The Warrior's Bond (Einarinn 4) (49 page)

“My thanks, Esquire.” Gelaia pretended outrage. “I’ll convey your compliments on his entertainments to my Sieur.”

Den Ferrand grinned. “My gratitude, my lady.”

“Are we going or not?” demanded Meriel.

“Why not? I take it everyone’s served their Name as they were instructed over breakfast?” Gelaia asked archly.

As everyone nodded, Gelaia led them confidently out of the maze. Outside, she summoned various lackeys with a wave of her fan, dispatching them with messages for her parents, her Sieur and concise instructions for the stableyard. Den Ferrand stepped aside to talk briefly to someone resemblance suggested was an older brother while Den Brennain made a bow to an elegant lady who soon sent him back with an unconcerned smile.

“I had better let Esquire Camarl know I am leaving,” Temar said suddenly.

“I’ve sent word we’re going out together.” Gelaia took his arm with a proprietorial air. Temar managed to smile with apparent pleasure, even when he caught an avid glance from Jenty not meant for him.

Den Murivance was plainly a House with horses and grooms to spare, Temar decided, seeing two waiting carriages with polished portcullis badges on livery and harness as they reached the gatehouse. Gelaia organised everyone with casual adroitness and Temar found himself riding with her, Orilan, Meriel and Den Ferrand.

“Where are you committed this evening?” Orilan turned her back on the crowded streets.

“Tor Sauzet,” Den Ferrand replied promptly. “And you?”

“Den Gannael. Tell me, is it true Den Rannion’s designate spoke to Tor Sauzet about Jenty’s prospects?” Orilan asked.

“Oh, I heard that!” Meriel sat forward eagerly. “Which Esquire was proposed?”

Temar sat in silence as the others speculated good-humouredly. Let them chatter; they’d done what he needed after all. But his friend Vahil Den Rannion wouldn’t have given Jenty a second glance, he thought. No wonder the plain-faced beanpole was envious of Gelaia; no one would ever make her Maitresse of a House. He watched Gelaia laughing and had to admit she was certainly pretty, golden skin warmed by a delicate blush, lips a tempting red. Her long black hair was woven round her head in a luxurious array of curls, a few delicate strands falling to her shoulders. Temar covertly studied the swell of her bosom above a narrow waist and speculated on what kind of legs her flurry of petticoats might hide. Was it time to serve Kel Ar’Ayen by taking his grandsire’s advice, along with an attractive, well-connected bride who knew every turn around these latterday social circles? That would show Guinalle she wasn’t the only berry on the bush.

“Are we there?” Gelaia broke off a convoluted anecdote as the carriage slowed and then stopped, a footman ready to open the door.

Den Brennain, Jenty and the others were spilling out of the coach behind them as Temar stepped down, offering a hand to Gelaia and Orilan.

“Let’s see what there is to see.” Gelaia fanned herself, feathers today still white. “Lemael, wait for us in Banault Yard.” The coaches rattled away obediently.

“Shall we stand over there?” Temar pointed to the steps of the desperately old-fashioned Vintner’s Exchange, where a noticeable knot of nobility were laughing.

“We’re not the only ones taking a break before the evening’s duties,” remarked Den Ferrand with a grin.

“Only one more day of Festival to go,” said Orilan cheerfully. “It’s the Emperor’s dance tomorrow. No one talks business, betrothal or anything serious there,” she added in an undertone to Temar.

He smiled absently at her as he scanned the crowd. With people of all ranks and none pressing close, it was impossible to see very far.

“It’s just a rope trick.” Meriel sounded bitterly disappointed. Temar stopped searching the crowd to follow her pointing finger. They all saw a thin cable strung from a balcony on the front of the Vintners’ Exchange up to the looming bulk of the old city walls.

“At that angle?” Den Ferrand sounded doubtful. “I’ve never seen a rope walker go downhill.”

“I’m keeping my coin until I see something worthwhile.” Jenty clamped a bony hand on the silver mesh and emerald purse chained at her waist.

“When’s something going to happen?” Den Brennain wondered.

“I will go and enquire,” Temar said obligingly. He went down the steps, heading for a doorway where several people were taking advantage of a mounting block to get a better view. “Hello Allin. I got your note.”

“Temar! I’d almost given up on you.” The mage looked up at him with uncomplicated pleasure. “Are you playing truant?”

Temar laughed. “I persuaded a whole handful to come with me. I am relying on them to protect me from Camarl’s wrath.”

“Good day to you, Esquire.” Velindre nodded a greeting.

“So, Allin—”

Velindre smiled as Temar broke off. “She showed me your letter last night, and in any case Planir bespoke me, to let us know what had happened.”

“Can you help find these thieves?” demanded Temar.

Velindre grimaced. “Not with any degree of certainty. Still, once we’re done here I’ll come back with you and we’ll see what can be done.”

“Is this man truly a mage?” Temar looked up at the empty parapet on the far side of the broad street.

“I haven’t been able to meet him to find out.” Velindre frowned. “His handbills are nicely ambiguous, so he could just be some Festival faker willing to risk his neck. If he is a wizard, he’s canny enough to conceal his abilities sufficiently to keep people guessing.”

“Then those who want to believe can, and those who feel threatened can just dismiss him as a trickster,” Allin explained, and Temar realised his confusion must have shown on his face.

Velindre nodded. “And if he’s shrewd enough to work that out, he could be a useful man to ask about Tormalin opinions of magic”

A flurry of activity on the old city walls hushed the crowd to a murmur of anticipation. Temar looked round to see Gelaia staring impatiently at him. “I had better get back.” He worked his way to the Exchange steps as every face gazed up at the lofty rampart.

“Look!” Meriel squeaked, clutching at Den Ferrand’s arm. A man had climbed up on the parapet and was strapping something to his chest.

“What’s he doing?” Den Ferrand squinted up at the man silhouetted against the bright sky.

“He’s going to lie on it,” said Den Brennain slowly.

The man lowered himself slowly forwards, taking first one hand then the other off the rope. His feet still rested on the stonework of the wall but his body reached out over the emptiness supported only by the thin strand.

“That’s some balancing act,” said Den Ferrand.

Gelaia took Temar’s arm, face pale.

“Sliding down a rope is hardly flying,” objected Jenta, sounding pleasantly frightened.

The murmur of anticipation rose to a new pitch as blue-grey smoke appeared around the distant figure.

“Magelight!” exclaimed Meriel.

Hardly, thought Temar dubiously. He waited impatiently for the man to do his tricks, whatever they might be. Once Velindre was satisfied the man was no mage, she’d be free to help him search for the Kellarin artefacts.

The crowd exclaimed with fear and delight as the man launched himself off the walls, smoke still pouring from his outstretched hands, now more white than blue. The wide street was hushed as the would-be wizard gathered speed. A few nervous cries were hastily stifled but consternation swelled as everyone saw the man wobbling precariously.

The sliding figure slowed, tilted and the man slipped sideways. Gelaia screamed, shrill in Temar’s ear along with every other woman in the rapt crowd as the man just managed to grab the rope, left hanging from both hands. Incoherent cries went up on all sides as the crowd beneath the hanging figure melted away.

“Someone should get a ladder.” Den Brennain looked around wildly.

“A blanket, a canvas, something to catch him,” Den Ferrand hugged Meriel, who was frozen in horrified fascination.

“Those cobbles will be the death of him if he falls,” Temar agreed in the same breath.

From the turmoil below other people were trying to put the same ideas forward but the press of bodies was hampering everyone. High above, the man was desperately trying to swing one leg over the rope. An anguished gasp burst from every throat as he failed, and worse, let go with one hand. Temar felt his heart stand still until the showman managed to regain his grip.

“Wait here.” He shook off Gelaia and pushed his way through the dithering crowd to the doorway. Allin was ashen, biting a thumbnail. Velindre in contrast looked as composed as ever, a little pity shading the contempt in her eyes.

“Can you get him down?” demanded Temar.

Velindre looked sardonically at him. “The man claimed magical arts. Let him save himself.”

“You’ll stand by and let him die?” Temar stared at Velindre in disbelief.

“He doubtless knew the risks.” Velindre sounded faintly regretful.

“You have the means to save him! In the name of all that is holy—”

“He’s no reason to expect our help.” Velindre’s stony eyes froze Temar’s rebukes. “If we weren’t here, he’d have no hope beyond his own efforts, so what’s the difference?”

“That fall will kill him!”

As Temar spoke screams erupted on all sides. Temar felt sick to his stomach, seeing the man falling, arms and legs flailing in futile terror. In the instant before anguish closed Temar’s eyes, a flurry of iridescent azure light tangled round the plummeting figure, slowing his descent, toppling the hapless man over and over before he hit the cobbles with a crunch that made the entire crowd wince. A surge towards the man halted as soon as it began, people drawing away from the crumpled figure. As the circle widened, Temar saw the showman lying in a fading pool of radiance that rivalled the blue of the sky above.

“Who did that?” Velindre was keenly curious.

“How badly’s that poor man hurt?” countered Allin robustly. “Come on.”

She tried to force a path through the close-packed crowd but lacked both strength and height to make an impression.

“Clear the way!” Whether it was Temar’s unexpected accents or just obedience to noble command, he couldn’t tell, but at least the people moved. As he ushered Allin through to the wounded man, Temar saw another familiar figure being forced forward as the crowd retreated behind him.

“Casuel?”

“Curse the man for a fool!” The wizard’s dark eyes were wide, almost black against his shocked pallor. “I couldn’t let him die.”

Allin knelt, heedless of the dust and litter. “He’s broken both his legs.” Her hands hovered over a sort of wooden breastplate the man wore, with a deep central groove that Temar realised must have guided the rope. “We need a surgeon. I don’t want to take this off until a surgeon has checked his ribs.” The showman’s head lolled to one side, bruises already darkening beneath his tanned skin.

“Your control was a little lacking, Cas,” Velindre remarked, arms folded as she looked in, entirely composed.

“I did my best. It’s not my element,” said Casuel defensively. “You didn’t lift a finger so you can hardly criticise!” His anger rang loudly through the tense silence.

“That’s D’Olbriot’s mage.” Temar heard a frightened voice behind him start a low current of speculation.

“You get away from him! You get away from him!” A frantic girl was shoving murmuring onlookers aside. An older woman followed with a narrow-faced man dragging a wicker basket behind him. All three wore cheerful motley that mocked their dismay.

“Trebal!” the girl shrieked hysterically. She would have swept the unconscious man into her arms but Allin grabbed her shoulders, forcing her back.

“Move him now and you could kill him.” The girl stared at her in blank incomprehension. “We need a surgeon to splint his legs, to feel what other bones may be broken.”

“And who are you to say so?” the older woman demanded, twisting a gaily coloured kerchief in her work-knotted hands.

“We are mages of Hadrumal, my good lady,” said Casuel with a miserably inadequate attempt at authority. Repetition carried his words away like ripples through a pond.

“What have you done to him?” the girl screamed, trying to break free of Allin’s unexpectedly firm grip.

“Saved him from certain death!” Casuel replied indignantly.

“Didn’t do a very good job,” spat the older woman, kneeling and running gentle hands over the senseless body.

“You would rather he had died?” Temar asked angrily.

The woman looked up, face graven with the marks of a hard life. “This is all your fault, you and this wizard.”

“What?” Temar and Casuel spoke in the same breath.

“You’re D’Alsennin, aren’t you?” The man stepped forward. “You were raised from the dead by some old sorcery.”

A shudder of consternation ran through the crowd. Temar tried for a reassuring smile. “No one was dead, we merely slept beneath enchantments.”

“You used your magics against Trebal, I reckon.” The man stepped close, hatchet face cunning. “That’s what made him fall.”

“He’s only a hedge wizard, no threat to anyone.” The woman gestured at the motionless Trebal, speaking to the crowd. “But mages don’t like to see rivals, do they? Not mages from Hadrumal.”

“No, that’s not true—” Growing unease made the hairs on the back of Temar’s neck prickle.

“That charlatan’s no more mage than a stick of wood,” Casuel objected heatedly.

The man stared at Temar. “Your sorceries ruined his show, that fall could have him crippled or dead. Who’s going to keep his wife and family in bread?”

The girl looked up, face vacant in grief. The older woman silenced her with a hand on one shoulder, fleshless fingers digging in hard.

“Does the House of D’Alsennin make recompense?” The man raised his voice to carry clear to the Spring Gate and to the steps of the Vintner’s Exchange.

The crowd rustled with expectation as the older woman fell to her knees, wailing and holding her head in her hands. “How will we eat? We’ll be turned out, all of us, the children, the baby, we’ll be begging in the gutters.”

Temar wondered if anyone else noticed the pause before the girl joined the lamentations, albeit with slightly less expertise. “This is ridiculous!”