The Warrior's Bond (Einarinn 4) (57 page)

“What would this forfeit be?” Demoiselle Avila demanded curtly.

“Since the days of Tadriol the Staunch’s Maitresse, poetry has been the usual penalty.” Lady Channis waved a hand. “Reciting the first few stanzas of
The Edicts of Perinal the Bold
is a favourite sentence. A serious offence can merit all three verses of
The Death of Decabral the Eager
. If you really tread on someone’s hem, you could find yourself reciting
Drianon’s Hymn to the Harvest
to the entire room.”

“I do not know any of those.” Temar shook his head cautiously.

“Which would make your humiliation complete, would it not?” Avila looked grim as Lady Channis continued.

Movement beside me prompted a glance for Casuel, who was listening avidly. His smugness suggested he knew all the relevant poems and epics. I remembered the mage’s own ambitions to rank. What of other wizards with less narrow preoccupations? What would Planir do to protect his own concerns? How might his actions impact on D’Olbriot? How would Hadrumal seek to influence a quarrel between the Names that ruled the Empire? What could the Emperor do? Nemith the Last and his forebears might have ruled from the ocean to the Great Forest by unquestioned decree, but Emperors in this age have a different notion of justice. I pondered the bits and pieces of legal lore Mistal had bored me with when he’d first started his studies.

That led my thoughts to Hansey and Ridner. It wasn’t only minor Names like Den Veneta who’d suffer once each Name dragged their allies into this struggle. My brothers are D’Olbriot tenants, but they buy their stone from Den Rannion quarries. Skirmishes over goods and services would break out from the Ast Marsh to the Cape of Winds, and people ill fitted to bear the losses would suffer first. I closed my eyes as I sought a way through this maze.

“That’s all we need to know?” Avila’s faint sarcasm roused me from trying to tease out all the potential consequences of a plan irresistibly forming in my mind.

“My thanks, my lady.” Temar shot Avila an unexpected look of reproof.

Avila smoothed her skirts as she rose. “And now I have another chance to see how many different gowns one woman can wear in the same day.”

“May I take a moment of your time?” I stood, hands laced behind my back, formal stance stiffening my resolve.

Lady Channis smiled. “Ryshad?”

I took a deep breath. Some ideas look perfectly convincing inside your own head and then sound like drooling idiocy once you try to explain them.

“We’re sure, aren’t we, that Tor Bezaemar’s the House orchestrating hostility to D’Olbriot and D’Alsennin? But we can’t prove it to the satisfaction of the courts.” I hesitated. “The courts are the formal setting for the Emperor’s justice but his authority as arbiter still applies anywhere, just as it did before the Chaos. Custom demands the Emperor hears every argument before he makes a decree, but there’s nothing binding him to that. Tadriol could simply announce a verdict if he had sufficient weight of evidence to tip the scales.”

“The Emperor’s word was law in our day.” Avila sat down again.

“What if we could prove Tor Bezaemar’s enmity to the Emperor directly?” I looked at Lady Channis. “Tadriol could act in support of D’Olbriot without waiting for the courts to grind every parchment into dust. The longer this quarrel drags on, the worse the consequences for everyone, from noble Names to commonalty. Tadriol is sworn to defend all ranks, isn’t he?”

“He won’t want open strife between D’Olbriot and Tor Bezaemar,” said Lady Channis slowly. “Not if it can be avoided.”

“Would your Houses accept an Imperial decree cutting through all this convoluted argument before the court?” Temar asked Lady Channis hopefully.

“Given the consequences to the minor Houses if Tor Bezaemar and D’Olbriot go for each other’s throats?” She looked pensive. “Most would back an Imperial decree, if only to save their own Names.”

“We know Malafy Skern is still a favoured retainer of the Relict Tor Bezaemar,” I said slowly. “She has to be involved.”

“No one drops a hairpin in that House without her knowing,” Lady Channis agreed.

“What if we could get her to betray what she knows?” I suggested.

“In front of witnesses?” She shook her head. “She’d never do it, and in any case witnesses can always be discredited.”

“What if she didn’t think there were witnesses? What if she were provoked into boasting or threatening?” I persisted. “What if the Emperor heard her for himself?”

Lady Channis looked puzzled. “You plan to provoke her to some indiscretion with the Emperor hiding behind a door like some maid in a bad masquerade?”

“Dirindal is too sharp for that, Rysh,” said Temar, disappointed.

“What if Artifice were prompting her to speak without her usual care?” I tried to ignore the qualms in my belly. “What if she were alone with you, my lady, confident anything you claimed could be denied? There are enough rumours flying around the city; it wouldn’t be unusual for you to discuss them with her?”

“Tor Bezaemar must still think themselves secure,” Temar said unexpectedly. “They have no reason to believe we suspect their malice.”

“They’ll know by the end of the day, if I know Guliel,” said Lady Channis rather sadly.

“Dirindal would be keen to know what the Sieur is thinking,” I suggested.

“If she were annoyed, Artifice would be all the more effective in urging her to speak her mind,” Avila observed.

Lady Channis waved her hands impatiently. “How does it help to have Dirindal admit anything to me, however incriminating? It would be my word against hers, and I’m hardly an impartial witness.”

“The Emperor could see and hear it all if a mage worked the right magics,” I told her. “Dirindal would never know.”

Lady Channis gaped at me.

“Scrying is mere sight without sound.” Casuel was frowning in thought. “It could be done with bespeaking, but you’d need another mage with her ladyship as well as one with the Emperor.”

“We’ve Allin and Velindre to call on,” I pointed out. “Either or both could help. Planir won’t disagree, if it means we can head off this strife.”

“I would have to be close at hand, to work the Artifice on Dirindal,” said Avila slowly.

“Dirindal will never betray herself in front of three witnesses,” said Lady Channis flatly.

“Couldn’t you be in the next room, Demoiselle?” I persisted. “Out of sight?”

Avila thought for a moment. “Yes, I believe so. Master Mage?”

Casuel nodded eagerly. “A short distance would be no hindrance.”

Lady Channis shook her head in disbelief. “It’s a fascinating fancy, Ryshad, but it’s completely irrational. How could we ever do it? Dirindal will suspect eyes and ears behind every curtain and closed door if she comes here, and I’m certainly not going to Tor Bezaemar’s residence. I’d be seen, and when word gets out of hostility between the Houses that would prompt all manner of rumours weakening Guliel.”

“Can’t you meet on neutral ground?” Temar asked impatiently.

“A dressmakers?” suggested Casuel hopefully. “A jewellers?”

“Such people come to us, Master Devoir, we don’t travel to them.” Lady Channis’s words were kindly meant but Casuel still blushed to the roots of his hair.

I cast my mind back to my early sworn days attending the minor Demoiselles of the House. Where had they gone to gossip free from the discreet supervision of their elders? “A feather merchant?”

“That’s believable, at least.” Lady Channis smiled wryly. “The cursed things come to grief so easily, we’re always buying them at the last minute.”

“And even Maitresses of a Name have to go to the merchants, since none of them will risk hawking such fragile and precious wares from residence to residence,” I nodded.

“Is there a feather merchant where Dirindal would meet you?” Temar demanded of Channis.

“Masters Anhash and Norn,” Lady Channis replied with a mocking tone. “Simply the only place for plumes this Festival, my child.” Faint optimism sounded in her voice for the first time. “Where every noble customer is shown the choicest selection in a private room.”

“It has to be worth trying,” I urged. “Outright enmity between D’Olbriot and Tor Bezaemar will serve no one.”

“True,” agreed Lady Channis. “But if we’re to try this madness, we’ve precious little time. Battle lines between the Houses will be drawn by nightfall.”

“Then send the Relict Tor Bezaemar some message enticing her to meet you at once, my lady.” I ticked off points on my fingers. “We need you, Avila and Velindre at the feather merchant’s before Dirindal arrives. Then we three need to convince the Emperor to listen to us.” I looked at Casuel, whose face was a potent mix of eagerness and apprehension. “And we need some way of knowing when exactly Casuel needs to work his magic”

“Allin could send word,” suggested Temar.

“I can’t see you getting an audience with Tadriol, a scant half-morning before the biggest social event of Festival.” Lady Channis wasn’t trying to make difficulties, but that was true.

I looked at Temar. “You’ve not met the Emperor yet, have you? This isn’t the ideal time, but I don’t suppose anyone will gainsay you if you ask to introduce yourself. I’m sure you could claim a Sieur’s right of immediate access to the Imperial presence.”

Lady Channis was crossing the room to an open writing case laid on a side table. “You could cite that before the courts later on, if the Palace acknowledges you as such.”

“If that is what we need to do, to get before Tadriol, that he may see the magic’ Temar was looking nervous. “But you will explain it all, Ryshad, when we see Tadriol. This is your idea after all.”

“He hasn’t the rank to propose something like this to the Emperor!” Casuel was appalled.

“And he’s sworn to D’Olbriot,” Lady Channis was writing rapidly. “You owe no allegiance, Temar, for all your close ties with the House.” She sealed her note with perfumed wax.

“You’re defending your own Name and your people in Kellarin,” I reminded Temar. “The Emperor will respect that far more than any claim I might make to disinterest. We’ll both be there to back you up, but you have to be the one doing the talking.”

“You do realise Dirindal may not come?” Lady Channis looked up. “If she does, she may have nothing to say but platitudes and nonsense. You risk looking an utter fool, you do know that?”

“Compared to the risks we’ve run over the last few days, my lady, I think we can take this chance,” I assured her.

The Imperial Palace of Tadriol the Provident,

Summer Solstice Festival, Fifth Day,

Late Morning

Cheer up, the worst they can do is refuse to let us in.”

Temar tried to smile at Ryshad’s attempt at reassurance but saw the doubt shadowing the older man’s eyes.

“With you so impressive in your livery and me in all this finery?” he retorted with considerably more bravado than he felt. “Never fear, I do not intend returning to Avila with my tail between my legs.”

“All we need now is Cas,” Ryshad muttered. The carriage halted with a lurch that redoubled the nervousness plaguing Temar’s stomach. What if the mage was delayed? What if he’d been unable to find Allin and Velindre?

“So this is the Imperial Palace,” Temar said softly as he stepped down from the carriage. It was a fair cry from the robust fortress Nemith and his forebears had held in trust as a last bulwark of noble power. Waist-high walls meant every passer-by could see the extensive gardens, though the narrow spaced railings were topped with vicious spikes curved in outward-facing claws. A small gatehouse of brilliant white stone gave a small detachment of liveried men-at-arms some shade from the sun hammering down from a cloudless sky. They were the only people in view.

“Where is everyone?” Temar asked, bemused. “Do Tor Tadriol not gather as a family for Festival?”

“Not here they don’t. This place is purely ceremonial. Their residence is over beyond the Saerlmar.” Ryshad fell into step a pace behind Temar. “Remember, you’re not asking the guard to let you pass. You’re telling him you’re going in.”

“Not without Casuel,” retorted Temar. About to wipe sweaty palms on the skirts of his coat, he realised that would mark the silk and reached for a kerchief. “Where is he?”

“Over there.” Ryshad sounded relieved but Temar silently cursed the mage. If he had a little longer perhaps he could prepare himself a little more. “What in the name of all that’s holy is the fool wearing?”

Ryshad disconcerted did nothing to soothe Temar’s qualms but the sight of Casuel in a long gold-brocaded brown robe raised a reluctant smile. “That is the style the mages of Hadrumal wear, I believe, when they feel the need for ceremony.”

“It’s the style everyone’s great-grandsire wore on his deathbed hereabouts,” muttered Ryshad. “Oh well, it’ll distract the guard if nothing else.”

Casuel was walking rather too fast for the length of his garment, the cloth catching around his knees and ankles. “Are we ready?”

“You tell me,” Temar demanded in sharper tones than he’d intended.

“Lady Channis and Demoiselle Tor Arrial are at the feather merchant’s,” Casuel confirmed hastily. “Velindre and Allin are on their way, and Allin will send word as soon as the Relict arrives. If she arrives.”

“Lady Channis seemed certain she would,” Ryshad reminded the wizard.

“I wonder what was in that note.” Realising the mage was even more nervous than he was put perverse heart into Temar. “You look very formal.”

“Velindre suggested people will take us more seriously if I reminded them I’ve the power of Hadrumal behind me,” Casuel said with a sickly smile that soon faded. “I’m sure she’ll claim the credit for this with Planir, if it works. You’ll put him right, won’t you?”

Temar stifled a curt response. “What now, Ryshad?”

“We have to be with the Emperor when we get Allin’s message,” the chosen man frowned. “It won’t take the Relict long to get to the feather merchant, and we can’t risk not hearing all the conversation.”

Temar saw the others were both looking expectantly at him. “What do I say to the guards?”