The Warrior's Bond (Einarinn 4) (51 page)

As he did so a coach passed him, D’Olbriot’s insignia on the door panel. I drew myself up smartly with all the other men on watch. The footman jumped down with alacrity but Esquire Camarl was already opening the door, getting down almost before the footman had the step unfolded. The Esquire barely turned his head to address me. “Have my uncles all arrived by now?”

“Yes, Esquire,” I bowed. “They’re with the Sieur.”

Camarl nodded and walked rapidly towards the residence, round face uncharacteristically hard.

I looked at Temar, who was looking a little shame-faced, unbuttoning his formal coat by way of pretext to let Camarl get ahead of him.

“What did you do?” I asked. “Step on some girl’s hem and bring her skirts down round her ankles?”

Temar laughed. “That would not have been so bad.” He looked meaningfully at me. “Shall we take a glass of wine?”

“Upstairs?” I led him through the watch room, ignoring the questioning look Stoll shot me behind Temar’s back.

“Do you really want wine?” I ushered him into the narrow room that was a privilege of my new rank. “I’ll have to send one of the lads if you do.”

Temar shook his head as he sat on the bed. “Not on my account.”

“So what’s so urgent? Why’s Esquire Camarl crosser than an ass with a wasp up his tail?” I took the stool by the window, scratching absently at the pinpricks left by the stitches in my arm.

“I talked Gelaia and some others into going to see some supposed mage doing tricks.” Temar looked unrepentant.

“The Sieur certainly wants you and Gelaia to be friends, if not more.” I frowned. “I don’t necessarily see the harm; plenty of nobles go to see such things.”

“My only interest was meeting Allin there,” Temar explained frankly. “I had an answer from her this morning, saying she and Velindre would be watching this man’s display. I had no chance to tell you before we went to Den Murivance.” Temar scratched his head. “There was more than a little trouble. The man was no mage but some mountebank doing a spectacularly dangerous rope trick. He fell and Master Casuel had to save him.”

“Bad luck follows Cas like the reek on old fish.” I was puzzled. “What was he doing there?”

“In a moment.” Temar sighed. “Casuel plainly used magic to save the fellow from death, but the knaves with him immediately claimed it was Devoir’s wizardry had caused their own man to fail. They began demanding money, nigh on turning the crowd on us.”

“Did they recognise you?” I snorted as Temar nodded. “That kind never miss a trick?”

“Gelaia had to rescue us from the mob.” Temar sighed. “Camarl has been telling me all the way back what a meal the broadsheets and gossips will make of it.”

“D’Alsennin and D’Olbriot publicly tied to arrogant wizards hurling careless magic round the city?” I winced. “Perhaps, for a day or so, but today’s broadsheets are tomorrow’s privy paper, aren’t they? It’s the Emperor’s dance tomorrow, and most of the Houses will be opening their gates to their tenants and the commonalty. Last day of Festival always turns up something to tempt the scandalmongers, so I don’t suppose you’ll be the tastiest tittle-tattle for long.” I tried to sound encouraging.

“I hope so.” Temar sounded glum.

“Was Gelaia cross?” Had that pretty face worked its charm on Temar’s susceptibilities?

“More unnerved than cross.” Temar leaned back against the wall. “I had to use Artifice to make Gelaia hear me and then Velindre used some magic of her own to clear a path through the crowd. I think Gelaia suspects any alliance with D’Alsennin will leave her hemmed in by sorcery on all sides.” He sounded more sarcastic than regretful so at least I didn’t think he’d be breaking his heart over Gelaia.

A question prodded me. “Did you get a chance to ask Allin or Velindre if they could help?”

“It seems not, sadly.” Temar sighed.

As he spoke ten chimes began sounding above us, the signal for the end of the day. I rose to my feet. “Then if you’ll excuse me I’ll go and see this friend of Livak’s, the one with a finger on the darker pulses of our fair city. I might just learn something useful.”

Temar pushed himself up. “Let me get my sword.”

“Oh no,” I disagreed. “You’re committed to dine with Den Castevin.”

“To what purpose?” Temar’s lip curled. “Esquire Camarl will be talking, dealing, explaining. All I will do is to smile, look pleasant and make polite conversation.”

“Which reassures the nobility that they’re being asked to deal with one of their own in Kellarin,” I pointed out. “Proving you’re not some grubby-handed mercenary or worse. Not turning up is an insult you don’t want to give lightly.”

“I would not know any Den Castevin if I tripped over one in the street.” Emotion clipped Temar’s words. “The people whose lives depend on those artefacts are my friends, my tenants, my responsibility.”

“Which means they need you to look after their longer-term interests by not giving unnecessary offence.” I ushered him down the stairs again.

Temar glanced at the steps to the cellars as we walked through the watch room. “Did Avila learn anything more from the thief?”

“She hasn’t had a chance to try. As soon as she came out of the library Lady Channis whisked her away for a full day’s engagements with Tor Arrial.” I tried to hide my relief; I still didn’t think I could stand and watch a man undergoing such assault. “Then they were going on to Tor Bezaemar, for tisanes with the Relict before coming back here to change for dinner.”

“Dirindal?” Temar’s eyes were icily intent.

“You sound like you smell rats in the granary,” I commented quietly.

“What do you know of Tor Bezaemar?” Temar demanded, drawing a little way into the gardens, beyond the curious ears in the gate arch. “Has that House any reason to bear a grudge against D’Olbriot?”

“You want Cas for this, not me.” I rubbed a hand round the back of my neck. “It’s no secret Tor Bezaemar took losing the Imperial throne hard, but that was nigh on a generation ago. Messire backed Tadriol the Prudent from the first, I remember that.” I thought back to my early days in D’Olbriot’s service. “There was some talk about Sarens Tor Bezaemar putting himself forward, but with so many Names following D’Olbriot’s lead it never came to anything.”

“Sarens was the Relict’s husband?”

“The Sieur as was,” I confirmed.

Temar scowled. “The reason Casuel was on hand to save the rope trickster was he had followed Firon Den Thasnet only to see him meet a man whom Gelaia tells me still answers to Dirindal, for all he has been pensioned off. Casuel was following this man who was talking to some of the other nobles come for the spectacle.”

“Anyone in particular?” I asked, my own hackles rising in response to Temar’s tension.

“Den Rannion’s third son, for one.” Temar spat.

“You didn’t arouse any suspicion?” I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth.

“Hardly,” said Temar scornfully. “I can ask all the stupid questions I want; everyone expects me to be ignorant of everything and everyone. But Saedrin be my witness, I swear this man is Dirindal’s ears and eyes.”

“And he was seen with Firon Den Thasnet?” Perhaps there was a larger pattern to fit Dalmit’s seemingly innocent news. “It could still be nothing, Temar. We’d best wait until we can get a full tale from Casuel. Where is he?”

“Velindre wanted him.” Temar dismissed the mage with a gesture. “What if Tor Bezaemar are part of this hostility? Gelaia was telling me the charming Relict can show a very different face if she is crossed, even vicious if it serves her turn.”

“How so?” I asked.

Temar shook his head. “It is another’s secret. I swore I would not tell.”

I opened my mouth and then shut it again. Trying to get Temar to break his word belittled us both. “Did you tell Esquire Camarl about this? Is there any way we can send word to warn Demoiselle Avila?”

“We can let her know to be on her guard as soon as she returns.” Temar looked through the postern at the long shadows and the splendid sunset beyond. “She cannot be much longer, she is due to dine with Den Castevin with me.”

“I wonder if she learned anything useful from Guinalle. You can tell me when I get back.” I was ready to go, Charoleia’s letter tucked in the breast of my jerkin, my sword waiting in the gatehouse.

“Avila can make my excuses to Den Castevin—” Temar began.

“Messire will have my hide—”

“Ryshad!” Stolley was beckoning by the postern, a figure beyond him indistinct against the darkening rose and gold of the sky.

I hurried over. “Yes?”

“Message for you.” Stolley moved aside to let the newcomer enter. It was Eadit, Charoleia’s Lescari-bred lad.

I picked up my sword from its peg inside the watch room door. “Outside.” We stepped out through the gate to lose ourselves in the shadows under the trees. Temar came too, but short of slamming the postern in his face I couldn’t think of a way to stop him.

“I thought I was to call on your mistress?” I queried Eadit.

“Some news came that changed her plans.” His eyes sparkled. “I’ll take you to her.”

“Is this something to do with the matter I raised with her this morning?” I wasn’t sure how much Charoleia was in the habit of confiding to this boy.

He grinned. “She’s run your quarry to ground for you and she’s watching the earth as we speak.”

“Then I most assuredly will come with you,” Temar insisted.

“No,” I told him, exasperated.

“I come with you or I follow you,” he told me bluntly. “Or will you tell Master Stolley to chain me alongside the thief? Nothing less will stop me!”

“It’d serve you right if I did,” I said grimly. But then I’d have to explain to Stoll where I was going and why Temar couldn’t come too. Then I’d have Stoll rousing half the barracks to back me. He wouldn’t miss a chance to succeed where Naer had failed and redeem himself in the Sieur’s eyes.

“We should go,” Eadit said, looking uncertainly between us.

And bringing half a Cohort down on her wouldn’t endear me to Charoleia either, not when she’d been so insistent on the need for discretion. Stoll would certainly want to know where I’d got my information, him and Messire.

“All right, you can come,” I told Temar. “Go and get a sword from Stolley. Look haughty enough so he won’t ask you why you want it. But you do exactly as I say, you hear? If that means hiding under a barrel until all the fighting stops, you do it, understand me?”

“Of course.” He was as eager as a child promised an evening at the puppet shows.

“The Sieur’ll wipe that smile off your face,” I warned him. “He’ll be furious when we own up to this.”

“We had best make sure we have something to show for it,” Temar replied. “Success can gild the most brazen act, after all.”

“I don’t know about that,” I muttered as I watched him go back to the gatehouse. As soon as he reappeared we followed Eadit down the road.

He paused by the conduit house. “Got your purse, chosen man?”

As I nodded, he flagged down a hireling gig and we all climbed in. “Where to?”

“The shrine to Drianon down this end of the Habbitrot,” Eadit told the driver.

“Is that not—”

Eadit shot Temar an angry look and I silenced him with a sharp nudge. We all sat mute and expectant as the gig took us to that uncomfortable quarter between the southern docks and the lowest of the springs. A great swathe of the city is given over to making cloth hereabouts, dyeing it, printing it, cutting and sewing. Over to the east, where the land begins to rise again, pattern drawers and silk ribbon weavers live in comfort and prosperity. Down in the hollow where damp leaches up from hidden streams, women go blind knitting coarse stockings by firelight while their men search the refuse of the rich, knifing each other over bones to sell for bookbinders’ glue or rag for the paper mills. The Habbitrot is the main road cutting through the squalor and I noted the Valiant Flag as we passed. Quite some distance past, Eadit turned to our driver. “Anywhere here, thanks.”

I paid the man off and we watched him whip his horse into a brisk trot to get them both back to safer streets unmolested.

“Down here.” Eadit led us down a rutted lane, the summer-parched earth beaten hard underfoot, which was one blessing. Identical row houses faced each other, doors and windows cramped together beneath an unbroken roof ridge, all built many generations since by landowners eager to cram as many households as possible on to the smallest piece of land.

The lad moved confidently, gaze flickering constantly from side to side, lingering on any shadow that might conceal an unexpected threat.

“Parnilesse or Carluse?” I asked him suddenly. That was the most recent fighting that would have offered a lad like him the chance to serve with a mercenary corps.

“Parnilesse, up near the Draximal border. Where my people are from.” Disillusion clouded Eadit’s eyes so I didn’t pursue the matter. As long as I was sure he knew which end of a sword has a point, I was content. He turned into an irregular yard between two terraces, the gates open and ready.

“Good evening, Ryshad.” Charoleia was sitting in a shiny gig, an elegant bay horse idly chewing in its nosebag.

My blood ran cold at the thought of such a beauty waiting alone out here, with a horse worth more coin than the wretches round here would handle in a lifetime. Then I remembered how Livak had admired Charoleia’s ability to take care of herself, and I’d met proven men more apt to need rescuing than my beloved. “I thought I was to call on you.”

“I decided to save time.” She tilted her head. “There’s chatter running all along the gutters about this theft, given your Sieur’s going to stretch the man’s neck on the strength of it. The braver scum are egging each other on to try stealing a little magical power for themselves, the cowards just want to get their hands on the gold and melt everything down.”

Temar made a retching sound beside me.

“Fortunately, none of them know where to go sniffing for it, as yet.” Charoleia gestured casually with her whip. “I, on the other hand, do. It’s all a matter of knowing whom to ask for what.” Her voice turned serious. “When this is done, you’ll both owe me, and I don’t mean just a card to the Emperor’s dance, Ryshad.”