The Warrior's Bond (Einarinn 4) (61 page)

That thought prompted me to look out of our coach window for Tor Bezaemar, Den Thasnet or Den Muret crests on passing door panels.

“Why do you suppose D’Olbriot sent us on in a separate coach?” Temar fussed with his shirt collar again, linen creamy against the dark blue of his coat and breeches.

“To remind people you’ve your own claim to rank?” I hazarded. I hadn’t a clue what the Sieur was thinking. He’d accepted the startling news that the wizards were to come to the dance with bland equanimity and made no comment at all on our unexpected, unsanctioned absence for so much of the morning.

“You think cheap theatrics will convince anyone?” Avila sniffed. “We’ve been dancing to D’Olbriot’s tune this whole Festival, and everyone knows it.”

The carriage jounced as the gate opened for us and the horses trotted in. As we drew up before the shallow stairs, Tor Tadriol lackeys were already opening the white double doors. I jumped down to offer Avila my arm.

She descended with slow dignity and paused to arrange her skirts as Temar disdained the footman’s offer of help. “Where now, Ryshad?”

“Perhaps we should wait a moment.” I indicated the Sieur’s carriage following us through the gates. As the driver pulled up his horses Messire was the first out of the door, splendid in peacock green brocade catching every eye in the sunlight. His brother Leishal, his son Myred and nephew Camarl were all dressed in the same cloth, cut in subtly different styles as befitted their ages and rank, an impressive statement of united D’Olbriot power and influence. Between them they wore an Emperor’s ransom in emeralds.

Lady Channis’s carriage drew up behind, the Den Veneta crest of arrows proud on the door. Resplendent in crimson silk overlaid with pale rose lace, she escorted a posy of the most eligible Demoiselles honouring the D’Olbriot name, the girls dressed in all the colours of a flower garden. Anyone doubting my lady’s role in the House was plainly advised to think again. Ustian and Fresil followed in an open coach, preening themselves in the same peacock brocade.

As the carriages moved slowly round to the far gate, a smaller, uncrested coach was ushered in with scant ceremony. Casuel got out, stumbling awkwardly as he trod on the hem of his gold-brocaded robe. Velindre followed with easy grace, her undressed blonde hair striking among the intricate black and brunette coiffures. Her unadorned dove grey dress struck a muted note among the bolder colours all around but style and cloth were impeccable. I looked more closely.

“I see you have a good eye for a dress, Ryshad,” Avila remarked. “Few men look at more than the seamstress’s sums. Yes, it is the one I wore to Tor Kanselin. If Guliel’s going to waste his gold buying me three changes of clothes for every day of Festival, someone might as well get the wear out of them.” She was plainly annoyed about something or someone but I couldn’t be sure who or why.

The Sieur was greeting Lady Channis, embracing her with a fond kiss that won appreciative whistles from the watching crowd. As she took his arm the rest of the family paired off in practised fashion.

He nodded to Temar. “If you and the Demoiselle Tor Arrial are ready?”

Temar offered Avila his arm with old-fashioned formality and she accepted with a glint in her eye. Seeing Casuel dithering over whether to escort Velindre or Allin, I bowed to Temar and to Messire and went down the steps.

“My lady mage, may I have the honour of escorting you?” Allin was holding herself with self-possession so rigid I wondered if she was breathing. I winked at her and she relaxed enough to give me a little smile. That was a relief; I didn’t want her fainting on me.

“Come on, Cas.” Velindre slipped her arm through his and it was hard to say who escorted whom up the wide stone stair.

“That’s a very elegant dress,” I remarked to Allin as we waited for the chamberlain at the door to admit each couple. The watered damson silk flattered her mousy colouring, and with luck wouldn’t clash too badly with her inevitable blushes.

Innocent delight lent an unexpected appeal to her plain face. “Demoiselle Avila had the maids turning out every wardrobe in the residence until they found something to fit me.”

I looked at the assembled ladies of the Name. The gown had probably come from Demoiselle Ticarie’s closets, given the expert cut to disguise a short-coupled figure. Allin was lucky D’Olbriot ladies didn’t run to height like Den Hefeken or willowy girls like Tor Kanselin.

“Your cards, my lady, my master.” We showed the chamberlain the folded pasteboard we each wore tied to our wrists and were duly ushered into a stylish salon.

“This is very impressive,” said Allin in faint tones.

“They say the floor’s inlaid with wood traded from every corner of the Old Empire and the Archipelago,” I told her with a friendly smile.

The floor’s pattern of circles and arcs was nicely balanced between rational restraint and exuberant display. Not that we could see much of it between the skirts and soft dancing shoes of the assembled nobles. The walls showed the same transition between older extravagance and later restraint, single fronds and blossoms moulded in the plaster rather than the intricate swags and garlands of an earlier age but still bright with gold leaf burnished to a delicate sheen. Vast double doors in the far wall would open in turn to the Imperial ballroom when Tadriol was ready to welcome his peers.

Temar had stopped to look up at the ceiling, heedless of people coming in after us. Plaster panels high above our heads were painted with the finest interpretations of ancient legends that the artists of the day had been able to offer the first Tadriol. In the corners, Dastennin with his crown of seaweed and shells was pouring out the seas between this realm and the Otherworld, while opposite Halcarion hung the moons in the sky before setting her diadem of stars to brighten the darkness. The animals of plain and forest knelt before Talagrin, garlanded with autumn leaves. Drianon, a sheaf of wheat in one arm, was bringing trees into blossom with a sweep of her other hand, while flowers bloomed in her footsteps.

Between each of these scenes other gods traversed the twin realms of existence in delicately painted ovals. Arimelin spun the dreams that might reach this world from the Other, Trimon raised his harp with music to echo through the Shades and beyond while Larasion summoned the wind and weather that knows no boundaries. On the one hand Ostrin healed the sick whose time to leave this realm was not yet come, and on the other he welcomed those about to be newly born, handing them the cup of wine that would wipe away any memory of their sojourn in the Otherworld.

“Impressive but none too subtle,” remarked Velindre, sardonic eyes on the centre panel, where the circle of Saedrin with his keys, Raeponin with his scales and Poldrion with his ferry pole stood equal in their authority. Lesser figures ringed the gods, echoing their stance and archaic dress.

“Are those actual portaits?” Avila studied the distant figures.

“Of the Sieurs of the day,” I confirmed.

“Do you suppose they remembered Saedrin’s grant of rank brought them duty as well as privilege?” Temar speculated pointedly.

“Shall we move on?” I suggested. “We’re blocking the doorway.”

The large room was already crowded; Messire invariably timed his arrival to impress the greatest number of people while spending the least time possible in idle chatter before any festivities commenced.

“Are you committed to any dances?” Allin was nervously fingering her own card.

I shook my head. “It’s not really customary for chosen men.” But I wasn’t the only one wearing livery. There were a few proven here and there, moving with easy familiarity among the nobles, well-dressed wives on their arms. I tried to imagine Livak making polite conversation about the latest Toremal gossip while I discussed some question of trade or dispute at the Sieur’s bidding.

“Why does the Emperor want us here?” Allin wondered aloud.

“A very good question,” I agreed. This really wasn’t my place, was it? I’d taken my turn outside the doors as part of a Duty Cohort when the honour and burden of keeping the Festival peace fell to D’Olbriot, but I’d never expected to be a guest inside.

“Temar’s not going to lack for partners.” Allin sounded resigned. D’Alsennin was with Camarl by a side-table where ink and pens were laid out. Several D’Olbriot Demoiselles were noting their initials on his card and inviting him to return the compliment. A lackey hovered close by with an anxious eye.

Allin fiddled with her dance card. I saw faint regret on her round face. “Do you like to dance?”

“Yes,” she admitted, round face colouring a little. “That is, I used to, back home.”

“Don’t wizards dance in Hadrumal?” I’d never really thought much about how mages might enjoy themselves.

“Sometimes,” Allin replied. “But there are precious few musicians, and most wizards dance as if they’d their boots on the wrong feet.”

“It’s one of the things that make a mage-born army an impossibility.” Velindre came up on my other side, her clear tones cutting through the well-bred murmur. “Nine out of ten wizards seem incapable of holding a beat so they’d never be able to march in step.”

I smiled at her wry tone but dubious expressions around us suggested few others appreciated the joke.

“Planir, as you might expect, is remarkably light of foot and dances a very pretty measure,” Velindre continued, with unmistakable sarcasm. “But then, he’s so often the wizard that tests the rule.”

“You think rules should be observed?” I queried. “Weren’t you Otrick’s pupil? He bends rules until they splinter.”

Velindre’s face hardened into unflattering angles. “At least those rules were the same for everyone, not one set for Planir and his cronies and another for the rest of us.”

“Have you any news of Otrick?” Allin peered round me with wide, anxious eyes.

“No.” Fleeting brilliance rose and vanished in Velindre’s hazel eyes. “And it’s time Planir faced up to the truth. He cannot use this Kellarin business as the excuse for continually ignoring Hadrumal’s concerns.”

“There’s Casuel.” Allin seemed more concerned with matters in hand than quarrels in distant Hadrumal.

The mage was edging his way apologetically through the crowd, clutching his card in one sweaty hand. “Has anyone asked either of you to dance?”

“Are you offering?” Velindre smiled innocently.

Casuel hesitated just a breath too long. “Naturally, if you would do me the honour. Who else has asked you? Of what rank?”

Velindre showed him her unmarked card. “You have your choice of dances, Cas.”

He frowned. “Do you think Esquire Camarl would agree to me asking some of the ladies from the lesser families? From cadet blood lines?” The wizard looked around the crowded room. “Where is he?”

I scanned the throng but couldn’t see Esquire Camarl at all. What I could see were unmistakable knots of allied families. Firon Den Thasnet was standing with two Den Muret Demoiselles while his sister hung on the arm of the Sieur Den Rannion’s youngest brother. Close by the Sieur Tor Sylarre was smiling as he chatted with an elder Esquire Den Muret. Even given the increasing press of people, they were keeping an emphatic space between themselves and Gelaia Den Murivance as she laughed with her brother Maren and Jenty Tor Sauzet. Further round the room Orilan Den Hefeken was talking to her affianced Esquire Den Risiper, other Esquires of both houses agreeing dances with a knot of minor Den Ferrand and Den Gennael girls. Beyond the stony-faced Sieur Tor Priminale stood with his extensive array of cousins in an unapproachable circle.

As I watched, a lackey in palace colours came up to whisper politely to the Sieur Tor Sylarre. A lifetime’s training kept the Sieur’s face impassive but he bid an immediate farewell to Den Muret and followed the lackey through a discreet door on the far side of the wide salon.

Temar came over, waving his dance card to dry the writing. “Be careful not to brush against my leg, ladies,” he said breezily. “Some clumsy girl has just spilt ink down me. I believe her badge was Tor Priminale.” Anger showed momentarily beneath his light words.

I looked at the barely visible dampness on his dark blue breeches. “Fortunate that the Sieur suggested that colour.”

“Quite so,” smiled Temar thinly. “Sadly, the Demoiselle’s pretty orange feathers are now an unappealing brown. What might that signify in this complicated code these girls have concocted?”

I grinned at him. “I hate to think.”

“Where does that lead?” Temar nodded towards the door Tor Sylarre had disappeared through.

“It goes round to the throne room,” I replied.

“Esquire Camarl and the Sieur were summoned as soon as they arrived.” Temar and I exchanged a speculative look.

“When’s this dance going to begin?” Casuel demanded crossly. “It’s unbearably hot.” He fidgeted with the fronts of his heavy robe.

“Just be grateful this isn’t an evening dance,” I told him. “Add the heat of candles and we’d be melting faster than the beeswax.”

The salon ran the full width of the palace but even with upper windows open to breezes too high to disturb the ladies’ elegant hair, the temperature was rising fast.

“We could work a little judicious magic, Cas,” Velindre remarked. “I can start some air moving, and drawing the heat away would be a good exercise for Allin’s fire affinity.”

“We can’t use magic here.” Casuel was horrified. “Not without the Emperor’s permission.”

“We could ask him. Where is he?” At that moment, the brass-ornamented doors into the ballroom swung open and people spilled gratefully into the cooler space. Velindre looked into the ballroom as the crush in the anteroom cleared. “Isn’t your Emperor supposed to be receiving people?”

“The Sieur Tor Arrial’s just been sent for.” Temar was still looking at the single doorway where a lackey now stood unobtrusive guard.

That prompted me to look for Avila and I soon saw her with the Maitresse Tor Arrial. The Maitresse’s brother, Esquire Den Harkeil, was writing on Avila’s dance card with a smile that was positively flirtatious.

“I am glad to see someone is enjoying the day,” remarked Temar rather tightly as he followed my gaze.