The Warrior's Bond (Einarinn 4) (35 page)

The Imperial Court,

Summer Solstice Festival, Third Day,

Late Morning

Temar shifted on the hard wooden bench. Feeling an ominous twinge of cramp in one calf muscle, he tried to point his toes inside his highly polished boots. The bell behind the screen rang briskly and Den Muret’s advocate sprang to his lectern, clutching yet another parchment with writing faded nigh to invisible. Then a man in scarlet opened the door to the screen hiding the Emperor, exchanging a brief word with the Justiciar who’d administered those meaningless oaths. Temar looked eagerly at this first distraction in he couldn’t recall how long. This man’s robe had black trim to sleeves and hem and a loose cord around the neck rather than the advocates’ circles of braid. Wasn’t that cord made into a noose? No, that couldn’t be right. Temar wondered why these two wore red when everyone else was in grey. What was the Emperor wearing?

Den Muret’s advocate cleared his throat nervously and resumed his rapid mumble. Taking a deep breath, Temar restrained an impulse to rub his eyes and stifled a yawn. Even so vast a room was growing stuffy as the sun rose towards noon outside, and all the doors and windows stayed closed. He tried schooling his face to a bland mask of interest like Camarl’s. Plenty of people in the close-packed gallery were looking his way, some merely curious, some plainly hostile. The Den Murivance girl kept glancing at him, fanning herself thoughtfully. It was a shame he wasn’t sitting next to a girl, Temar thought, to get the benefit of a fan.

A discreet nudge startled Temar out of this inconsequential reverie. Camarl was smiling with rueful amusement, the Sieur turning to look at them with a mingled regret and enjoyment. Temar did his best to match their expressions, wondering what he’d missed. He was lucky to understand one sentence in three, given the pace and fluidity of the advocates’ language.

What had Den Muret’s man done to gratify Camarl and the Sieur? Faint discomfort was plain on more than one Den Rannion face in the far gallery. Temar glanced at their advocate, but the man’s ascetic face was all unreadable bony angles. He sighed softly to himself. He’d never have imagined he could find himself facing Vahil’s family in a court of law, with all these people squabbling over Kel Ar’Ayen like dogs tearing at a fat carcass.

The little bell sounded three sharp notes and everyone in the floor of the court instantly sprang to life, clerks gathering up sheaves of documents, advocates leaning close in urgent conversation. Temar looked down to see Master Burquest walking towards the door, chatting with someone in scarlet robes.

“What is happening?” Temar got hastily to his feet a breath after everyone else.

“The Emperor has called a recess.” Camarl sounded puzzled. “Come on, we need to clear the stairs so everyone else can leave.”

Temar felt annoyed. It was all very well for Camarl, but no one had bothered to tell Temar the rules of this game.

With spectators crowding down from the gallery and clerks still busy around their tables, a considerable press of people were milling around in the floor of the court. Avila was looking pale by the time they had emerged into the anteroom and Temar was ready to curse the next clerk that jostled him.

“This way.” Camarl led them down a narrow corridor lit only by inadequate lancets. Temar felt panic rising in his throat, at the gloom, at the confinement, at the noise echoing incomprehensibly around high-vaulted ceilings. They turned a corner, and to Temar’s inexpressible relief a door at the far end opened on to real sunlight.

“I must have some air.” He walked briskly, heedless of Camarl’s directions to Master Burquest’s chamber, almost running by the time he stepped through the door. Blinking with the shock of the brightness he heaved a huge sigh of relief, leaning against the wall, feeling the heat the grey stone had soaked up all morning on his back.

“Esquire D’Alsennin, isn’t it?”

Temar squinted at a new arrival closing the door carefully behind him. He realised they were in a small courtyard tucked away among the intricacies of the palace buildings. Well, no one was going to stick a blade in him again. Temar’s hand moved instinctively before he remembered he wasn’t wearing his sword.

“Esquire D’Alsennin?” Temar realised the man was wearing an advocate’s robe as yet unadorned with knots or braid. “I’m Mistal, Ryshad’s brother.”

“How do I know that for the truth?” Temar was alert for any sign of hostile intent.

The lawyer looked nonplussed. “Rysh’ll vouch for me.”

“But he is not here,” retorted Temar. “What do you want?”

The man shoved hands into his breeches pockets, bunching his robe inelegantly. “I wondered if you’re going to see Rysh fight. I came to ask if you needed a guide.” Perhaps this man was Ryshad’s brother. There was some resemblance around the eyes, and he certainly had the same irritated forthrightness.

“I would like to support Ryshad,” Temar said slowly.

Mistal nodded at the great bell tower just visible over a floridly curved gable. “If you’re coming, you’d best tell the Sieur D’Olbriot now.”

Temar hesitated. “I am hardly dressed for anything but this charade.”

“I’ll be swapping this for a jerkin.” Mistal grinned, brushing at one front of his gown. “I can lend you something. Now, are you coming or not?”

“The Sieur will be with Master Burquest.” Temar opened the door and wondered where that might be.

“This way.” Mistal slid past him with faint amusement.

The door to the advocate’s chamber stood open. The lawyer was hanging his robe carefully over the back of a chair while Avila sat on a daybed, sipping a glass of straw-coloured wine, her pallor receding. A lad in shirt and breeches handed Camarl and the Sieur full goblets.

“So Premeller reckons he’s a friend of the court now,” Master Burquest mused. “He’s no friend of anyone else’s and, more to the point, he can’t afford to do this for love of justice. Someone’s paying him, and we’d do well to find out who.”

“How are you going to answer these accusations over Artifice?” Messire D’Olbriot demanded.

“To be frank I was hoping to avoid the whole topic.” Burquest looked thoughtful. “Premeller’s little to lose, that’s why he brought it up. Any explanation risks sounding like apology, and whatever we reveal, that’ll just set everyone’s imagination running riot. People will either fear you’ve your finger on excessive powers to rival the worst of the Chaos, or that we’re concealing some underhand means of putting D’Olbriot ahead in any negotiation.”

Avila snorted derisively into her glass as everyone turned at Temar’s arrival.

“The Emperor’s judgement is the most crucial inside the court,” Burquest continued, with a smile at Temar. “But we must also consider the judgement of the people. The nobles and the merchants will be listening to every word and they’re the people you’ll be dealing with every day outside the court.”

“Something to drink, Temar?” Camarl held up a crystal carafe. “The Emperor wishes to break for a meal, so Master Burquest’s clerks will be bringing food.”

“Half a glass, thank you.” Temar filled it to the brim with water. “It would seem this is Ryshad’s brother.” He turned to the young lawyer who was waiting politely in the doorway.

“I recall you visited him at Equinox.” The Sieur held out a hand. “Mistran? No, Mistal, forgive me.”

Mistal bowed over the Sieur’s signet ring. “I’m honoured, Messire.”

“Mistal is going to watch Ryshad meet his challengers at the sword school,” Temar said. “I wish to go, if it can be permitted.” He did his best to imitate the tone his grandsire had always used to quell argument.

Camarl looked inclined to forbid it but stayed silent as the Sieur pursed thoughtful lips. “Burquest, is anyone actually bringing a suit against D’Alsennin?”

“No.” The advocate shook his head. “No one wants to give the Name any hint of validity by doing that.” Burquest chuckled. “Perhaps we should bring some suit in the Name ourselves, just to test the waters.” He nodded to Mistal, who was still waiting with quiet deference. “You’re getting a reputation for quick wits, Tathel. Write me an outline argument for the D’Alsennin’s right to be recognised as Sieur of the Name by the end of tomorrow. We’ll see if we can get something laid before the Court of Prerogative before the close of Festival.”

“Very good, Master Advocate.” Mistal bowed low, but not before Temar saw elation and apprehension chasing across his face.

“It might be as well to have D’Alsennin show his face unaccompanied, Guliel,” Burquest continued thoughtfully. “Show he’s his own man, which is what we need to establish, after all. I don’t suppose he’ll come to harm surrounded by men sworn to you.”

“I wish to support Ryshad,” said Temar rather more forcefully than courteous.

“A valid and worthy aim, my boy,” smiled Burquest. “But there’s no reason your actions can’t serve more than one purpose.”

Avila set down her glass. “Does that mean I can also be spared an afternoon of your eloquence?”

Burquest looked at the Sieur, who shrugged. “It would keep them all guessing if she weren’t there.”

“If you keep talking as if she were not even in the room she might well disappear all together,” snapped Avila.

Messire D’Olbriot had the grace to look abashed. “I beg your pardon. Shall I call for the coach?”

“Thank you.” Avila stood up. “No, continue planning your campaign with your marshal here.” Her tone was sardonic. “These young men can escort me.”

Temar hastily finished his drink as Burquest sent the lad running off with word for the coachman waiting in the stableyard. The half-train of Avila’s dress rustled along the hollowed flagstones as Temar followed her out of the room, falling into step beside Mistal.

Avila turned her head, eyes glacial. “If I wanted pages shadowing me, I would find some pair far better trained than you.” She fixed Mistal with a piercing look. “Look after D’Alsennin, or you’ll have me to reckon with.” She whipped her head round to catch Temar grinning. “And you need not look so pleased with yourself, I could have used your help with that coffer this afternoon. But we owe Ryshad a pledge of support. Keep your wits about you. If I use my Artifice to reach Guinalle about those artefacts, I will not have energy to spare to piece you back together again.”

They reached the main courtyard to find it packed with people.

“Where did everyone come from?” Temar wondered aloud in his bewilderment.

“Court of Prerogative, Court of Estate, Court of Property, Court of Pleas.” Mistal nodded his head at different corners of the courtyard. “The various assizes are held over in the next set of halls, and the Courts of Warrant are beyond that.”

Avila sniffed. “What of a Sieur’s duty to administer justice for his own people?”

“Justice is an imperial obligation nowadays, Demoiselle.” Mistal said politely. “To leave the Sieurs free to manage all their other responsibilities.”

“You seem to have made everything unnecessarily complicated to me,” snapped Avila.

Fortunately the D’Olbriot carriage arrived with commendable promptness. Temar saw relief to mirror his own on Mistal’s face as they watched the driver whip the horses into a brisk trot.

“My mother had an aunt like that,” Mistal remarked with feeling. “We were always glad to see the back of her.”

Loyalty prompted Temar to defend Avila. “The Demoiselle is not so stern when you get to know her.”

“That’s hardly likely. She’s a bit above my rank.” Mistal grinned. “Come on, let’s get rid of these masquerade costumes. I don’t want to miss Rysh’s first challenge.”

“You do not seem overly awed by my rank.” Temar followed Mistal down a dingy alley way.

“You’re different.” Mistal headed for a wooden stair clinging precariously to the side of an old-fashioned building. “You’re a friend of Ryshad’s. Chewing leaf?”

“No, thank you.” Temar waved away the proffered pouch as they climbed weathered steps. “He has spoken of me?”

“Oh, yes.” Mistal rummaged in a pocket for a ring of keys. “Highly, for a wonder.”

Temar found himself smiling with unexpected pleasure as Mistal unlocked a door set in what had plainly been a window frame. The room within was small and oddly shaped where later walls had been built between the vanes of the original wooden vaults. Mistal hung his robe carefully on a hook and then pulled a chest from beneath the narrow bed with its much darned coverlet. “We’d best put your finery out of sight. Ragpickers round here would give their eye teeth to get their hands on that much silk.” He pulled out a pair of dun breeches and a long brown jerkin, throwing them on to an undersized table where stacks of books further reduced the limited surface.

Temar changed, delighted to be free of the constricting coat. Mistal dragged a faded blue jerkin over his own plain breeches and locked Temar’s elegant tailoring and borrowed jewellery safely away. He looked at Temar’s sapphire signet. “What about that ring?”

“This I always wear,” said Temar firmly. “Anyone who wants it is welcome to try taking it.”

“It’s your coin to toss.” Mistal looked a little uncertain.

“Shall we go?” Temar nodded towards the door or window, whichever it was.

“I’m hungry.” Mistal locked his door securely and led Temar down into the street. “Can you eat common food like sausage, Esquire?”

Temar laughed. “I have eaten whatever mercenaries can trap in the woods for the last year. Sausage would be a rare treat.”

“Smoked or plain?” Mistal spat the leaf he’d been chewing into the gutter before crossing the busy road. An old woman sat beneath a rack hung with sausages tied in circles, as wrinkled as if she’d been smoked over a long fire herself.

“Plain.” Temar accepted a plump sausage glistening with oil and bit into it cautiously, rewarded with a pungent mouthful redolent of pepper, savory and rue. “This is what you call plain?”

Mistal paid the woman before tearing a small loaf apart. “You’ve got to have a few spices to liven up a sausage.” He handed Temar half the bread. “Do you like it?”

Temar nodded, mouth full. Mistal’s face cleared and they both ate hungrily as they walked rapidly through the bustling city.