’s quite below your notice. If Velindre had any sense, she’d never have brought the girl. That Lescari accent alone—”

He saw Temar wasn’t even doing him the courtesy of listening. “Let us make our farewells.”

Casuel wondered how Temar’s expression could seem so warm while those pale eyes stayed as cold as ice. “But I only just got here.”

“I have been here since just after the sixth chime of the day,” said Temar crisply. “Which is quite long enough for these girls to treat me as if I were missing half my buttons and for these elegant Esquires to hint tactfully I have no real business here as long as I have barely a copper to scratch my stones with.”

“There’s no need for mercenary vulgarity,” Casuel said plaintively. “Where’s Esquire Camarl?” He’d make Temar see sense, the wizard thought.

“Making the better acquaintance of the younger daughter of the House out in the grounds.” Temar smiled thinly. “Interrupting would hardly be tactful.”

“We can’t leave without him,” Casuel protested uncertainly.

“Everyone keeps telling me how informal this gathering is,” insisted Temar. “We will make our bow to Resialle and she can inform Camarl. Come, Master D’Evoir.”