The Warrior's Bond (Einarinn 4) (23 page)

The sword school’s not far from the docks and we took a short cut through an alley lined with brothels doing good business with both seafarers and men-at-arms. Not that combining such trades was without its hazards; Stolley had lost those teeth of his somewhere hereabouts.

“What are you doing down here?” Mistal asked. “Shouldn’t you be dancing attendance on your Sieur instead of sparring with your friends?”

I smiled without humour. “Someone thought it a good joke to post a challenge in my name. Given young D’Alsennin nearly had his skull cracked like an egg yesterday, we think someone’s out for D’Olbriot heads to hang from their walls.”

Mistal looked sharply at me before scowling blackly in thought.

We came out on to a broad quayside, a few galleys tied up but quiet decks empty of all but a solitary watch. All their goods had been unloaded days earlier in good time for Festival buying sprees. This stretch of the sea front was owned by D’Olbriot, bollards and warehouse doors marked with the lynx for a good distance in either direction. Some whores were enjoying a brief respite on the paved walkways, plenty of room for them to stroll while the ropemakers were away enjoying their Festival along with everyone else. They’d be back on the first of Aft-Summer, stringing hemp between frames and posts, walking up and down as they turned handles twisting yarn into cables strong enough to hold the broad galleys secure in this wide anchorage and ropes for every lesser task. But for now we had space to walk and talk and not be overheard.

Mistal was looking with interest at a fetching little slattern with improbably auburn plaits. She was glancing back from beneath her painted eyelashes. He’s a handsome man, much my height and colouring but with the finer features our mother has given him, whereas I have inherited our father’s forthright jaw. But his looks would be of less interest to the whore than his dress; advocates are noted for their heavy purses. I nudged Mistal. “You had something important to say? Or do you want to try a rush up her frills?”

“She can wait.” He gripped the fronts of his robe in a pose lawyers seem to learn in their first season around the courts. “It’s this colony of yours, the one D’Olbriot’s mixed up in. Some people are looking very greedily out over the ocean.”

“Lescari mercenaries.” I nodded. “I’ve heard those rumours.”

“Lescari mercenaries?” Mistal looked incredulous. “They don’t know sheep shit from dried grapes. Rysh, your Sieur is going to walk into a hailstorm of law suits tomorrow and I don’t think he knows a thing about it.”

I stopped in my tracks. “Who’s bringing suit?”

“Tor Priminale for one.” Mistal raised one finger then a second. “Den Rannion for another. They’re claiming rights in this Kellarin colony on account of ancestral due.”

“How so?” We started walking again.

“As the Houses who originally backed the colony. They claim a share of the land, the minerals, timber, animals. Whatever’s been turned into coin already, they want a penny in the Mark paid up prompt.”

“Can they do that?” I wondered.

“They can make an argument for it,” Mistal said grimly. “I don’t know how strong, but regardless, it’ll tie your Sieur up in parchment tapes until Winter Solstice.”

“How do you know all this?” Lawyers are bound by oaths they hold no less dear than we swordsmen, oaths of confidentiality and good faith, sworn to Raeponin and enforced with crippling penalties if respect for the God of Justice doesn’t keep them honest.

“I was asked to submit a reading on the question,” replied Mistal scornfully. “Along with every other advocate who’s ever argued a case on rights in property. Not because they wanted my opinion but to make sure that if D’Olbriot came looking for my services I’d have to cry off on account of prior interest.” He laughed without humour. “Not that a Name like D’Olbriot is ever going to come looking for representation in the stalls where lowly advocates like me ply our trade.”

“But whoever’s behind this didn’t want to leave any rabbit hole unnetted before he sent in his ferrets.” I was getting the measure of this now. “Tor Priminale is bringing suit? But the Demoiselle Guinalle is still alive, over in Kellarin. If the Name has any rights over there, she’d be their holder. Den Fellaemion was her uncle, and I’m sure he’d have willed his portion to her.” I’d have to ask Temar about that.

“Who’s to say it’s really her?” Mistal demanded. “Who’s to say she’s still in her right mind after Saedrin knows how long under some cursed enchantment? I’ll bet my robes against Mother’s ragbag that someone’s drawing up arguments like that to set aside her claims.”

“D’Olbriot can bring any number of witnesses to vouch for her wits,” I said scornfully.

“D’Olbriot witnesses?” queried Mistal. “Anyone impartial? Wizards, perhaps? Mercenaries?”

“She’d have to present herself, wouldn’t she?” I said slowly. “Stand up in a court she’s never seen, subject to laws she knows nothing of, harried with questions she’ll struggle to understand. If she does answer, that ancient accent’ll make her sound half-witted regardless.”

“She might well prove herself competent,” Mistal allowed, “but she’ll be spending Aft-Summer and both halves of Autumn in court to do it.”

“When she’s one of the only two people with any real authority in Kellarin. How are they supposed to manage without her? I’m sorry.” I shook my head. “I should have come to see you.”

“I could have made myself clearer,” said Mistal in some regret. “But I didn’t dare put this down on paper.” He looked round but there was no one within earshot. Even the pretty little whore had found some other amusement.

“I’ll keep your name out of it when I tell the Sieur,” I promised soberly. If word of this got out no one would ever trust Mistal again and that would be the end of the legal career he’s spent so many years pursuing.

“There’s more.” Mistal sighed. “Even allowing for Justiciary oaths, there are whispers in the wind. If Tor Priminale or Den Rannion get so much as a hearing, Den Muret will bring suit at Autumn Equinox and probably Den Domesin as well.”

I gaped at him. “Both of them?”

He nodded firmly. “And you were saying your Demoiselle Tor Priminale’s so important to Kellarin? I take it Esquire D’Alsennin’s just as significant?”

“Temar?” I stopped again, boot heels rapping on the stone.

“Tor Alder are bringing suit to have the D’Alsennin Name declared extinct,” said Mistal flatly. “Apparently your Temar’s mother married some Tor Alder back in the last days of the Old Empire. She bore him two sons and when the old Sieur ’Alsennin died he left what remained of his holdings to that Tor Alder line, in trust against Temar or his sons ever coming back.”

“All signed and sealed and locked in a deed box for generations?” I almost laughed at the irony.

“You know what those ancient Houses are like,” Mistal nodded. “They save every inky scribble down from the days of Correl the Potent. It’s been Tor Alder’s title to some of the best lands around Ast and a tidy stretch of property on the south side yonder.”

I looked out over the wide bay of Toremal, iridescent sea sparkling in the sunlight, ruffed here and there with white foam. The shore came sweeping round from distant northern headlands to the far-flung sandy stretches of the southern reaches, arms spread wide to welcome ships into a safe embrace. I’d no idea what land over there had been worth in Temar’s era but nowadays the rents would likely pay for a fleet of ships to serve Kellarin and all the supplies he could load on them.

“How can they declare the Name extinct?” I demanded. “Temar’s still alive.”

“Only just, from what I heard yesterday in the tisane houses,” Mistal pointed out. “And even if some dark sorcery brought him back from the brink of death—”

“Sadrin’s stones!” I objected.

“That’s what they’re saying,” insisted Mistal. “Anyway, even if he is alive with all his wits under his hat, there’s only the one of him, an Esquire, no Sieur, no badge, no nothing as far as law codes written after the Chaos are concerned.”

“Anything else?” I hoped for a shake of Mistal’s head.

He smiled. “Just Den Thasnet arguing that D’Olbriot Land Tax should be assessed against the entire extent of Kellarin henceforth, given that House is the only beneficiary of all those resources.”

“They can go piss up a rope,” I said before I could stop myself.

“Quite possibly a case to argue.” Mistal struck a lawyerly pose on the clean-swept cobbles. “The sons of that House have been splashing their inheritance all over their boots since they could stand straight enough to hold out their pizzles, my lord Justiciar.”

I laughed briefly. “Shit, Mist, this is serious.”

“It is,” he agreed, letting his grey robe fall back on his shoulders. “And clever, because if Den Thasnet’s argument is dismissed, that just strengthens Tor Priminale and the rest.”

“If Den Thasnet’s upheld?” Was there some legal point to counter the obvious conclusion?

“Then D’Olbriot has the choice of bankrupting the House to pay the taxes or acknowledging Tor Priminale and all the others in a counter suit.” Mistal confirmed my worst suspicions.

We’d reached the far end of the quay by now, where a collection of little boats had been left high and dry by the tide. We turned back, both walking in silence, arms folded and brows knotted in thought, strides matching pace for pace.

“ ‘Clever’ and ‘Den Thasnet’ aren’t words you often use in the same breath,” I said after a long pause.

“Indeed not.” Mistal looked down at his hands, twisting the ring that signified his pledge to the Emperor’s justice. “They’re puppets in this, I’ll lay my oath on that.”

“So who’s pulling their strings?” I demanded angrily. “This stinks worse than cracked shellfish.”

“Which is why I wanted to warn you,” said Mistal grimly. “My oath’s supposed to protect those dealing with good faith, not shield someone using the law as a stalking horse for their own malice.”

“How long have you known about this?” I asked.

“I was asked to draw up an opinion on Festival Eve,” Mistal answered. “Which is what made me suspicious. There’s no way anyone could come up with a winning argument in that time. It had to be a tactic to spoil the spoor for anyone else.”

“But someone’s willing to pay sound coin to do that,” I pointed out. “If you’re saying every clerk and advocate got the same retainer, that’s a fair sack of gold someone’s spending.”

“And they don’t mind risking word leaking out, not at this stage,” Mistal commented. “They’re sure of themselves, which means someone’s had archivists and advocates working on this for some while.”

“Lawyers won’t break a confidence, but where do archivists and clerks go to wash library dust out of their throats?” I wondered.

“Who put the notion of a legal challenge in the Sieur Tor Priminale’s head?” queried Mistal. “And Den Rannion, Den Domesin and Den Muret, all at one and the same time? One bright clerk coming up with the idea, I could believe. Two? Perhaps in closely allied Houses, but the last time Tor Priminale and Den Rannion worked together on anything must have been your cursed colony. Four Names all going to law at the same time, every clerk in the town sent scurrying round the archives and every advocate retained? You’d need that gambler girl of yours to work out the odds against that being happenstance.”

I felt a pang at Mistal’s dismissive reference to Livak. I’d expected our older brothers Hansey and Ridner to take against her, but I’d hoped Mist would like her. I looked at him. “You say word of this will be getting out?”

“That D’Olbriot’s going to be hip deep in horseshit tomorrow? You know what this town is like, Rysh.” Mistal shrugged. “Some clerk, some advocate’s runner will reckon that’s too ripe a morsel to keep to himself.”

“Dast’s teeth,” I cursed. “I owe you for this, Mist, and so does the Sieur. Will I see you round the courts tomorrow?”

He hesitated. “I can be seen with my brother but only if you’re alone. Whoever’s behind this won’t waste a breath before accusing me of bad faith if I’m seen talking to anyone representing D’Olbriot without good reason.”

I nodded. “Then you can walk back to safer streets with me. I can’t leave you here in your nice clean robes for any passing footpad to club.”

“Just remember who’s the oldest here,” Mistal warned me.

“Just remember what Mother said the last time she found a cure for the scald in with your dirty linen. I’m not leaving you near all these brothels.”

We bickered amiably enough all the way back to the lower end of the Graceway, where Mistal turned off to head back to the warren of crumbling stone and worm-ridden wood that makes up the Imperial Courts of Law. I hailed a hireling gig and told the driver to get me back to D’Olbriot’s residence as fast as his whip could manage.

The Library, D’Olbriot Residence,

Summer Solstice Festival, Second Day, Noon

And we may find something of interest here, Esquire.” An eager young man deposited yet another stack of dusty parchments in front of Temar.

“Thank you, Master Kuse.” Temar managed to sound grateful.

“Call me Dolsan,” said the saturnine youth as he leafed intently through the pile.

“Then you must call me Temar,” he said with feeling. “Esquire D’Alsennin is over formal.”

“The Sieur likes formality.” The clerk brushed a cobweb from the front of his jerkin. “Come to that, shouldn’t you be the Sieur D’Alsennin by now?”

Temar sat back in his round-armed chair. “Should I?”

Dolsan continued sorting documents. “You’re the elder male of the Name, so you’re entitled to propose yourself in the absence of any others.”

Temar managed a shaky laugh. “As far as I’m concerned my grandsire will always be the Sieur.”

“But what about everyone else’s concerns?” Dolsan asked, head on one side.

“What has it to do with everyone else?” demanded Temar.

Dolsan raised hands to deflect the irritation in Temar’s words. “It’s such an unusual occurrence, a Name reduced to one man. We’ve been trying to find precedent in the archives.”

“We?” Temar queried.

“The Sieur and myself,” Dolsan explained. “And clerks from other Houses have commented in passing. We meet at the law courts, at archives and so on, sometimes share a few bottles of wine after a long day.”