The Warrior's Bond (Einarinn 4) (50 page)

By some quirk of ill fate, he spoke just as the weeping women paused to draw breath, his words loud in the silence. Affront stirred the crowd to new whispers.

“I think we should leave.” Velindre sounded calm enough but Temar could see her concern. “Shall I clear a path?”

“No!” Temar didn’t doubt the blonde mage could do it but he already had enough to explain to Camarl. He looked back at the Vintner’s Exchange. “Aedral mar nidralae, Gelaia,” he murmured under his breath. “Gelaia, can you hear me?” He squinted over the heads of the crowd, seeing a sudden stir convulse the noble group. “No, forgive me, you cannot reply. Please can you summon a coach to get us out of here?” He bowed curtly to the belligerent man. “We will be on our way. You had best come with us, Master Casuel.”

“I can’t,” protested the mage in confusion. “You set me to watch Den Thasnet.”

“But the man’s injured,” objected Allin.

“And he’s their responsibility.” Velindre nodded at the wailing women.

“You don’t get out of it so easy, you cold-eyed bitch. Not when you’re the ones made him fall!” The man whirled round, hands outstretched, appealing to the crowd. “Are you going to let them get away with this?”

“Come on, Allin.” Temar forced her gently to her feet with a hand under her elbow. “If they will not take your help, you cannot force it on them.”

She shut her mouth in a mutinous line but drew close to Temar under the hostile gazes from all sides. Velindre continued surveying the mob with a regally icy gaze while Casuel knotted nervous hands together, looking all around. Temar wondered what he was looking for, but before he could ask the man in motley began ranting at them with fresh anger.

“Got nothing to say for yourself? Leave a man dying in the dirt and don’t even open your purse for his widow and orphans?”

Temar ignored the taunts, looking over to the Vintner’s Exchange, wondering how long it would take for Gelaia to summon a coach for them. She had better hurry, he thought nervously as he was jostled from behind. The restive crowd was drawing in, swayed by the charade being played out by the motley trio.

“Keep your eye on that man in brown, with grey hair, next to the woman in yellow.” Casuel moved to Temar’s side, face intent.

“Why?” Temar found the man after a few moments.

“He seems to have some hold over our young friend,” the mage hissed urgently. “They met earlier and that one was telling our friend what to do.”

Temar acknowledged Casuel with a nod and smiled reassurance he didn’t quite feel at Allin.

“What are you whispering?” demanded the sharp-faced man. “What are you planning?”

The older woman looked up from her repetitive lamentations, dry eyes suspicious. “You don’t leave here without paying us something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Casuel coldly. “You owe me that wretch’s life!”

“Which will be lost,, if you don’t get a surgeon to him,” cried Allin.

“Shut your mouth, whore,” spat the thin-faced man.

“Shut your own before I break your teeth,” retorted Temar without thinking. Hooves clattered on the cobbles behind him and he sighed with relief. The crowd shifted, the mood growing uglier as the coachman’s hoarse shouts urged them out of the way, the brassy note of the horn sounding above rising abuse. When the horses appeared between milling figures, the animals were tossing their heads, eyes rimmed white with panic.

“As quick as you like, Esquire,” the coachman puffed, reins wrapped painfully tight round reddened hands.

Temar found himself hampered by Allin clinging to him and Casuel managing to move precisely in his way every time he took a step. With people trying to leave as well as stubbornly holding their ground, getting to the coach was impossible.

“I’ve had quite enough of this.” Even Velindre’s cool voice cracked a little. A wind appeared from nowhere, no passing summer gust but a sustained, strengthening breeze. People blinked as scraps of straw whirled up around their feet. Temar closed suddenly stinging eyes but opened them again as he heard a horse’s indignant whinnying beside him. A space had cleared all around the coach, everyone retreating from something halfway between summer haze and a dust devil, dancing on a barely visible point of light.

“You see, Cas?” Velindre smiled “That’s control.”

The mage was too busy scrambling into the coach to answer. Temar ushered Velindre inside, then Allin, consternation on her face. “They’re not trying to move him, are they?”

“My dear girl, it is hardly our concern,” Temar said, exasperated. It was uncomfortably crowded inside the coach, since Gelaia had brought both Den Brennain and Den Ferrand.

“Please, do sit here.” Den Brennain tried to stand up to allow Allin his seat but fell back as the coach picked up speed.

Casuel forced his way through the window. “I must see where that man in brown goes.”

“Who?” Den Ferrand looked out at the fast dissipating mob.

“There, next to Den Rannion’s third son.” Casuel clenched his fists in frustration as the coach turned away up a road to the higher ground.

“That was Malafy Skern, wasn’t it?” Den Ferrand looked to Den Brennain for confirmation.

The younger man twisted awkwardly to look before a building blocked his view. “That’s right.”

“Who is he and how do you know him?” Temar tried to make his question no more than idle chat.

“He was personal man to the last Sieur Tor Bezaemar,” Den Ferrand replied.

“The man who knew everything and everyone,” Den Brennain laughed. “That’s what they called him, but he was pensioned off a few seasons ago.”

“Then what—” Casuel subsided beneath a stern look from Temar.

“So who is the mage among you?” Gelaia’s knuckles were pale as she gripped the spinel-set handle of her fan.

“Me.”

“I am.”

“I have that honour.” Casuel’s stiff words fell into stunned silence as Gelaia, Den Ferrand and Den Brennain all tried to edge together, finding themselves unexpectedly surrounded by wizards.

“Three of you.” Gelaia fanned herself rapidly. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“May I make known Velindre Ychane, Allin Mere and Casuel D’Evoir.” Temar bowed to all in turn.

“My duty to you all.” Retreating behind formality seemed to reassure Gelaia a little.

“Our thanks to you, my lady.” Velindre’s smile combined gratitude with considerable charm. “You rescued us from an ugly situation.”

Temar could see both Den Ferrand and Den Brennain bursting with curiosity, but before either could frame a question Velindre stood to knock abruptly on the coach roof. “We needn’t trespass on your hospitality any further. Our lodgings aren’t far and Casuel can escort us.”

He looked as if that was the last thing he wanted to do, but as the coach drew to a smooth halt Den Ferrand and Den Brennain both moved to let him out, smiles politely expectant. Casuel rose to his feet with ill grace, nearly falling over the footman hastily opening the door and letting down the step.

Gelaia looked out of her window. “The other coach is behind us. You two had best see to your sisters, hadn’t you?”

Den Ferrand and Den Brennain both looked as if they would have liked to stay but shared a rueful shrug and followed Velindre out of the coach.

“Call on me later.” Temar caught at Allin’s arm. She nodded, blushing a little as both young noblemen offered her their assistance getting out of the vehicle.

The door closed smartly and the coach resumed its journey. “Are we going back to your residence?” Temar asked.

Gelaia nodded. “I think you’d prefer to tell Esquire Camarl your version of the truth before rumour drops some tattered gossip at his feet.”

“It was hardly my fault. It just all got somewhat out of hand.” Temar disliked the note of childish complaint he heard in his words.

Gelaia was fanning herself again, gripping the handle like a weapon. “If the would-be flunkey with the filthy boots is D’Olbriot’s pet mage, who’s yours? One of the women? The dumpy one?”

Temar tried to identify the emotion threaded through her words, but beyond deciding it wasn’t jealousy he failed. “Neither. I mean, you cannot consider a mage any kind of servant.”

“Which one used magic on me?” Gelaia pulled a loose feather from her fan with a sharp tug.

Temar bit his lip. “I beg your pardon, but that was me.”

Gelaia looked startled. “No one told me you were a mage!”

“I am no wizard.” Temar shook his head. “I simply have a certain facility with minor aetheric enchantments.”

Gelaia looked down at her lap, her hands reducing the stray feather to shreds. She brushed at the fluff with a jerky hand but it clung obstinately to the silk.

Temar searched for something to say. “Do you know this Malafy Skern?”

Gelaia visibly pulled herself together. “Indeed. What of him?”

“You know these arguments persecuting D’Olbriot before the Emperor?” Temar said carefully. “The man seems somehow involved, along with Firon Den Thasnet.”

“It’s entirely possible. Skern always got all the gossip and he knows everyone’s weak points. Firon has got plenty of those, after all.” The uncertainty in Gelaia’s eyes was fading as she found herself on familiar ground.

“Whom does this Skern answer to?” Temar asked.

“The Relict Tor Bezaemar, who else,” shrugged Gelaia. “Pensioned off or not.”

Temar frowned. “But she wishes us nothing but good. She has been helping Avila, making introductions, free with her advice.”

“I’m sure she has.” Gelaia laughed without humour. “You’re the next best thing to a Sieur; she’ll be sweetness from sunrise to sunset as far as you’re concerned.”

“You think otherwise?” hazarded Temar.

“Oh she’s not inclined to cultivate we lesser sprigs of the family trees. She clips us well back if she gets a chance.” Gelaia made a visible effort to seal her lips.

“Go on,” Temar prompted.

“Swear on all that’s holy you’ll not tell?” Gelaia leaned forward, eyes hard.

“May Poldrion loose his demons on me if I break faith.” Temar swore fervently.

“Last summer, Jenty and Kreve Tor Bezaemar got quite fond. He’s the Sieur’s second son and the one being groomed as Designate. That would have been an excellent match for Jenty, no question, but the Relict has other plans for her precious grandson. So she dropped a few hints but Jenty wouldn’t take them, you know what she’s like. Well, take my word for it. Anyway, after the Relict went to her mother, accused her of trying to get Kreve to bed her and get him married that way, Jenty told the old bitch to keep to her kennel.”

Temar winced at the anger in Gelaia’s words. “Which was not wise?”

Gelaia paled and fear tightened her voice. “A few days later, Jenty’s maid was snatched off the Graceway. She was raped in some cellar and dumped in front of the residence at dusk. Now the sworn men on the gate brought her inside before anyone saw, and everyone swore silence, for the girl’s sake as much as anything. But next time Jenty met the Relict, the old dragon was full of sympathy. How could she know, when Jenty had done everything she could to make sure no word got out? Then the Relict just happened to mention, quite in passing, that such a dreadful thing might happen to any young woman if her luck ran out. Take my word for it, that dear old lady has more venom than a pit full of snakes if she’s crossed.”

Temar sat back, not knowing what to say. Would Camarl believe any of this? What did it mean for Kel Ar’Ayen? Did this bring them any closer to recovering the stolen artefacts?

The D’Olbriot Residence Gatehouse,

Summer Solstice Festival, Fourth Day, Evening

Ryshad!”

I turned to see Dalmit hailing me, Tor Kanselin’s man.

“You look like a watchdog on a short chain!” he joked, squinting into the sinking sun.

I smiled without replying. It was fair comment though; I’d been pacing up and down in front of the residence since the bell tower had struck nine chimes and a running stationer who’d tried to interest me in his quills, inks and papers had certainly been mercilessly snapped at. The sworn men were studiously avoiding my eye, and given the way I’d drilled their duty into them through the heat of the day I couldn’t blame them. Stoll was sitting inside the watch room, drawing up a roster with a fine display of attention to detail and disdain for my style of bucking up the recognised. I ignored him; it wasn’t my fault the Sieur’s orders had put his nose out of joint. I’d obeyed those orders, to the full, and now I was waiting for the ten chimes that would see me off watch. Then I’d have to decide whether or not to risk Charoleia’s invitation.

“You’ve slipped your leash, have you?” I walked to meet Dalmit beneath a tall tree. “Have you got time for a glass?”

“I’m on guard tonight.” He shook his head. “Thanks all the same, but I’ll be getting back.”

“What did you find out?” I got straight to the point. “And what do I owe you?”

“A Crown or so should cover it,” he shrugged. “Turns out Tor Bezaemar men passed on that bill of challenge to Jord and Lovis both. Different men, one of the sworn and a proven in from Bremilayne, but they were both spinning the same yarn about knowing for certain you weren’t fit, saying you’re carrying some injury from being taken for a slave last year.”

“And why were they passing this on?” I wondered sarcastically.

“No surprise there.” Dalmit grinned. “Both of them were offering to make a wager if Jord or Lovis would put up half the stake.”

“Going shares in the winnings.” I nodded. We’re not allowed to wager on ourselves in promotion challenges, but there are always ways round such rules.

“So, does that mean anything to you?” Dalmit asked guilelessly.

“Could be something, could be nothing,” I said casually. “It’s worth two Crowns at least, and if anything comes of it I’ll let you know.” I wasn’t going to quibble over coppers and if I could fit this piece into any larger pattern it would do no harm to let Dalmit know which way the wind was veering. “Do you want the coin now?” I gestured up to my window.

Dalmit shook his head. “Tomorrow’s soon enough. I’ve nowhere to spend it tonight, have I?” He waved an informal farewell and began walking back towards Tor Kanselin.