The Warrior's Bond

Preface to the Chronicle of D’Olbriot,

As Recorded on the Authority of Maitresse

Sancaerise, Winter Solstice of the 9th Year of

Aleonne the Valiant

It falls to me to give this testimony to the year now past in the absence of my beloved husband, Sieur Epinal, and with his Designate, his brother Esquire Ustin, incapacitated by wounds received in battle. It is my sorrowful duty to record that the surgeons now despair of his recovery. On behalf of all the women of the House, I beseech Drianon to watch over our sons and grandsons, brothers and nephews as they take up their swords to repel the Lescari from our borders as a new year of struggle opens.

None could argue with the Emperor’s decree that all those under arms remain in their camps through the Festival. Aleonne has truly won his epithet of Valiant and vindicated time and again the trust of those who saw in him the military leader Tormalin so desperately needed. After the treacherous attacks launched by Parnilesse at Autumn Equinox, in direct spite of agreed truce, Winter Solstice celebrations in Toremal have been accordingly muted. I am pleased to report no word as yet of any such perfidy and the Imperial Despatch continues to bring regular reports from the battle lines, so we need not lament the uncertainty of silence.

The common purpose that unites us in these dark days perversely served to give those of us here a Festival of considerable harmony. When the coarsening effect of soldiering has of late been apt to give the court a masculine and oftimes uncouth atmosphere, so we ladies were pleasantly surprised to find ourselves in the ascendant with so many men away serving with the Cohorts. We were able to restore our spirits somewhat with peaceable diversions of music and dance.

As we remember Poldrion’s care of the dead at this season, let us be thankful D’Olbriot and the House of my birth, Den Murivance, have suffered such minor losses compared to some Houses. The twin scourges of war and camp fever have reduced Den Parisot to such a pass that the Name may never recover. On the other side of the scales, the year has seen two more Houses ennobled, by letters patent sent by Aleonne the Valiant with the endorsement of those Princes serving in the field, for the confirmation by those Sieurs remaining to gather in Convocation.

The only Sieur to declare against the proposals was Tor Correl, but that was to be expected and no one took any heed of his vicious insults to the Emperor. I confess myself amazed that the foolish old man sustains such malice and that the men of the Name do nothing to force him to stand down. It is ten full years after his abortive attempt to snatch the throne by force of arms was so comprehensively rebuffed. That Sieur’s continued claims to primacy solely based on ancestral military skills in legendary eras merely make his Name ridiculous. A House already so damaged and even stripped of its right to train men in arms cannot afford further injury.

I have paid my respects to the newly created Maitresse Den Viorel and the Sieur Den Haurient and find both worthy of rank and privilege. In this darkness that surrounds us, let us find some consolation in the way bright courage is bringing new Names to the fore. Let us hope that the Emperor’s belief in rewarding military merit, be it from never so lowly a station, will be vindicated with rapid victories and surcease from this suppurating war.

I find it perplexing that the financial records of the House show a far healthier situation than I might have expected. While the warfare in Lescar has entirely disrupted our links with Dalasor and Gidesta, our galleys continue to ply their routes to the burgeoning seaport of Relshaz and thus to Caladhria. Aldabreshin pirates whom all expected to increase their predations have turned instead to dealing with any and all entangled in the fighting, presumably finding greater returns for fewer risks. This western trade proves crucial in maintaining a continuing market for the finished wares and metals from our tenants, enabling us to trade for the necessities of warfare that we cannot supply ourselves. I find it ironic that my steward tells me our miners and craftsmen are making considerable advances in techniques and skills as a consequence of the increased demands of this ongoing strife. Perhaps we should ascribe that too to Raeponin’s sense of justice.

I was delivered this For-Spring past of my tenth child, our sixth son. As he begins to show signs of walking, I have been considering what name to bestow on him and wondering if his father will be home to share in those celebrations at his first steps. I am minded to call him Ustin, in memory of the uncle he will never know, whose life has been spent in the defence of we women and our heedless babes. Saedrin grant that peace has returned to us before any more of my children are of an age to take up arms with their elders.

The D’Olbriot Residence Gatehouse, Summer Solstice Festival, Third Day, Morning

I woke with the dawn chatter of eaves-birds on the gables. My first half-conscious thought was regret for past Festivals. More generous Solstice rosters usually mean a chance of lying abed. But I couldn’t get back to sleep, not with that coffer of Kellarin artefacts waiting. A wash and a shave helped clear the weariness fogging my thoughts and, once outside, the cool morning air refreshed me. Gardeners’ boys carried buckets of water past me, silent maids were dusting the front hall of the residence and a heavy-eyed footman set some Festival garlands to rights.

“Ryshad!” A hiss from an upper landing stopped me and Temar ran lightly down the main staircase.

“On your way to the library?” I enquired.

“Indeed.” Temar strode through the house, oblivious to discreetly curious servants sliding past, an unobtrusive girl with an armful of fresh flowers, a shirt-sleeved valet with a pile of pressed linen. “Arimelin be blessed, we are finally achieving something!”

I waited until we were in the corridor to the library and no one else was within earshot. “I meant what I said last night, Temar.” He looked at me as I laid a warning hand on his arm. “If you go off without me again, I’ll take you round the back of the stableyard and beat some sense into you, Esquire or not! It all turned out well, but that’s no answer, not to you risking your neck. You’ve responsibilities to more than yourself now. How would Kellarin fare if Guinalle had to drop everything and come over here because you’d got yourself skewered in some back alley? I’m not saying you shouldn’t have gone, but you sure as curses shouldn’t have gone alone.” I’d lain awake long into the night, chilled by the thought of what could have happened to the lad and the mage girl.

This morning Temar had the grace to look faintly ashamed of himself. “I understand your concerns.”

I nodded. “Just don’t do it again.” But I’d finally slept when it had occurred to me that Temar had probably been as safe in the Lescari quarter, where no one knew his Name or face, as he would have been among Houses where Dastennin only knew what malice lurked behind the tapestries. Not that I was about to tell him that.

We reached the library and Temar rattled the handle with more irritation than was strictly necessary. “Locked, curse it!”

I knocked cautiously on the bland barrier of polished panels. “Messire? Dolsan?”

“Ryshad?” I heard Demoiselle Avila’s firm tread. “And Temar?”

“Of course,” he said crossly.

The key turned with a swift snap. “You took your ease this morning, did you?” There was a spark of laughter in her dry face as she opened the door.

“I should have realised you would scarce let the dew dry off the grass,” Temar retorted.

I followed him in and we both looked rather nervously at the coffer open on the library table. Gold, silver, enamel and gems gleamed lustrous on a broad swathe of linen.

Avila made some uninformative sound. “Since you are here, you can help.” She handed us each a fair copy of the list of artefacts so eagerly sought by the waiting folk of Kellarin.

Temar and I shared an uncertain glance.

“Oh get on with it. You need not even touch anything.” Avila picked up a distinctive ring, wrought with two copper hands holding a square-cut crystal between them. This morning she was wearing a plain brown dress, hair braided and pinned in a simple knot, looking more like one of my mother’s sewing circle than a noble lady.

“Can you tell which ones carry enchantment, Demoiselle?”

I tucked my hands behind my back as I bent over the array of treasures.

“Sadly, no.” Avila sounded more irritated than regretful. “We would need Guinalle for that.”

Temar made some slight noise but subsided under Avila’s glare.

An elegant pomander caught my eye. Shaped like a plump purse tied with cord, the gold was cut away around a circle of little pea flowers on either side, blue enamelled petals undimmed through all the generations even if its perfumes had long since perished. I searched the list in my hand, where five artefacts were still untraced for every one with a note of success beside it. Temar’s stomach growled, the only sound to break the silence.

“There’s bread and fruit.” Avila nodded absently to a side table.

“Can I bring you anything, Demoiselle?” I offered politely.

“Thank you, no. So Temar, what are your plans for the woman and her child?” Avila asked in that deceptive tone women have, the one that sounds so relaxed when in fact the wrong answer will bring the ceiling down on your head.

“We will recompense her,” Temar said cautiously.

Avila reached for a pen laid across an inkstand. “Hand her a heavy purse and send her on her way?”

Temar hesitated. Agreement would plainly be the wrong response but he was struggling for the right one. I kept my eyes firmly on my list.

“You take no responsibility for their fate?” Avila noted something with a decisive flourish of her quill.

“Perhaps the mother could be found work within the residence?” hazarded Temar. “Some menial task?”

I glanced up to see him looking hopefully at me. “The House Steward won’t be interested,” I said slowly.

“If the Sieur instructs him, as a charity?” Temar suggested with a hint of pleading.

“Messire won’t do that,” I told him reluctantly. “The Steward earns his pay and perquisites by taking all responsibility for servants’ concerns, and the other side of that coin is the Sieur doesn’t interfere.”

Avila sniffed. “In a properly regulated House, master and mistress know all their servants by name and family and treat them fittingly.”

Hearing an echo of loss beneath her tart words, I kept quiet. I found the pomander and ticked it off my list with an absurd sense of achievement. One more to be woken from the chill of enchantment; Master Aglet, a joiner, according to the record.

Temar took the quill from me and dipped ink for his own note, our gazes meeting for a moment. “Sheer luck or not, you’ve made a success of your trip with this haul alone,” I commented.

“Grant Maewelin her due,” said Avila in quelling tones. “The goddess surely took charge of these hidden minds, just as she holds seed and bud sleeping through the dark days of winter.”

“Which would explain how the pieces came to her shrine,” Temar nodded thoughtfully.

He was convinced, no question, but few people I know give Maewelin more than a passing thought beyond the close of Aft-Winter. Hunger in the lean days after Winter Solstice prompts some to cover all options with an offering to the Winter Hag, but even then it’s a cult mostly limited to widows and women past any hope of marriage. That reminded me of something.

“The shrine to Maewelin in Zyoutessela is a refuge for women without family or friends. I know the Relict Tor Bezaemar makes donations to all manner of shrines, Demoiselle. You could ask if there’s any charitable sisterhood in Toremal that might take in the woman and her daughter?”

Avila’s severe expression lightened a little. “I will do so.”

“I have one,” said Temar with relief as much to do with my answer to the question of Maedura as with identifying an artefact. He pointed to a ring, modest turquoise set within silver petals. An inexpensive piece in any age but for some reason I knew beyond doubt it had been given with love and cherished with devotion.

“The woman with three children.” I shivered on sudden recollection of a little group still lost in the vastness of the Kellarin cavern. The sorrowful wizards hadn’t wanted to wake two children to the news that their sister and mother couldn’t yet be revived.

“The boy had my belt, with the buckle you recovered from the Elietimm.” As our eyes met I saw the lad through Temar’s memory, wide-eyed but determined not to show his fear, clinging to the buckle of Temar’s belt and to the promise that everything would be all right.

“This was for the youngest child.” Avila held up a tiny enamelled flower strung on an age-darkened braid of silk, her voice rough.

“Then we can wake them all.” Tangled emotions constricted Temar’s voice.

Avila looked down on the motley collection of valuables and trinkets. “But so many of the men held to knives or daggers,” she said softly. “Where are those?”

Sudden inspiration mocked me for a fool. “Weapons would’ve been laid in sword school shrines! I’ll wager my oath on it!”

I’d have explained further if Messire’s clerk hadn’t come in.

“Oh.” He stood in the doorway, nonplussed.

“You have something to say, young man?” Avila asked with all the confidence of rank.

“Surely you should all be getting ready to attend at the Imperial Law Courts, my lady.” Dolsan bowed respectfully but there was no mistaking his meaning as he looked at Temar’s creased shirt and Avila’s plain gown.

“In my day, substance counted for more than show among persons of high birth,” said Avila with a stern glare.

“In this age, my lady, show and substance are often one and the same.” Service to the Sieur made Dolsan equal to this challenge. “Chosen Tathel, Esquire Camarl’s valet was looking for you.”

I excused myself hastily to Avila and Temar and hurried upstairs. The Esquire was still in his shirt and an old pair of breeches, sorting through his own jewels for suitable ornaments for public appearance. “You weren’t in the gatehouse or the barracks, Ryshad. How’s my valet supposed to find you if you don’t leave word where you’ll be?”

“I was in the library.” I apologised. “That coffer looks to hold a lot of the pieces Temar’s hunting.”

“That’s fortunate.” Camarl’s expression was uncompromising. “That could well be all the spoils D’Alsennin wins from this Festival.” He set down a broad collar of curling gold links and tossed a letter at me.

“I learn you are interested in acquiring certain heirlooms of my House,” I read. “Certain others have also expressed a desire to acquire these pieces. Accordingly, I intend to have three jewellers unbeholden to any Name appraise the items in question. Once I have established their value, I invite you to make an offer. From Messire Den Turquand, given at his Toremal residence, Summer Solstice Day.”

“His man must have been waving it in the breeze to dry the ink on his way here,” muttered Camarl. “What do you make of it, Ryshad?”

“Den Turquand got wind of the value of Kellarin artefacts,” I said slowly. “And he’ll sell to the highest bidder, no question. Some of the Names offering argument to D’Olbriot before the courts will be only too glad to pay thrice their value to use them as bargaining counters.” I couldn’t contain my anger. “But these are people’s lives! Hostage-taking belongs back in the Chaos.”

“How did he get wind of this?” Camarl demanded.

I looked him in the eye. “I’ve been asking various of my acquaintance if their masters or mistresses have heirlooms that might date from the loss of Kellarin.”

“Perhaps it might have been wise to discuss that with myself or the Sieur,” Camarl said bitingly. “Servants gossip and share titbits with their betters, Ryshad.”

“I’m sorry. I’m accustomed to use my own judgement in service of the Name.” I managed a fair appearance of regret. That all the Demoiselles and Esquires gossiped just as eagerly among themselves and Camarl learned all manner of valuable things from his own valet was neither here nor there.

“This is just not a priority.” Camarl screwed up the letter, hurling it into the empty hearth. “These people under enchantment—let’s be honest, a few more seasons, even years, would make no difference, not after so many generations. Setting the colony on a sound footing, stopping interest in Kellarin degenerating into an ugly scramble for advantage—that’s what’s important. This business of artefacts, it’s simply a complication. What’s the Sieur to do, Ryshad, if someone comes demanding concessions on trade in return for one of these cursed things?”

I kept my eyes lowered, expression neutral. I’d spent long enough in the service of the House to realise the Esquire’s anger wasn’t really directed at me. Although everyone treated him as such, Camarl wasn’t yet formally confirmed as the Sieur’s Designate. If all the black crows hovering round the House this Festival came home to roost, the Sieur’s brothers and all the other men bearing the D’Olbriot Name would be looking for someone to blame.

“Go and get yourself liveried,” Camarl said after a moment of tense silence. “Attend us to the law courts before you go off to answer that challenge.”

I bowed to the Esquire’s turning back and closed the door softly behind me.

Back in the gatehouse I dug my formal livery out of the depths of my clothes press. Dark green breeches went beneath a straight coat of the same cloth, more a sleeved jerkin in style really. Banded with gold at the wrists and around the uncomfortably constricting upright collar, it had a gold lynx mask embroidered on the breast, eyes bright emeralds among the metallic thread. There’d be no doubt that I belonged to one of the most ancient and wealthy Houses of the Empire as we travelled through a city gaping for a glimpse of nobles they only knew through gossip, scandal and broadsheet tales.

I scowled into the mirror and went to wait in the gatehouse. This was evidently a day to show I knew my place.

“Not going to be fighting in that?” Stolley laughed from the seat where he was reading the most recent broadsheet. It was his privilege as senior Sergeant to be first to see the tittle tattle culled from rumour, venal servants and indiscreet clerks.

I smiled humourlessly. “Hardly.”

“Got up and trod in your chamberpot, did you?” He shook his head. “At least your livery still fits. I need a new one every year.”

“Master Dederic must love you.” I ran a finger round inside my collar. “I don’t suppose I’ve had this thing on more than ten times since I swore to the Name.”

“Lucky bastard,” said Stolley with feeling. “Oh, and my wife says you’re to come to supper when Festival’s over. I warn you, she’s inviting her niece, saying it’s time you found a nice girl to court, now you’ll be settled in Toremal.”

“Married to you and she still wants to shackle her niece to a chosen man? They say misery loves company.” I tried for a smile to take the sting out of my words. “Any word this morning, anything on who attacked D’Alsennin?”

Stolley stood up to pin the broadsheet to the door for the men on duty during the day to read if they had the skill. “Just Tor Kanselin’s men saying the lad only got off his leash because Esquire Camarl was busy dallying in the gardens with Demoiselle Irianne. There was a bit of nonsense when one of our lads wondered if the Esquire had got round to plucking a petal or two.”

“And that’s supposed to get Tor Kanselin off the hook?” I retorted, annoyed. “And when their esquire got married last Solstice, didn’t I hear they were whispering in corners about Camarl never having a girl on his arm? Hinting he might take a less than rational view of women?”

“They can’t have it both ways,” Stolley agreed. “Yes, Demoiselle, how can I serve?”

He turned to deal with the first of a flurry of visitors arriving for a lunch party and then with a series of coaches drawing up to take cadet members of the Name to engagements all around the city. I dutifully assisted, holding fans, offering a supporting hand, closing doors, careful not to crush expensive silks or feathers as I did so. In between I watched the toings and froings outside the open gate. Several women from grace houses went past, Stoll’s own wife among them. If I was to make the step to proven man, the Sieur had to see my face, and I had to be on hand to do him some service. That meant buckling down here for a good few seasons, fetching, carrying and proving my loyalty day in and day out. I tried to imagine Livak among the placid wives and decided she’d be as out of place as a woodlark in a hencoop.

Messire’s coach finally rattled up outside the gate just as the fourth chime of the day rang out from the bell tower. The bay horses were matched within a shade of colour, the woodwork and leather shone richly in the sunlight and liveried footmen jumped down to attend to door and step. The Sieur arrived with the echoes barely died away, Esquire Camarl, Temar and Demoiselle Avila with him. For all the fullness of his figure, the Sieur moved with brisk determination, twinkling eyes keen.

Temar was looking stubborn about something. He carried his sword, and as he approached held it out to me. “I thought you might use this, for this afternoon.”

“My thanks, Esquire.” I took the scabbarded blade and bowed first to Temar and then to Camarl, who watched with distant annoyance as I unbelted my own sword and gave it into Stolley’s keeping. Camarl had given me that new blade at Winter Solstice and I’d accepted it gladly, all the more so since I knew both smith and the smithy where it had been made and would wager my oath that no unquiet shades hung round it. But I couldn’t throw Temar’s offer back in his face, could I?

“At least you’ll get some fresh air down at the sword school,” the Sieur remarked genially. “Put an end to this nonsense of a challenge as soon as you can, Ryshad. Let them have their fun, but don’t risk your skin trying to prove a point.” He favoured me with a warm smile.

Another carriage pulled up and the Sieur’s elder brother appeared behind us, several clerks laden with ledgers with him, Messire’s youngest son hovering at the back. The Sieur turned. “Fresil, send Myred to find me if there’s any nonsense over the Land Tax assessment. And I want to know at once who’s behind any application to sting us over Kellarin for the year to come.”

The brother nodded, face uncompromising beneath his bald pate. We all made our bow as Esquire Fresil climbed into his coach, a ribbon-tied document clutched in one age-spotted hand that would summarise the House’s finances to the last copper cut piece.

“Your uncle will make sure no one rolls up this House in parchment, won’t he, Camarl?” The Sieur smiled with satisfaction. “If Fresil can teach Myred half his skills, he’ll make a worthy successor to assist you.”

Which was as close as Messire ever came to telling Camarl he favoured him as Designate.

“I don’t think we need fret unduly about proceedings in the Imperial court today,” Messire continued easily. “We’ve been looking into potentially contentious areas for most of For-Summer, Dolsan and myself. We’ve plenty of strings to our bow.” His expression turned cold and I turned to see Casuel hurrying down the residence steps. “But we don’t want people wondering about anything underhand. Ryshad, tell that importuning wizard to keep his distance today.”

I walked hastily over to Casuel. “We’re off to the courts, Master Mage, so the Sieur has no need of your services.” I tried to keep my tone light.

Casuel looked crestfallen and suspicious at one and the same time. “Surely reminding people D’Olbriot has Archmage Planir for an ally will strengthen his position?”

“You know what folk are like, Casuel.” I shrugged. “An advocate might see you and raise the question of magic just to confuse the real issues.”

“Planir should deal with this nonsensical prejudice once and for all.” Casuel flushed with irritation. “So what am I to do today? Sit on my hands?”

“You could go and see what Velindre thinks of Allin and Temar’s little adventure?” I suggested.

The Sieur snapped his fingers at me and I bowed. “I’ll see you later, Casuel.”

Messire was first into the coach, nodding me into a seat opposite. I tucked Temar’s sword in hastily as Avila arranged her skirts to her satisfaction. As Temar joined us the Sieur sat back against the mossy velvet upholstery. “Thank you, Ryshad. This is no time to be associated with magic in the public eye.”

“That is surely a little difficult,” said Temar with barely restrained indignation, “when the Demoiselle Tor Arrial is the foremost practitioner of Artifice in this city.” Temar was richly dressed in the latest style, in dark russet silk, the clasp at his throat a complex knot of gold set with small faceted stones. Gold chains secured with garnet studs looped around the cuffs of his coat. Borrowed wealth it might be, but after today none of the commonalty thronging the streets would believe any rumour claiming the Esquire D’Alsennin was just some washed-up pauper. His only ring was the sapphire signet I remembered, a jarring touch of colour that must have had Master Dederic tearing his well-cut hair. I was glad to see Temar wearing something of his own among all this borrowed finery.

Avila was laughing. “I am the only practitioner, as far as I can tell. But the boy has a point, Guliel. That Artifice cured his wounds was widely discussed yesterday.”

Messire nodded. “True, but that’s not elemental magic. In time, with care, we can make people understand the difference.”

“So what is our purpose in displaying ourselves at court today?” Avila asked politely after a short silence.

“To show young D’Alsennin alive and well and ready to uphold his rights. To show we have nothing to hide and stand ready to answer any mean-spirited accusation.” The Sieur beamed with a charm that won an answering smile from Avila.

In bellflower blue brocade she looked every measure the noble lady. A collar of pearls and sapphires circled her neck and silver rings adorned every finger, two set with diamonds that flashed fire in the sunlight. Her hair was dressed high and, as she leaned forward, I saw she had a striking jewelled ornament pinning on her veil of lace. The spray of emerald fronds had a blue butterfly nestling in the centre and it took me a moment to recall this was the badge of Tor Arrial. Did this mean Messire has secured the alliance of the current Sieur, or was he putting the Name on notice that Avila was not about to yield any of her claims?

“Cheer up, Ryshad,” chuckled the Sieur. “I’m sorry you have to be liveried up but it’s as well to remind everyone where your loyalties lie. Have you heard the rumours running round about your adventures in the Archipelago?”

His tone was familiar, intimate, with all the sincerity that had convinced me Messire’s oath bound him to me as securely as mine to him. But he’d handed me over to Planir without hesitation when that best served the wider ambitions of his House. I sat back in the shadows as we swept between the shade trees lining the road to the lower city.

As we passed the conduit house, the bowl of the lower city spread out before us beneath the cloudless sky. The vista was a chequer pattern of myriad roofs, packed as close as the tiles they were made from, dappled with all shades of colour from the rawest new orange to ancient faded umber. Here and there a taller tower of golden stone looked down on less favoured neighbours, a gatehouse or some other remnant of a noble edifice now given over to more mundane uses, yet still keeping mute watch over a Name’s interests. Chimneys that took no rest for the Festival breathed faint plumes of smoke that thickened the air as we left the green freshness of the upper city and the fitful breezes from the distant, hidden sea were baffled by cornices and façades turning them this way and that.

The carriage rattled over the cobbles, coachman keeping the horses trotting at a steady pace, a footman using a long horn to clear the commonalty off the road. It sounded ever more frequently as we drew nearer to the sprawling mass of the law courts.

“The walls!” Temar exclaimed. He twisted in his seat to peer out of the window. “That is the Toremal I remember!”

“How the city is grown,” murmured Avila, mouth set in a bloodless line.

“Shall I lower the blinds?” Camarl forced a smile as he waved to acknowledge some loyal tenants cheering the D’Olbriot lynx on the door.

“No, I don’t think so.” The Sieur clapped silent hands to show his admiration for a puppet in D’Olbriot livery held up for his amusement. The crowd was swelling with fervent excitement, the noise almost painful to the ears by the time we drew up beneath the looming shadow of the Imperial Courts.

“This is the palace,” said Temar suddenly.

Camarl frowned. “No, that’s over yonder.”

Temar shook his head impatiently. “No, I mean it was the palace, in Nemith’s day.”

“That’s right,” I agreed. Even with the mighty walls protecting the city, the men who’d built Toremal’s defences had prepared for every contingency. The palace had been set apart as a final bastion, impregnable within its own walls, a last redoubt where the Emperor could gather the Cohorts entrusted to him by the Names and strike out if ever the city itself fell. But the days when armed men could threaten Toremal were long since past and the palace had been rebuilt, extended and adapted through every era. Where once it had been the stronghold of Emperors charged with defending Tormalin through force of arms, now it served the law courts where Emperors of this era ruled on the rights and duties of the Houses of Toremal.

Messire’s coach drew up before the western frontage. High overhead a sweep of ruddy tiles rolled down to a pierced balustrade of interlaced stone fronds. Oriel windows below were ornamented with carved foliage worn soft and indistinct by generations of rain. Statues weathered to anonymity stood in niches just above head height, and on the ground men sworn to Den Janaquel colours formed a line either side of carpet laid to save noble shoes from the dust of the streets. The crowd waited in benign enough mood, no need for the Duty Cohort to link arms just yet, or worse, use staves to reinforce their barrier. None of the cases heard today would have any impact on the common people, so they could just relish the spectacle.

“Out you get,” the Sieur prompted Camarl as the footman opened the door.

He brushed at the skirts of his sage green coat and stepped down to polite if not fulsome applause. The Sieur nodded to Temar, who was greeted with appreciably louder cheers above an undercurrent of avid gossip. When Messire himself appeared, he stopped to acknowledge a roar of approval, one hand on the doorpost, the other waving in elegant response. He wore darker green silk than Camarl, unbrocaded but shot with gold. The cut of his coat was fuller in line than fashion dictated, far better suited to his stoutness and comparative lack of height.

Judging the ebbing enthusiasm of the crowd to a nicety, Messire stepped down and turned to offer his hand to Avila. Her appearance incited the ebullient mob to fresh cheering and I heard a new note of speculation as the Sieur offered her his arm. I got out of the coach completely ignored by everyone.

“Where do we go?” Avila’s smile was gracious but I saw nervousness darkening her eyes.

“In a moment,” said the Sieur, bending towards her with a smile that won renewed interest from the avid faces closest. “These people have come to offer their duty, after all.”

“Smile, Temar.” Camarl turned to give people on the far side a look at his finery. “If you’re looking cheerful, satire artists and gossipmongers can’t make up anything too dreadful about you.”

“Apart from drawing me grinning like a half-wit,” Messire laughed. “Do you remember that dreadful picture doing the rounds last summer, Camarl?”

He laid a proprietorial hand on Avila’s fingers as she held his arm close and walked slowly beneath the great arch. Camarl strolled behind with a relaxed air that Temar made a creditable attempt at matching. I followed with a few curious eyes sliding my way before returning to the far more interesting spectacle of highest nobility almost close enough to touch.

As we came out into the open sunlight of the courtyard a rattle of hooves and harness behind us prompted shouts of welcome for some new arrival. When Temar would have looked to see who it was, Camarl dissuaded him with the faintest shake of his head. “Ryshad, who’s behind us?”

A half-turn showed me the crest emblazoned on the carriage door. “Den Murivance.”

Knots of clerks in lawyerly grey thronged the shadows of the colonnade ringing the courtyard, looking intently as the Sieur D’Olbriot escorted Demoiselle Tor Arrial. Two put their heads close for a moment and then one went hurrying off, the long sleeves of his robe flapping. I wondered if Messire really had an interest in Avila or if this was simply another move on the game board. Whichever, I’d bet my oath fee some hapless advocate would be guttering the candles writing up the implications of a D’Olbriot match with Tor Arrial.

Temar slowed, looking around at the five storeys of the palace, now all given over to archives and records and quarters for advocates rich enough to pay for a foothold in their battleground, spare rooms in garret and cellar divided and divided again for rank and file. “I did not recognise that façade, but this is much as it was.”

I looked at the pitted and stained columns, the cracked flagstones and the mismatched shutters of the windows. Trying to imagine it as pristine as Temar’s memory of it was disconcertingly easy. “It’s been the law courts since the days of Inshol the Curt.”

“Shall we proceed, Messire?” Camarl raised snapping fingers and an advocate hurried to his side.

“Indeed.” The Sieur followed the lawyer through the colonnade to a great double door opening on to an anteroom where lawyers milled around like a flock of banded pigeons.

“Demoiselle Tor Arrial, Esquire D’Alsennin, may I make known Advocate Burquest?” The Sieur introduced one of Toremal’s most prominent lawyers with easy familiarity. Burquest was a broad-shouldered man with a round, kindly face and a deceptively amiable air. He wore his thinning hair brushed straight back and long to his collar, a style going out of fashion when I’d been a youth. But Burquest wasn’t concerned with fashions. His whole life was arguing before the Imperial courts, and his reputation was formidable.

Temar did his best to bow despite the people pressing all round. Avila favoured Burquest with a tight smile, but I could see she was uneasy, hemmed in by unknown bodies.

The Sieur noticed as well. “Are we ready to go in?”

Burquest nodded. “This way, sirs, my lady.”

A burly warder in Den Janaquel colours was guarding the door to the court proper but drew his silver capped staff aside to let us pass. As Camarl stepped forward to hear what the advocate was saying to the Sieur, Temar fell back beside me.

“This was the Imperial audience room,” he said in an undertone, staring around the broad hall. Stone vaults high overhead were supported by intricate stonework springing like carved branches from massive faceted columns. Narrow windows of clear glass rose tall between the pillars and sparkling sunlight floated down to us. Down at our level the surroundings were not nearly so grand. The long tables and benches were sturdy and functional but no more than that. The floor had been swept, but some Nemith had probably been the last one to order it polished. There was nothing in the plain, undecorated furnishings to distract anyone from the business of the law, an Imperial decree dating back to Leoril the Wise.

“Up there?” Temar frowned as the Sieur headed for a broad gallery built around three sides of the room.

“Only advocates and their clerks appear before the Emperor.” I indicated a row of lecterns set in a line before a fretted screen.

“Where is he?” Temar looked around, puzzled.

I nodded at the screen. “He’ll be behind there.”

We took our seats in the second rank of the gallery, the Sieur and Avila in front, close to the dais so we could see everyone else in the gallery and almost all of the people below.

Camarl was on Temar’s far side and he leaned forward to include me in his remarks. “The Emperor sits screened so that no one can see his reactions, try to catch his eye, or make some move to influence or distract him.”

“But he can see us?” Temar looked thoughtfully at the black-varnished wooden lattice.

“More importantly, so can all these people. So look relaxed and unconcerned, no matter what’s said below,” Camarl advised, turning to nod and smile as the gallery filled up. There were no formal divisions, but people separated regardless in tight huddles of mutual interest.

“Den Thasnet,” I murmured, my pointing hand hidden by Avila’s shoulder. “Tor Alder.”

“Dirindal thought I might find friends in that House,” said Temar a little sadly.

The Sieur half turned in his seat. “It’s easy enough to be friends until the cow gets into the garden. They think you’re here to eat them out of House and home.” He looked at Camarl. “Note which advocate speaks on each count and we’ll set Dolsan to looking up any other suits they’ve been involved in. We might get some hint as to who’s orchestrating this.” He turned to look at the rearmost gallery and waved to someone. “I see we have a good turn out of the richer commonalty.”

The men of trade and practical skills were easily identifiable. Their clothes were as fashionably cut of cloth as rich as any noble, and plenty of silver and gold shone bright in the sunlight, but none of them wore any ornament set with gemstones. Perinal the Bold’s law might be archaic and often disregarded, but no one was going to risk challenging it in the heart of Imperial justice.

Down on the floor of the court the advocates were standing in a loose circle behind the row of lecterns. Their grey robes were distinguished by various knots of gold on each shoulder and cord in differing colours braided around the upright collars. Mistal had tried explaining their significance to me more than once, but I’d never really listened.

Temar leaned forward. “I see no insignia on anyone down there.”

“That was one of Tadriol the Staunch’s reforms.” Camarl leaned back with every appearance of ease. “No House may retain any permanent advocate. We sponsor clerks, train them up in our archives, but once they start offering argument to the court they’re their own men.”

“A justified claim of bias can get a judgement reversed,” I explained to Temar.

“Which has happened to Den Thasnet more than once,” murmured Camarl. “So it’ll be interesting to see who their mouthpiece might be over in the Land Tax court.” He smiled warmly at a pretty girl with a Den Murivance portcullis picked out in spinels on the silver handle of her white-feathered fan. “Have you been introduced to Gelaia, Temar?”

“No.” Temar looked momentarily startled but gave the girl a polite wave. The gesture stirred a faint ripple of interest on far side of the court, among a sizeable number of Den Rannion Esquires. I looked for any resemblance to Temar’s long dead friend Vahil, vivid in my memory, but found none.

Temar stirred on the hard wooden seat, returning the hostile gazes levelled at him in full measure. “I think we could take them on, the three of us, do you not agree?” He was only half joking.

“We don’t dirty our own hands fighting among ourselves nowadays,” said Camarl in mock reproof. “That’s what law courts are for.”

“Whoever started this will soon find they’ve a battle on their hands,” remarked the Sieur. He wasn’t joking.

A bell rang a sharp summons to order behind the imperial screen. We all stood, waiting in silence as unseen feet sounded on the dais and chairs scraped and settled.

“That’s more than just the Emperor,” Temar said in the softest of whispers.

“He always has Justiciars from the lower courts to advise him,” I explained. “Experts in property, inheritance, whatever suits are being brought.”

A brisk Justiciar whose coppery head clashed horribly with his black-braided scarlet robes appeared out of a door in one end of the screen. The advocates promptly took their places at their lecterns. Behind them, on backless benches, their teams of clerks sat alert.

“In the name of Emperor Tadriol, fifth of that name and called the Provident, I beseech Raeponin to give his grace to all who hear me. Be warned that the god’s scales weigh the justice of every man’s word within this court. All who speak freely may do so with truth as their witness. All who dissemble will be compelled to reveal what they hope to hide. All who lie will be marked by the god’s displeasure. Any man shown forsworn will be whipped and flung naked beyond the city walls at sunset.” He rattled through words we’d all heard plenty of times but his face was uncompromisingly stern as he looked at each advocate.

I saw Avila’s back stiffen and Temar shifted in his seat. Camarl laid a silencing hand on his arm.

The redheaded man nodded to the first advocate. “You may proceed.” The others all took seats at the tables with their respective teams of clerks and the justiciar disappeared below us.

“May Raeponin hold me to my oath.” The hook-nosed advocate took a calm breath. “I’m here to present the arguments of Den Rannion. The House declares an ancient interest in the land of Kellarin, by virtue of the investment in goods, coin and people made by Sieur Ancel Den Rannion in the days of Nemith the Last, even up to the cost of his own life. His son, Sieur Vahil Den Rannion, did not relinquish his claim. Even on his deathbed, he had his sons swear to uphold it. We have records and deeds to support our contention and ask that due disposition of that unknown land be made, fully respecting these ancient rights.”

He turned with a smile to the next advocate who stepped up to his lectern, one hand smoothing his close-trimmed beard. “May Raeponin hold me to my oath. I argue for Tor Priminale in the Name of Den Fellaemion, now subsumed into that House. Messire Haffrein Den Fellaemion was first discoverer of Kellarin, in voyages backed by Nemith the Seafarer. He was the instigator of the colony, its leader and guide, and at the last died in its defence. The House of Tor Priminale begs leave to claim its rights and complete the work of so illustrious an ancestor in opening up this new land and making best use of its resources, in open cooperation with Den Rannion and any other interested Houses.”

The Sieur and Camarl exchanged a look of mild interest at the revelation that Den Rannion and Tor Priminale had so readily abandoned generations of antagonism.

The next advocate was on his feet almost before Tor Priminale’s man had stopped speaking. “May Raeponin hold me to my oath.” He straightened the fronts of his gown nervously. “I speak for Den Muret, by reason of the great number of tenants of that House who travelled to the Kellarin colony. Their work and the rights due Den Muret in consequence should be recognised.”

He sat down quickly, taking the next man by surprise. I tried to see Camarl’s face out of the corner of my eye, but Temar was in the way. Everyone was sitting motionless, all attention fixed on the court, the gallery silent as a shrine at midnight. I looked at Den Muret’s man and recalled Mistal saying they wouldn’t bring suit until they knew Tor Priminale was successful. Now Den Domesin had a man on his feet, arguing for rights in Kellarin by virtue of ancient investment. What reason did they have to be confident?

Temar was shifting in his seat again, his indignation plain to see. As I glanced sideways, I saw the Demoiselle Den Murivance watching him with speculative hazel eyes above the fan hiding her mouth as she whispered to her companion.

“May Raeponin hold me to my oath.” Down in the court a tall advocate with hair and face as greyly neutral as his robes spoke briskly to the impassive screen. “I argue for Tor Alder that ancestral rights over inherited properties be respected. Those properties were conveyed to that House by bequest from the last Sieur D’Alsennin in the expectation that the last Esquire of the Name might reasonably be expected to return within the lifetime of his remaining parent. Since this did not happen, we contend the care with which those lands have been administered in the intervening generations must outweigh claims made by some pretender to an extinct Name.”

So they weren’t going to argue D’Alsennin was a dead House, they were just going to invite the court to accept it as fact. I looked down to see Temar’s hands tightly interlaced, long fingers bloodless beneath the pressure.

“May Raeponin hold me to my oath.” A stout lawyer with an unhealthily high colour was stepping forward, leaning on his lectern with the air of a man settling in for a long stay. “I am here as a friend of the court.” Even Messire couldn’t restrain a start at that and a hiss of surprise ran round the gallery.

“What does that mean?” Temar whispered urgently.

“It means we don’t know who’s behind him,” I answered softly. Camarl leaned forward, face a mask to hide his anger.

“I am here as a friend of the court,” the advocate repeated as the noise subsided into expectant silence. “I am here to argue that the House of D’Olbriot has acted with grievous bad faith ill befitting such an ancient and illustrious Name. When scholars of the House realised the fabled colony of Nemith the Last was reality rather than myth, the Name did not share the opportunities becoming apparent. D’Olbriot has sought to keep all to itself, to its sole advantage and enrichment. Rather than seek help from the other Houses of the Empire in crossing the ocean, D’Olbriot turned to the wizards of Hadrumal. D’Olbriot has further invited them into the counsels of the House, even giving one house room.” The advocate paused to accommodate a hint of amusement from the gallery at his little sally. “Rumour has it that marriage with a wizard is even now being contemplated by someone within D’Olbriot walls, though not, at least, by someone of the D’Olbriot Name.

“But let us not speak of rumour,” he continued smoothly after pausing just long enough for everyone to look at Temar, who was plainly outraged. “This court is only concerned with facts. It is a fact that now that the remnants of Kellarin’s colony have been unearthed D’Olbriot continues to be the only link across the ocean. Whatever information is so vital to making such a voyage remains locked behind D’Olbriot lips. Just as the only living claimant to D’Alsennin rights is hidden behind D’Olbriot doors. D’Olbriot has installed this young man as leader of the colony. But what does this leader do? Does he speak for his people? Does he negotiate trade agreements, does he invite merchants and artisans to bring their skills to make a civilisation in this savage land? No, D’Olbriot’s word is final on all such matters. All such concerns are most definitely a D’Olbriot monopoly, as is all the wealth that will result.”

The advocate turned his back on the dais momentarily to glance up at the rearmost gallery, where the merchants were listening with interest.

“Even if Kellarin has only a fifth the riches of tradition, it is most assuredly a wealthy land. We don’t even know how far it extends, what resources might be found over its distant horizons. Small wonder that the House of D’Olbriot covets it all. But all the wealth of Kellarin pales into insignificance when we consider other advantages that might accrue to D’Olbriot as a result of this exclusive association with D’Alsennin. We’ve all heard the rumours, haven’t we, ancient enchantments safeguarding these lost colonists and arcane magic sustaining them?” He laughed for a moment with delicate scepticism. “Well, much of this may be mere fireside fancy, but no one can deny the presence of young Esquire D’Alsennin here today.” This time he turned to look full at Temar and everyone in the court and the gallery above did the same. About half looked envious while the rest seemed faintly repelled.

“Esquire D’Alsennin,” the advocate repeated, “who was stabbed, beaten and left for dead in the dirt of the road. Not two days later he sits before us, hale and hearty. Does the House of D’Olbriot propose to share the esoteric arts that make this possible? Will we be spared the death of our loved ones in childbed, our sons and daughters saved from pestilence? Such magic supposedly safeguarded the Old Empire and wrought more wonders besides. Can one truly send word back and forth across hundreds of leagues in the blink of an eye? Does D’Olbriot propose to share such knowledge, or keep the advantages for himself while the rest of us are limited to the Imperial Despatch?” The advocate looked apologetic. “I do not mean to disparage those excellent couriers, but it is undeniable fact that a horse can only cover so much ground in one day.”

He turned briskly on his heel, walking up and down before the screened dais. “That a mighty House might succumb to the temptations of selfishness and greed is understandable, if regrettable. But such base emotions cannot go unchallenged, lest they unbalance the compact of mutual respect that knits our Empire together. That’s why we’re all here today. My esteemed companions advance the most basic claims of those other Names with legitimate interest in Kellarin. I argue in defence of common justice and against abuse of noble privilege. As always, it falls to the Emperor to redress the balance.”

Bowing first to the faceless screen, the advocate turned to walk back to the table where his clerks were sitting. I saw a suitably modest smile as he lifted his face to the gallery, guileless warm brown eyes inviting everyone to agree with his entirely disinterested speech.

Messire’s advocate, Master Burquest, was walking to his own lectern, smoothing the grey silk of his robe over his plain blue coat sleeve. He looked up at the centre of the screen. “May Raeponin hold me to my oath.” He spoke simply, as if he were talking directly to the Emperor. “I’m here to argue for D’Olbriot. I’ll show that the House’s interest in Kellarin was an unforeseen consequence of attempts by men sworn to the Name to uncover the reasons for robbery and attack suffered by a son of that House. Surely no one will deny D’Olbriot the right to protect its own? I’ll argue that it’s hardly reasonable to complain the free flow of commerce is being restricted when trade with Kellarin is still barely a trickle. I can show that with the briefest survey of the Name’s accounts.” He waved a dismissive hand before voice and face turned serious, still focused on the unseen Emperor.

“I will show that magecraft is used to cross the ocean from simple necessity. Surely no one would suggest that the perils of the open ocean be needlessly risked when there are ways to lessen the dangers? That would hardly be reasonable — or should I say rational?” Everyone in the gallery was hanging on Burquest’s words now, a smile here, a nod there approving his dry, unhurried delivery.

“It is just as reasonable for Esquire D’Alsennin,” Burquest raised a finger, “in the absence of a Sieur of that Name for the present, just as reasonable for him to turn for advice and support to the Sieur of the House that risked so much, both materially and in reputation, to help those lost across the ocean. Perhaps, had Den Domesin and Tor Priminale shared in those initial expeditions, rather than dismissing D’Olbriot’s folly, those Houses might have been able to make themselves known to their distant cousins. Esquire Albarn and Demoiselle Guinalle might well have been grateful for their aid and counsel. We’ll never know, because they have been entirely ignored by their erstwhile Names. Tor Arrial, on the other hand, have shown us all a better way, welcoming their long-lost daughter and undertaking to work with D’Olbriot in supporting the colonists in Kellarin in their future endeavours.”

Burquest didn’t look at Avila, which was probably just as well because I could see her neck going pink from where I was sitting. So the Sieur had got Tor Arrial on his side; that was good news. But even a hundredth share of the Kellarin trade would go a long way to restoring the Name to its former status. Diminished as it was at present, Tor Arrial didn’t have a lot to lose.

Burquest leaned his elbows on his lectern. “Of course, any actions or circumstance can look good or bad, depending on your point of view. Which is why we trust this court to listen to all the arguments, to take a wider perspective and give judgement without fear or favour.” He smiled warmly at the fretted screen and turned to walk calmly back to his table.

There was a muted bustle of activity behind the screen and a small bell sounded. At that signal the clerks all burst into activity, some scribbling furiously, others sorting through ledgers and notes. Conversation hummed round the gallery, low-voiced speculation ringing with anticipation.

“Is that it?” Temar looked at me in perplexity. “What now?”

“Each advocate presents his argument in detail, point by point, calling evidence as he goes.” I pointed to the deed boxes and stacks of ledgers piled high down the middle of each table. Burquest sat at his ease, chatting with a smile for his clerks and idly fanning himself with a leaf of parchment. Den Domesin’s advocate on the other hand was frantically concentrating on a closely written sheet of paper and Den Muret’s man looked positively unwell. Each had a much smaller team of clerks, some of whom looked barely old enough to shave.

“When does D’Olbriot’s man get a chance to answer?” demanded Temar.

“Every time the Emperor thinks the point in question has been made and he wants to hear from the other side.” I nodded at the screen. “You’ll hear the bell.”

“What good will any of this do?” Avila hissed with irritation. “You people mouth the words that should secure your justice and yet you all remain free to lie and dissemble.”

The Sieur, myself and Camarl looked at her in confusion.

“Forgive me but I don’t understand,” Camarl apologised for all of us.

Avila turned in her seat, face hard. “The invocation, what does it mean to you?”

Camarl raised uncomprehending brows. “It’s a reminder to all involved to act honestly.”

“Penalties are imposed, for any found forsworn,” Messire assured her.

“Those words once invoked Artifice proof against any forswearing!” Avila took a breath and forced herself to speak more quietly. “Enchantment should make it impossible for anyone to speak a lie within this court.”

“It was ever thus, in our day,” Temar agreed grimly.

“What happens to someone lying?” frowned Camarl. I knew what he was thinking; we’ve all heard the nursery tales of the fox who’d lied to Talagrin about who’d eaten the plover’s eggs. His tongue turned black and shrivelled up, but I couldn’t see any advantage to D’Olbriot if that happened to some opposing advocate. The House’s associations with magic were clearly going to be used against us and any overt display would just condemn the Sieur further.

“Do me the courtesy of listening,” snapped Avila. “No one can lie. If they attempt falsehood, they simply cannot speak. Silence is all the proof needed of ill faith.”

I exchanged a bemused glance with Camarl and the Sieur. “Could you make it so, here and now, if you repeated the rite?” I asked Avila.

She shook her head crossly. “Not without each advocate invoking Artifice in his response, citing his oath to bind him.”

“So their oath was once enchantment as well?” asked Camarl.

“All oaths were,” said Avila coldly. “Artifice bound all who exchanged them.

“So much has changed since the Chaos.” Messire looked at me with a faint smile. “This is very interesting, but we just have to rely on eloquence and argument, don’t we?”

Avila gave him a hard look through narrowed eyes. “Yet another loss your age has suffered, Guliel.”

As she spoke I heard a faint carillon from outside. The Sieur nodded to me and I stood up. “Now you know what Houses are drawn up for battle here, see if they’ve sent any skirmishers down to the sword school,” he ordered.

Temar made to stand as well but Camarl laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. I nodded a farewell to them both. “Your fight’s right here, Temar,” I said lightly. “Look amused if Camarl’s smiling, and you can look hurt if the Sieur turns round to commiserate. Don’t ever look angry, don’t look triumphant or smug. I’ll find out who posted that challenge, if Raeponin wields any justice at all, and we’ll hold a council of war this evening.”

Avila turned, face indignant. “I’ll thank you not to use the god’s name so lightly, Ryshad.”

She would have said more but the Sieur stood up, setting renewed interest busy around the gallery. “Defend the honour of our House.” He held both my hands between his, looking deep into my eyes. “And take every care you can, Ryshad.”

Making my way out of the courtroom, curious faces on all sides, I felt I had some invisible advocate at my shoulder asking silent questions. Surely the Sieur wanted me safe for my own sake, not merely because my defeat would reflect badly on the House? In any case, wasn’t Messire entitled to both concerns? Had he abandoned me to Planir and the wizards of Hadrumal out of callousness, or had he been forced by simple expediency? Were the resentments I’d been struggling with any more justified than the half-thought-out arguments of Tor Priminale and the like?

I ripped open the constricting collar of my livery as I strode out of the courts and headed for the sword school. I’d find time to look for answers to all that later. For now I had to fight whoever turned up to prove my fitness for honour or take a piece out of my worthless hide. If that was all there was to this challenge, I’d meet it head on, but if there was more to it, if I faced swords paid for by some noble dissatisfied with the proxy battles of the law courts, I wanted to know who was behind it all as much as Messire.

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.

“This is better than wasting my time in that tedious courtroom,” Temar said with feeling.

“Enjoy your freedom while you can,” advised Mistal. “You’ll be spending long enough in the courts for the next few seasons, until those arguments are settled.”

“Me?” Temar frowned. “Messire D’Olbriot’s trials are nothing to do with me.”

“I must have misunderstood.” Mistal looked sharply at Temar. “Rysh said you weren’t stupid.”

“Then tell me what I am failing to see, Master Advocate,” retorted Temar, stung.

Mistal wiped greasy hands on the front of his jerkin. “Rysh told me about this colony of yours, said you’d been attacked from some northern islands?”

“The Elietimm.” Temar shivered with sudden revulsion. “They’ll destroy Kel Ar’Ayen given half a chance.”

“But you’ve wizards to hold them off, haven’t you?” Mistal demanded. “Fire and flood to scorch or drown them? That’s what Ryshad was saying. Well, if you think these northern islanders are a threat, they’re nothing compared to the people setting their advocates against you back there.” Mistal waved an airy hand somewhere in the direction of the courts. “It’s a different kind of danger, but it’s just as real for your colony. Your little settlement can’t survive without trading for the things you can’t make for yourself. Without a market for your goods you won’t have the coin to buy them either. If you’re to expand from whatever scant land you hold, you need new blood. But you need the authority to control who comes and who settles, otherwise you’ll find competing townships springing up all along your coast before the turn of the year. If that happens, Elietimm assault will be the least of your worries.” Mistal’s lawyerly delivery in his casual dress struck Temar as incongruous, but his words were too serious for laughter.

“If the Emperor upholds your rights, then every House must respect them. More than that, Tormalin will consider the colony as part of itself and thus something we’ll all defend against greedy Lescari or Dalasorians.”

“The Sieur D’Olbriot supports our rights,” said Temar slowly. “And he has the Emperor’s ear.”

“For the moment.” Mistal looked stern. “That influence lasts only so long as D’Olbriot is a Name other Houses can respect. If D’Olbriot’s discredited, if these accusations of bad faith are upheld, then the Emperor won’t hear the Sieur. He can’t afford to, for the sake of his own credibility. Imperial authority is only effective as long as all the Names consent to obey it.”

“That much I do understand,” Temar replied crisply. “I was there when Nemith the Last’s insanities alienated every House in the Old Empire.”

“Which precipitated the Chaos,” nodded Mistal without missing a step.

“The collapse of aetheric magic caused that,” Temar contradicted him with growing irritation. “Why will Burquest not mention the part Artifice played in the discovery of the colony? Listening to him you would think we had been merely mislaid for a few years, not cut off by generations of enchantment!”

“Because that would almost certainly lose him the argument,” retorted Mistal. “No one would want to believe him.”

“Your courts take no account of the truth?” Temar was getting really cross.

“All too often the truth’s whatever people want to make it.” Mistal shrugged. “You and Ryshad, the Sieur, even Master Burquest, you all understand the aetheric aspects of your story, but there’s neither time nor opportunity to convince people who’ve grown up with different history. Bringing aetheric magic into legal argument can only cause confusion. Worse, you risk getting tarred with the same brush as wizards, and no one in their right minds trusts a mage the moment they’re out of sight.”

Mistal stopped to point an emphatic finger at Temar. “As far as the world and his wife is concerned, Nemith the Last’s bad governance caused the Names to turn their backs on him, and that’s what caused the Chaos. Which is something no Emperor will ever risk happening again. Even the hint of a decision threatening the unity of the nobility will be enough to see the House of Tadriol lose the Imperial throne. Tadriol won’t back D’Olbriot against all the other Names, whatever the truth of the matter. He can’t afford to. That’s what’s at stake back there in the law courts, my friend. If Burquest can defend D’Olbriot’s position, then the Emperor can continue to take the Sieur’s advice and support your claims against all the other Houses who want their turn at the well. If not, Tadriol will drop D’Olbriot like a hot brick. If that happens, Kellarin will be a prize for the first House who can seize it and you’ll be nowhere in the hunt. Until you’ve established a Name for yourself and you’ve got some judgements in the courts to back your claims, the House of D’Alsennin lives or dies with D’Olbriot.”

“Then I should look beyond D’Olbriot walls?” Temar looked uncertainly at Mistal. “Make some contacts of my own?”

“How?” the advocate demanded. “How will you know who to trust? How will you know if you’re offered good coin or Lescari lead? Tell me, will you draw up contracts under Toremal or Relshazri law codes? Will you apply the same scales of premiums as Inglis, or adopt Zyoutessela equivalent compensations?”

Temar gaped for a moment before responding angrily. “When I know what those things might be, I will be able to decide.”

“But what if I’m a merchant only here for Festival and I want an answer now?” countered Mistal. “If you go off to find out what I’m talking about, I’ll likely use my money on established trades offering a safer return, Aldabreshin spices, Gidestan metals, Dalasorian hides. Whatever you’re offering from Kellarin has to be something special to convince anyone to risk their gold across the open ocean.”

“The Sieur D’Olbriot thinks we have excellent prospects for trade,” said Temar stiffly.

Mistal nodded ready agreement. “With his Name to back you, most certainly. There’ll be half a hundred merchants in Toremal ready to give you the benefit of their considerable doubts just because they trust D’Olbriot. But if the House is discredited in the courts, they won’t touch you with someone else’s gloves on.”

Temar relieved his feelings by kicking a loose cobble with an angry boot. They were walking briskly through a distinctly down-at-heel area of the town now.

“So it’s a good thing you’ve got Master Burquest arguing for D’Olbriot and all the resources of the Sieur’s archivist,” said Mistal bracingly. “He’ll have handfuls of clerks turning up with parchments from the days when Correl the Stout was a lad. And Master Burquest is well worth his fee; he hasn’t lost an argument in the last nine seasons. Raeponin may favour the just, but coin by the sackload can tilt his scales all the same.” He turned down an alley between two low-roofed, modest terraces. “But that’s a different fight. Here’s the sword school, and let’s hope Rysh’s got his wits about him today.”

Temar saw splintered paling fencing off a sizeable patch of land. Men in D’Olbriot colours stood either side of a sturdy gate with pails in their hands where Temar saw bills of challenge pasted up, just like the one Ryshad had shown him.

Mistal was rummaging in a pocket. “Something for the widows and orphans.” He dropped a silver Mark into a proffered bucket.

“Good to see you, Mistal,” grinned the man-at-arms. “So what’s Rysh think he’s playing at?”

“Can’t say,” shrugged Mistal.

“Can’t say or won’t, Master Advocate?” The man shook his pail meaningfully at Temar. “Something for charity, Esquire?”

So much for going unrecognised, Temar thought, digging in his purse. At least he had some small coin today, thanks to Allin.

Inside the compound women in modest gowns were selling bread, meat and miscellaneous trinkets from baskets and barrows. Two long trestle tables displayed swords and daggers guarded by muscular men whose forbidding frowns turned quickly to smiles of welcome if anyone approached with a purse. Runes were being cast over to one side and wagers made, to the considerable interest of onlookers, while a silent ring watched two men sitting deep in contemplation on either side of a White Raven board. Beyond, long, squat buildings flanked a lofty circular structure. A roar went up inside it, followed by enthusiastic feet stamping approval.

“Have many challenges have been met?” Mistal caught a passing man-at-arms by the sleeve.

“They’re just rounding off the sworn.” The man lifted a jug of dark red wine, smiling broadly. “My brother won his day, so I’m off to get the little shit so drunk he can’t stand!”

Mistal laughed, nodding towards an open door. “We’ve a few moments yet, Temar. Do you want a drink?” A girl wearing a scarf in D’Olbriot colours round her waist came out to stack empty bottles in a discarded wine barrel.

“Mist! Temar!”

Temar turned round to see Ryshad, loose shirt over faded breeches and soft shoes laced tight on bare feet.

“It’s good to see you both.” Ryshad looked keenly at Mistal. “So you introduced yourself. Turn it to any advantage?”

Mistal grinned. “Master Burquest has retained me to research D’Alsennin’s claim to be Sieur.”

Temar looked at his boots, all dusty now, and wondered if anyone in this age ever did anything without some ulterior motive.

“Then no one’s going to wonder at you being with Temar.” Ryshad sounded relieved. “How’s the Sieur faring at court?”

“They’ve a fight on their hands, but Burquest’s equal to it,” Mistal said with judicious confidence. “As long as Camarl doesn’t lose his temper if he’s goaded and provided your Sieur doesn’t get too cocky after an easy victory. A bit like you here today.”

“I don’t need advice on fighting from some soft-handed bookworm,” said Ryshad with faint derision.

“You get yourself killed and I’ll argue Saedrin into letting me cross to the Otherworld, just so I can tan your arse,” warned Mistal.

“You and what Cohort?” challenged Ryshad with a grin. “You haven’t been a match for me since your seventeenth summer.”

Temar felt a pang of envy at this easy camaraderie. Turning away he saw a youth being led out of the sword school, one arm swathed in bandages stained with bright scarlet. That put an immediate end to feeling sorry for himself. “I thought these contests were a matter of form.”

The wounded boy was screwing up his face in a futile effort to stem tears of pain and humiliation.

“They’re to prove a man’s fitness to serve his Name,” Ryshad said soberly. “A few fall short of the mark.”

“Oh, there’s always blood to get the crowds emptying their purses,” said Mistal with obvious disapproval. “Otherwise they’d be spending their coin watching mercenaries slice lumps off each other up in the Lescari quarter.”

Ryshad rounded on him. “There’s no comparison, and you know it. Any blood shed here is down to bad luck in a fair fight. Lescari fights are little better than masquerades.”

“At least the Lescari use blunt blades,” challenged Mistal.

“Which is why they end up with broken bones and blood all over the floor,” Ryshad retorted. “A fool thinks a blunted blade can’t hurt him and goes in hard. A swordsman worth his oath treats a real weapon with due respect!”

Temar felt uncomfortably excluded from what was plainly a long-standing argument, never mind by the deepening southern accents both men were slipping into. He watched the lad slump by a barracks door, arms around his drawn-up knees, face hidden and shoulders shaking. Temar felt a pang of sympathy; he knew that bitter taste of defeat, though at least a sword fight was more straightforward than all these legal and social battles besetting him.

“What is the form of the contest?” he asked when Mistal took a breath.

Ryshad spared Mistal a glare. “Each challenge is a formal bout, best of three touches.”

“Do you know who’ll be answering the challenge?” asked Mistal.

Ryshad grimaced. “I’ve seen Jord from Den Murivance around, and Fyle says Lovis from D’Istrac and Eradan from Den Janaquel are definitely up for it. But I know them, have done for years. They’ll try and raise a bruise or two, just to keep me humble, but I can’t think there’s any malice there.”

Mistal mouthed the names silently to fix them in his memory. “It won’t hurt to ask a few questions, find out who’s been buying their wine.”

“You advocates suspect everyone, don’t you?” laughed Ryshad, but Temar found his air of unconcern a trifle unconvincing. “It’s the ones I don’t know about that could be the problem.” There was no doubting the sincerity of those words.

Five chimes rang out from some heavy brazen bell.

Ryshad grimaced. “If they’ve got all the boys off the sand, I’d better go and see who turns up. Keep an eye for the crowd, will you? If this is some scheme to leave me dead or injured, someone might give themselves away if I take a bad touch or their man goes down hard.” He grinned at Temar. “It won’t be the first time you’ve watched my back.”

Mistal guided Temar inside the echoing training ground. “What did Rysh mean by that?”

“Oh, nothing,” Temar shrugged. He wasn’t about to try to explain how he’d broken through the enchantment binding him, finding himself in what felt like some insane, waking dream, facing an Elietimm enchanter trying to bash out his brains with a mace. With aetheric malice unravelling Ryshad’s wits, Temar had been the one guiding his limbs in that frantic fight far away in the Archipelago.

The memory still made him shudder, so Temar looked around the practice ground with determined interest. Old battles had no place here. He watched as men much his own age and dripping with sweat came walking off the sand, elation brightening their exhausted faces. Older men congratulated them, some struggling to moderate their pride in their protégés. Temar found the palpable air of common purpose and good fellowship more than a little familiar. This wasn’t so far removed from his own training for service in the Imperial Cohorts, he decided. A few seasons spent fighting for the lands and privilege they assumed as their due might improve those pampered nobles who sneered at him so.

“Mistal!” A heavy-set man in D’Olbriot colours came over, arms wide in expansive welcome.

“Stolley,” Mistal nodded politely, and Temar belatedly recognised D’Olbriot’s Sergeant. “How’s the morning gone?”

“All our lads acquitted themselves worthy of their oath,” said Stolley with pride buoyed by wine on an empty stomach. “Esquire D’Alsennin.” His bow was studied. “An honour to see you here. Are you looking to recruit for your Name?”

That remark and Stolley’s carrying voice turned plenty of interested heads.

“The Esquire’s just here to support my brother,” Mistal answered smoothly.

Temar’s smile was guarded, but the idea intrigued him. Kel Ar’Ayen needed fighting men, didn’t it? They’d given the Elietimm a bloody nose the second time round but they’d needed wizards and mercenaries to do it. Wouldn’t Tormalin men, sworn to him be better? He’d see what Ryshad thought.

“I’ll have silence or I’ll clear the place!” A grey-headed man muscled like a wrestler strode out on to the sandy floor.

“That’s Fyle, sword school provost,” Mistal whispered hastily.

Temar nodded; that explained the unmistakable air of authority.

“All challenges posted by recognised men have been duly met, as you all bear witness. Now we have a final challenge.” Fyle paused for some latecomers hurrying in. “A challenge posted without the knowledge or consent of the man named, which is an abuse of all our practice. When I find out who’s responsible, they’ll answer for it at the point of my sword.” He scowled at the assembled onlookers standing in tense silence. Clapping his hands together with a crack that made everyone jump, Fyle turned to the far door of the practice ground. “Ryshad Tathel, sworn man to D’Olbriot and newly chosen, stands ready to defend his right to that honour!” The belligerent shout echoed back from the empty rafters and even silenced the hum of noise outside.

Temar watched as Ryshad walked slowly forward, naked blade in hand, light catching the engraving on the metal. Looking at his calm face, Temar wondered if he’d ever have the experience to justify such iron self-control.

“Grisa Lovis, chosen for D’Istrac.” Robust cheers followed a man stepping forward from the far side of the crowd. Somewhat older than Ryshad, his sparse black hair was cropped so short as to be almost shaven.

“You’re going bald,” observed Ryshad, mocking. “Getting old?”

“Getting stupid?” Lovis countered, drawing his own sword. He unbuckled the scabbard and threw it to some supporter, an orange and red sash belted gaudily round his waist. “What possessed you to call a challenge?”

“Not me.” Ryshad shook his head. “Must have been a man with something to prove. Sure it wasn’t you?”

Lovis was circling round now, sword held low in front of him. Ryshad moved on light feet to keep his opponent always in front, a handspan’s distance between the hovering points of their swords.

“I’ve got nothing to prove.” Lovis looked as if he were about to say something more but stepped forward instead, blade coming in hard and level at Ryshad’s belly. Temar’s breath caught in his throat, but Ryshad angled his sword in a blocking move. In the same movement he was stepping sideways, sweeping his blade up and around as soon as he was out of danger. Lovis met the scything stroke with a counter strike that sent a clash of steel shivering through the intent crowd. Ryshad yielded to the downward pressure, but only by sliding his own blade round and out, drawing Lovis forward. The other man was too experienced to be tempted into compromising his balance, Temar noted with regret. He brought his blade up to counter Ryshad’s turning stroke and the guards of the two swords locked, holding the men almost nose to nose.

As they broke apart, Temar remembered to take a gulp of air and realised everyone else had been holding their breath. All eyes stayed on the two men circling warily again.

Ryshad made the first move this time, raising his sword for a downward strike that tempted Lovis into a direct thrust. Ryshad moved off the line, sweeping his cut down at an angle, but Lovis was already moving sideways, bringing his own sword up in a parry. He slid from counter to strike, steel whipping round to bite into Ryshad’s shoulder. But Ryshad had his blade there to block, and as Lovis stepped back to try a second cut in from the other side Ryshad swept his own sword across to leave a smudge of scarlet spreading through the sweat-soaked sleeve of his opponent’s forearm.

Stolley’s shout of triumph nearly deafened Temar and every man in D’Olbriot colours joined his exultant yells. Less partisan onlookers shouted their approval too as Mistal nudged Temar. “D’Istrac’s men are ready enough to applaud a good move.”

Temar saw men in the same orange and crimson as Lovis nodding their approval of Ryshad’s skill.

Steel smacked on steel as the contest resumed. The two traded blows, each strike parried, each parry sliding smoothly into attack, swords flickering from side to side, gleaming metal always turning biting edges away from vulnerable flesh. Then, in a move that escaped Temar, Lovis curled the point of his sword over and round Ryshad’s blade, darting forward to leave Ryshad recoiling back with an oath, clapping a hand to his upper arm.

“Is it bleeding?” asked Mistal anxiously.

“I cannot see.” Temar shook his head.

This time it was D’Istrac’s men cheering while Stolley and the others yelled consolation and advice to Ryshad. Temar folded his arms, hugging anxiety to himself as Ryshad rubbed at his arm, Lovis waiting patiently, the tip of his sword lowered. Mistal groaned softly as Ryshad wiped his hand on his shirt front, leaving an obvious smear of red.

“He does not look overly concerned.” Temar tried to reassure Mistal and himself.

Mistal shook his head. “He’d have that stone face on him if he was bleeding to death.”

Temar watched anxiously as Ryshad took up a ready stance and nodded to Lovis. D’Istrac’s man came in hard and fast with a sweeping sideways cut but Ryshad smacked it away with a ringing strike. Lovis didn’t miss a step, drawing Ryshad round as he turned the parry with a vicious downward blow. Ryshad deflected the slice but Lovis followed up hard, sliding his guard down Ryshad’s blade until the hilts locked. Ryshad was the first to move and Lovis slammed his pommel on to Ryshad’s hands as they broke apart. One of Ryshad’s hands came away from his sword and Temar’s heart skipped a beat. In the next breath, as Lovis tried to follow up his advantage with a hasty downward stroke, Ryshad moved, half turning his back in a seemingly fatal error. Mistal gasped, but Temar saw Ryshad reaching between Lovis’s hands to take hold of his opponent’s weapon. Lovis struggled to pull free, but Ryshad was already moving, driving his shoulder into the older man. Once he had Lovis unbalanced Ryshad brought all his weight to bear, sending D’Istrac’s man stumbling headlong across the sand. As Lovis scrambled hastily to his feet Ryshad levelled the man’s own blade at his face, grinning.

“Yield?”

Lovis spread submissive hands, smiling as broadly as Ryshad. “I yield, Chosen Tathel, and with good reason.” The warriors around the practice ground yelled their approval, stamping on the hard-packed earth.

“Rysh, here!” Stolley’s yell left Temar’s ears ringing.

Ryshad walked slowly over, taking a leather jug of water from Stolley and drinking with careful restraint. “What moron calls a challenge at noon on Summer Solstice?” he said with disgust.

“One who wants you exhausted and wrung out before he steps on to the sand,” said Mistal, looking suspiciously round the crowd. Temar followed his gaze but could only see keen-eyed swordsmen in animated discussion, empty hands rehearsing moves.

“How is your cut?” asked Temar urgently.

“That’s all ready clotted, as good as.” Ryshad grimaced, spreading his fingers and flexing them. “But I feel like Lovis slammed a door on my knuckles. This hand’ll be swollen like a pudding cloth tomorrow.” He accepted a towel and wiped at sweat dripping down his face.

“Eradan Pradas, chosen by Den Janaquel.” A second challenger strode on to the sand. A wiry man with sandy brown hair and a distinctly Lescari cast to his eyes, he was the tallest man Temar had seen in Toremal.

“Who is this?” he asked Ryshad anxiously. “Do you know him?”

“Oh, yes, long since.” Ryshad was unconcerned, raking a hand through curls sticking to his temples. “He’s always thought he’s better than me, and I don’t suppose he could resist trying to prove it. It shouldn’t take long to send him about his business.”

Temar watched him go before turning to Mistal. “Where can we find bandages hereabouts? To strap his hand?”

If that were the only support he could give Ryshad, it would have to suffice.

The D’Olbriot Sword School, Summer Solstice Festival, Third Day, Afternoon

Yield?” I twisted the edge of my blade into Jord’s neck, scraping thick black bristles with an audible rasp. We were face to face, my sword resting point up and over his shoulder, the guard digging into his chest and my arm braced to keep him off me. I had his sword arm in my off hand, twisted away and useless. He struggled, tendons taut, face and neck darkening with effort. I leaned in hard to make best use of my hand’s width more height, but he was easily as broad in the shoulder as me and barrel-chested with it. He’d better yield because getting out of this without letting him mark me was going to be cursed difficult. He shifted his feet, and so did I. This wasn’t a move you’d find in any manual of sword art and I’d face Fyle’s derision for getting myself tied up like this.

“I yield,” said Jord with disgust. “But you’ve got the luck of Poldrion’s own demons, Ryshad.” He had the sense not to move until I’d carefully taken my blade away from his neck.

“I’ve some salve for that, if you want.” I didn’t want to find myself in that position again, I decided. Drawing blood was one thing, but cutting a man’s throat by accident wouldn’t do much for my standing.

“I’ve had worse when the wife’s been feeling passionate.” Jord rubbed the raw scrape on his neck. “But you’ve the skills to ride your luck, so I suppose you’re worthy of being chosen.”

I held out a hand. “My thanks for helping me prove that, to myself as much as everyone here.”

The avid crowd were hanging on our words, just as they’d hung on every move of the gruelling fight. Cheers for us sounded above stamping feet, making the ground tremble beneath my boots. Jord turned for the applause of D’Istrac’s men and I headed wearily for Fyle, who was standing with Temar and my brother. Fyle had the water jug.

“Some of us have other plans for Festival,” Fyle growled with mock severity. “I thought you were going to take all afternoon.”

I spread my hands. “Got to give a good show. We can’t have people thinking you’re the best this school has to offer, now can we?”

Fyle made as if to cuff me round the head as I drank. Dast’s teeth, I was thirsty. “Is that the last of them?” I’d fought four men through the fiercest heat of the day now, drinking only as much as I dared to replace the sweat I’d been shedding.

Fyle nodded. “No one’s come near me since Jord gave you that first touch.” And that bout had taken as long as the previous three together, so anyone wanting to step up to the challenge had had his chance. I sighed with relief and drank deep.

“Everyone probably thought you were done for.” Mistal’s pallor was slow to fade, betraying his own doubts.

I managed a smile, water dripping down my chin to add to the sweat soaking my shirt. “Jord did, which is how I got him.”

“I saw barely a feather weight’s difference in your skills.” Temar moved closer. “But that was enough for Raeponin’s scales.”

“Listen to D’Alsennin, Mist, he knows what he’s talking about.” I felt the first leaden weariness heavy across my shoulders now my blood was cooling. “Here’s your sword, Esquire, and many thanks for the loan.” I handed back the antique blade with faint regret. Now I’d managed to use it without Temar’s disembodied presence trying to guide my limbs, I’d rediscovered the superb balance of the sword. When Messire had made a Solstice present of it to me, it had truly been a Prince’s gift. But had he known enchantment would make it such a two-edged boon?

“I’ll fetch the scabbard.” But before Fyle got halfway round the dusty circle, we saw a handful of belligerent men in Den Thasnet colours accost him.

“What’s to do?” Stolley came over, face bright with a fair few goblets of Festival cheer.

“Not sure,” I said slowly. All I wanted was to get towelled down and into clean, dry clothes.

“No!” Fyle shouted, taking a pace forward to emphasise his refusal, but Den Thasnet’s man failed to step back, leaving them nose to nose.

“I’ll go and find out,” murmured Stoll, clenching his fists unconsciously.

“Is there a problem?” Mistal was staring, puzzled.

I rubbed at my aching knuckles. “Temar, can you strap this up again?”

“Let me,” offered Mist.

“No offence, Mist, but you can’t truss a chicken for the pot.” I hoped my light tone softened my refusal.

“If you would hold this.” Temar handed the blade to Mistal, who held it like a snake he expected to bite him.

Temar deftly unwound straps of linen binding, rerolling them as he did so. “A sizeable number with Den Thasnet trefoils have suddenly appeared.”

“More than the D’Istrac men and the Den Janaquels together.” I looked round idly to tally the D’Olbriot men here to cheer me on. There were a fair number, but most had been taking full advantage of the Sieur’s Festival wine.

“Do you think there’s going to be trouble?” Mistal looked concerned.

I was watching Fyle; Stolley was beside him now, arms folded and one foot tapping as he listened to Den Thasnet’s man. A murmur of anticipation laced with disquiet was spreading round the practice ground. We couldn’t hear what was being said but Stolley shoving Den Thasnet’s man full in the chest was clear enough.

“Strap it up, Temar.” I held out my tender and unpleasantly discoloured hand.

He nodded. “This is only storing up trouble. You need cold water, ice if we can get it. Does the Sieur keep an ice house?”

I nodded absently, still watching Stolley and Fyle as Temar made an efficient herringbone pattern of bandaging up my wrist. Fyle came striding rapidly across the sand, leaving Stolley facing down Den Thasnet’s man with a sneer of disgust.

“What’s to do, Provost?” I asked with mock formality.

“Den Thasnet have someone to answer your challenge,” replied Fyle without humour. “Mol Dagny. Ever heard of him?”

I shook my head. “No, but I’ve spent a lot of time away, you know that. How do you rate him?”

Fyle looked angry. “I don’t, because I’ve never heard the name, and I’ll wager my oath fee that none of the sword provosts have. No one knows him.”

“Den Thasnet are putting him up as a chosen man?” I looked past Fyle to see Stolley squaring up to Den Thasnet’s spokesman with an ugly face. “Without a provost to justify him?”

“He’s from Den Thasnet lands near Ast, shown himself worthy and the Sieur himself offered him his oath,” sneered Fyle. “He saved some son of the House from a wolf and was chosen on the strength of that just after Equinox.”

“If there’s no provost to vouch for him, aren’t you entitled to refuse the challenge?” asked Mistal. He’d doubtless been reading up all the legal niceties of sword bouts.

“That story would make a fine puppet show, Fyle,” I commented. “Which one is he?”

“He’s outside,” said Fyle with rising ire. “Waiting to hear if you’re man enough to meet him.”

“He certainly doesn’t know me if he thinks he’ll rile me by pecking at my tail feathers like that.” I rubbed a thoughtful hand over my chin.

Mistal gave Temar back his sword, his hands on his jerkin in unconscious courtroom fashion. “Give me a day and I’ll prove Messire Den Thasnet’s been nowhere near the House’s lands near Ast, let alone offering oaths. His cousins hold those properties and they can’t stand the man. He’s not been north inside the last year and a half.”

“I don’t think we have a chime to spare, Mist, still less a day.” A handful of D’Olbriot men had come to back Stoll. Den Thasnet’s men were spreading out around the practice ground.

“Are they looking for a fight?” Fyle scowled. “Right here in D’Olbriot’s own sword school?”

“Which would do your Sieur’s case in the courts no good at all,” Mistal pointed out with growing concern. “With the right advocate, it could do him considerable harm.”

“Either I meet this so-called chosen and risk dishonouring the House by losing or we all dishonour the name by being dragged into a fight.” I tried my bruised hand carefully. “We’ve been set up for knocking down like bobbins on a loom, haven’t we? I’ll have to meet this challenger. No, Mist, hear me out. There are too many women and children around, and too many men all but drunk to risk a brawl.”

I turned to Temar. “I’ll borrow your sword again, if I may? If trouble does start, get him out of here.” I nodded at my brother. “Mist’s no use with a blade, and if there is a mêlée someone could finish the job that dagger started on you.”

Temar’s nod was grudging but that was good enough for me. I wouldn’t trust him not to try some half-arsed heroics on his own, but with Mistal to protect the odds were better than even he’d keep himself out of danger.

“Right, Fyle, tell Den Thasnet they’ve got an answer.” I swung my arms to get the blood flowing again, refusing to acknowledge the fatigue threatening to blunt my edge, wondering if I had time to go for a piss. Whoever was behind this had timed their move very cleverly, the bastards. “Mist, have you got any leaf on you?”

“Since when do you use it?” He held out his wash-leather pouch.

I grimaced at the bitter taste overlaid with sickly sweet honey spirit soaking the leaf. “Does this stuff really wake you up?”

“It keeps me awake through both halves of a night reading legal precedents.” Mistal smiled but his heart wasn’t in it.

I mastered the impulse to spit out the revolting pulp and wondered how long it took to warm the blood. I daren’t delay, not if we were going to avoid a free-for-all. Stolley was puce with anger and Fyle virtually had to drag him away from Den Thasnet’s man. I walked out on to the sand.

The so-called chosen Dagny appeared, walking straight past Fyle without even greeting him. Fyle took a step after the man, furious. It’s the provost’s privilege to grant permission to fight on his ground to anyone answering a challenge. I waved him back. The discourtesy meant Fyle was quite within his rights to stop the fight but there’d be more blood on the sand if he did. The Den Thasnet trefoil was dotted in threes and fours all round the practice ground by now and a worrying number of men who’d shown no badge earlier now turned kerchiefs to reveal that same flower at their throats.

Dagny stood in the centre of the practice ground, sword eager, a crooked grin lifting one side of his mouth. Walking round him in a slow circle, careful to stay beyond reach of his blade, I kept my face open and friendly.

“So Den Thasnet chose you because you’re good against wolves?” I spoke as I was directly behind Dagny and he took the bait, wheeling round. Good, now he was reacting to me.

“That’s right—”

I cut him off. “How about real men?” I levelled my sword and he matched it immediately. I thrust at his chest, stepping to the side to avoid his counter thrust, rolling my blade hard over to force his down. I took a pace back, but he kept coming. He was fast, barely older than Temar, with all the fire of youth and a cocky smirk. Let him grin; I had years about the business of fighting behind me.

But this Dagny was suspiciously fast on his feet. He thrust, leaving himself open, but his attack was so furious all I could do was get clear, parrying as I did so. We circled each other and I studied his eyes. They were hazel, not so unusual in a man from Ast, where Tormalin blood meets exiled Lescari and wandering Dalasorians. But Dagny’s pupils were mere pinpricks of darkness. That might have looked normal enough in the noon day sun, but here in the shade I was chary.

I thrust and Dagny parried with a move the very echo of his first riposte. I turned his blade, but this time I stepped in close, getting inside his guard as he left that self-same opening. I let go my sword with my off hand and grabbed his, crushing his fingers brutally against the hilt as I used my own blade to turn the edge of his away. Dagny stumbled in surprise, his grip broken, and I rolled my arm over his, twisting his body until I locked his captive elbow tight against my chest, his blade pointing impotently at the sky. He had to bend from the waist to keep his feet so I kicked some dust in his face. He spluttered and coughed.

“Do you yield?” I asked genially.

“Never,” he spat furiously.

I twisted his wrist, ignoring the protests from my swollen hand. “You yield or I break your arm off and shove the bone end up your arse.”

That won a laugh from everyone close enough to hear, everyone but the one Den Thasnet’s man in the corner of my eye.

“Yield!” I repeated with menace. Dagny’s only response was to claw at my feet with his free hand so I stamped on his fingers. Whoever had trained up this animal hadn’t taught him the first thing about formal bouts.

“First touch to Ryshad Tathel!” Fyle came out on to the sand, face like thunder. Den Thasnet’s men raised a storm of protest but shouts from everyone else drowned them out. I held Dagny until Fyle had taken both swords and then I sent the boy sprawling in the dust.

“When you’re called on to yield and you’ve no hope of a counter, you cursed well yield, you ignorant turd! Doesn’t Den Thasnet train his dogs?” Fyle laid both swords down well apart before storming off, snarling abuse at Den Thasnet’s spokesman. “You call that chosen, shitting on my school with behaviour like that?”

I was watching Dagny, back on his feet as soon as the provost’s back was turned, dirty face twisted with resentment.

“Didn’t want Fyle to smell your breath?” I taunted him.

“I’m not drunk,” he scoffed.

“Better for you if you were.” Dagny hadn’t wanted Fyle to smell the sweet piquancy of tahn hanging round him. No wonder he’d stayed outside, surrounded by Den Thasnet men presumably bribed to lose their sense of smell. Fyle would have thrown Dagny off the sand and clean out of the sword school if he’d realised the boy was flying high on the little berries.

Dagny was no chosen man; I doubted he’d ever been sworn. The best a recognised lad could hope to get away with was a taste for chewing leaf or thassin, and I knew from personal experience that Fyle and all the provosts reckoned to break any man of a thassin habit before he was sworn.

I picked up my sword without ever taking my eyes off Dagny. I could call off the fight, accusing Dagny of coming on to the ground drugged. I’d have the support of every man here, bar those of Den Thasnet. But the air was growing thicker with tension and hostility and it was grapes to goat-shit that every man here would want to kick some humility into Den Thasnet hides if I showed their man was doped with tahn. Then whoever wanted a brawl here would have one, wouldn’t they?

Dagny turned his back on me as he went to retrieve his weapon, too focused on doing me harm to think about his own safety, I realised. The tahn was doing that, pinning his will on the one thing he’d had suggested to him, buoying him up with exultant confidence in his own abilities.

“Have at him, Rysh!” A voice shouted, one I vaguely recognised from D’Olbriot’s barracks.

Dagny whirled round, sword flailing. Derisive laughter burst out all around and Dagny looked at me with sudden hatred burning with tahn-induced paranoia. Now it was my fault he’d shown himself up as an ignorant yokel, not realising no man of honour would attack an opponent’s unknowing back.

He came at me, blade sweeping from side to side, over and under, the tahn giving him speed and strength far beyond mine. I moved back, fending him off, too busy saving my own skin to attack the repeated holes Dagny left in his defences. My hand ached abominably every time I put any weight in a blow, hot pain spreading from my knuckles up my arm and down to weaken my fingers. Mistal’s leaf was doing me no cursed good at all.

Our swords locked on their guards; we held together for a tense moment while everyone fell silent. I managed to throw him away, muscles hardened by years of hard toil on my side, to balance the energy of youth and intoxicants driving Dagny on. I backed away, keeping a safe distance.

“Come and fight,” he taunted. “D’Olbriot’s man, all hair oil and no poke, that’s what they’re saying.”

So tahn made him talkative. “Who’s saying?” Was it the person who’d put him up to this? I’d pay good coin to know who that was. “Some whore trying making you feel better because you couldn’t show her the eye in your needle?”

Dagny thrust at me, that same direct stroke of his. I tried to roll his blade over to stab at his forearms but he swept the sword out and away, swinging it round his head to scythe it back at me. I had that instant of choice again, to go for his open chest or to save my own skull. Prick him with the point of my sword and I’d have the bout won, I’d take his blade in my ear all the same. I could tell from his glazed eyes that Dagny wasn’t about to pull his blow.

I countered the sideswipe with a block that sent splintering agony through my injured hand. I ignored the pain as I forced his sword down to the side. But he kept coming, turning his sword over and around, sliding a sweeping strike in over my guard, and this time I couldn’t block it. The throbbing in my knuckles was momentarily dulled by the icy fire of a slice biting into my forearm.

Dagny cheered himself, hands high in a self-congratulatory display. Even Den Thasnet’s men looked embarrassed and everyone else just yelled their contempt. Dagny hurled abuse back at the gesturing men, threatening those closest with his bloodied blade in defiance of all custom. The noise was deafening.

I let him strut like a dunghill cockerel, tearing at the rip in my shirt sleeve to look at the cut. Deep enough for stitches, Dast curse it, no mere token like the scratches Lovis and I had exchanged. No matter, I’d had worse, even though it stung like a father’s sorrow, and Temar’s strapping would soak up any blood that might otherwise foul my grip. I’d had enough of Dagny, I decided. After all, I’d my reputation and D’Olbriot’s to consider.

How could I end this without killing him? Because that would give us a brawl and dishonour both. It’d take a bad wound to disable a man with tahn masking any pain and that was an interesting notion, wasn’t it? Den Thasnet’s men couldn’t simply bundle him off if he was bleeding badly and Fyle’s wife was the best nurse hereabouts. With a potent dose of tahn tea on top of what he’d already taken, Dagny would yammer louder than a pig hearing the slop bucket. Then we might well learn something interesting.

I walked slowly to the centre of the ground as Dagny exchanged insults with the crowd. I kept my face impassive but for faint disdain. Stolley started D’Olbriot’s men on a rhythmic chant of my name, D’Istrac lending their voice, soon joined by Jord and other Den Murivance men.

Den Thasnet’s men shout for their own man was soon drowned out. Dagny turned to me, the boldness in his eyes fading beneath the onslaught of hostility from every side. What replaced it was all the vicious cunning of a privy house rat. He took up a ready stance, two hands on his sword, blade at belly level, ready to move to either side. I drew up my sword one-handed, hilt high above my head, the blade hanging down across my body ready to parry any move he made. I leaned my weight on my back foot and smiled at him.

The chanting stopped in ragged confusion as I saw perplexity cloud Dagny’s eyes. A sound like wind rushing through reeds hissed around the sand. “Aldabreshin!” “Aldabreshin!” I only hoped the ferocious reputation of Archipelagan swordsmen had reached whatever marsh Dagny had crawled out of and that someone had mentioned my enslavement down in the islands last year. Now Fyle and the rest could see I’d learned something more cursed useful than a warlord’s wife’s bed tricks.

Tension crackled in the air so palpably I wouldn’t have been surprised to see lightning strike. Dagny’s mouth twisted and he launched a hacking stroke at me. I met it even before he’d got the full force behind the blow, stepping in and grabbing for his sword-hilt with my free hand. That sent him scuttling back in confusion, remembering the way I’d pinned him earlier.

He tried to spit on the ground again but now his mouth was dry. I waited patiently with a mocking smile and when he brought his sword level I took up the same Aldabreshin stance. Dagny thought he saw an opening and tried his favourite thrust down at my legs, but as soon as I saw his shoulders tense I angled my blade down to defeat the blow, hitting him hard enough to shake his balance. That gave me an instant of opportunity; I twisted my wrist over and sliced deep into his forearm, the blade falling instantly from his nerveless fingers. Scarlet blood saturated his sleeve in a moment but he just stood there, gaping.

I ripped the torn sleeve off my own shirt and shoved up Dagny’s cuff to see the damage. It was a deep gash right along the meat of his forearm but I’d taken him so much by surprise he’d had no chance to turn his wrist. That should have saved the tendons but I’d hit a major blood vessel by the looks of it. I pressed the linen to the wound, my hands already sticky and slick. “Hold this down hard.” I took his free hand and clamped it down.

“But they said I had to kill you,” he muttered unguardedly, shock at the unexpected wound doubling the garrulous impulse born of tahn.

“Who said?” I demanded, too soon, too curt, but people were crowding on to the sand.

He focused on me and realisation shuttered his eyes. “I’ve ever fought against Archipelagan sword styles before. They said you weren’t fit to be chosen anyway.”

“Who said?” I repeated, pressing down hard on his wound, more to hurt him now than to staunch the blood.

“Let me see!” Den Thasnet’s man tried to pull my hands off Dagny.

“Back off,” I growled. “Send for Mistress Fyle.”

“She’s on her way,” someone said behind me.

“We’ve nurses of our own,” insisted Den Thasnet’s man; I heard fear in his voice. “Come on Dagny, we’re leaving.” He wrenched at my bandaged hand.

I swore at him but hadn’t the strength in the injured fingers to resist. A solid phalanx with trefoil amulets were pushing forward to surround Dagny, pushing everyone else away. I saw someone behind Stolley answer a brutal shove with a ready punch.

“Let him go!” I shouted. “If the stupid bastard bleeds to death in some gutter, it’s no loss to us.”

“Don’t be a fool, man!” Fyle tried to hold Dagny back, but Den Thasnet’s man smacked the provost’s hand from the lad’s shaking shoulder.

“You’re stopping us?” A thick-set brawler with foul breath and pox scars pitting his face stepped up to Fyle.

“Provost!” My curt formality got Fyle’s attention just before he shut the man’s mouth with his fist. “They came looking for a fight and they’ve had the only one they’re going to get. Their man lost and that’s all there is to it.”

I was relieved to hear a murmur of agreement behind me, led by Mistal and Temar.

“True enough.” Fyle looked at Den Thasnet’s man without a hint of good will. “Get your filth off my ground.”

The pockmarked man grabbed at Fyle’s shoulders, ready to smash the provost’s nose with his forehead. Fyle was too quick, making the self-same move an instant sooner and sending the big man stumbling back blindly.

“Ingel, leave it!” Den Thasnet’s man was still trying to staunch Dagny’s wound, the bandages already sodden with blood. The mob sworn to Den Thasnet gathered still closer as Dagny stumbled, face greenish white.

“Let them pass!” Fyle raised a commanding hand, his own fury vented in part by breaking the pockmarked man’s nose.

“Wait.” Mistal stepped in front of Den Thasnet’s spokesman. “As an advocate sworn to the courts of law, I call all here to bear witness. You are removing this man from competent care of your own choice. Don’t even think of making any claim that Fyle or D’Olbriot failed in their duty to succour the wounded.” His words rang with authority and I was pleased to see uncertainty flicker across Den Thasnet faces.

I watched them leave the rapidly emptying practice ground with frustration burning in my throat, that and the bitter chewing leaf. I spat it out. Who had told those men lies convincing enough to bring them here for a fight in blatant disregard of every custom?

“Dalmit?” I saw a sworn man I recognised from Tor Kanselin. “You’re not on duty tonight, are you?”

“Me? No.”

I spoke quickly in low tones. “Someone wanted trouble here today. I want to know who, and so will the Sieur, but none of Den Thasnet’s are going to give D’Olbriot’s the steam off their piss now. How about you and a few lads swing round the inns and brothels where Den Thasnet’s men slake their thirsts? See what you can kick or cajole out of some unwary drunk? I’ll make your purse good for everything you spend.”

He looked at me thoughtfully. “Do you think this ties in with whoever wanted your D’Alsennin dead?” A sworn man taking that kind of news to his Sieur would be remembered.

I shook my head. “I’ve no idea.”

“It’s got to be worth a look,” said Dalmit with a predatory grin. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Shall we get you cleaned up?” Mistal tried for a smile. As he took his hands out of his breeches pockets and found some chewing leaf, I saw his hands were shaking. Temar by contrast looked like a hound who’d caught an interesting scent and then been chained up in the kennel yard.

“We agreed not to give them a fight, Temar,” I reminded him.

“Must that mean we never hit back?” he growled.

“We need to know who we’re fighting,” I pointed out.

“Den Thasnet for one, that is clear enough,” he said scornfully.

I pulled off my bloodstained, sweaty shirt. “We’ll go back to the residence and start planning our campaign, shall we?” My injured hand throbbed and the strains of intense sword-play pulled at my muscles. I was going to miss Livak’s skilful fingers working rubbing oils into my shoulders tonight.

“You need something to drink and something to eat!” Stolley reappeared, offering me an uncorked bottle. I drank deep, no way to treat a good wine, but I was too thirsty to care.

“Not until you’ve had that stitched.” Fyle elbowed him aside, bandages and salve at the ready.

I looked at the oozing slice on my arm and took another long drink of wine. “Have you some tahn paste to numb it?”

“Rysh! Get yourself bandaged and we can start the serious drinking!” Jord raised a tankard to me as he shouted over the avid debates being joined all around us.

Mistal looked at me. “This is probably our best chance of finding out if anyone put him up to answering the challenge, him and Lovis.” D’Istrac men all looked keen to join any celebration going.

Temar was bright-eyed with interest. “It would hardly be courteous, to leave at once.”

I hesitated. “We can stay for a little while.”

A Hireling Coach, Summer Solstice Festival, Third Day, Evening

And do you remember Inshowe, the tailor up by the portage way?”

Temar did his best to look interested at what would doubtless be yet another story about people he didn’t know and places he was never likely to see.

“Had a wife with a limp?” Ryshad sat up straighter as the carriage carrying the three of them bounced over uneven cobbles. “Three daughters, all with faces like a wet washday?”

“That’s him.” Mistal could hardly speak for laughing. “The wife, she was all for putting a wonderful new frontage on their house, squared-off stone, nice Rational lines, none of these old-fashioned bays and turrets.”

Ryshad frowned with the effort of recall. “But all those houses are timber-framed. You’d be better to tear the whole thing down and start again.”

Mistal nodded with heavy emphasis. “That’s was Hansey said when they came asking. He totted up the men and materials for a job like that and her ladyship near fainted in the yard.”

Hansey and Ridner were the oldest Tathel brothers, Temar remembered belatedly, stonemasons down in Zyoutessela.

“Inshowe’s never as rich as he likes to pretend.” Ryshad yawned. “If he was, someone would have taken those whey-faced girls off his hands.”

Temar felt slightly let down by that unguarded remark.

“Hansey reckoned that’d be the last they’d hear of it,” continued Mistal. “But next market day Ridner comes home saying the word round the well is Jeshet’s going to do the work.”

“The brickmaker?” Ryshad asked, puzzled.

Mistal was nodding. “He’d convinced Inshowe he could reface the building in brick. It would look just like stone, he told him, built up to a nice flat roofline. Only someone reckoned to save time and coin by not taking the old roof off.”

Ryshad shook his head. “I don’t follow.”

He wasn’t the only one, thought Temar sourly.

“They built up the frontage with brick and carried it up to the same height as the roof ridge.” Mistal illustrated his words with gestures. “Then they filled in the gap, from the slope of the old roof to the frontage, with brick.”

Ryshad gaped. “How did they secure it?”

“They didn’t.” Mistal was still chuckling. “Half a season later the whole top section slid clean off the old roof, bringing most of the facing down with it! The street was blocked for two days and Inshowe had to pay a fortune to get it cleared. Now he’s arguing Jeshet’s liable for all that coin as well as making everything good. Jeshet says he only did what Inshowe told him.”

“Was anyone hurt?” Temar was appalled.

Mistal looked perplexed. “No, it all came down in the middle of the night.”

“A rude awakening,” Ryshad observed. “Who are you arguing for?”

“Jeshet,” said Mistal promptly. “He may only be a brick-maker but that’s a more honest trade than tailoring.”

“That’s good, coming from an advocate!” laughed Ryshad. Temar felt entitled to join in after what he had seen in the courts.

The carriage lurched to a halt and the driver hammered the butt of his whip on the roof. “You wanted Narrow Shear?”

“Yes,” yelled Mistal. The door hung crookedly on stretched leather hinges as he got out. “I’ll need credentials from Burquest to get access to the Tor Alder archive, so I’ll do that first thing. Oh, Temar, your clothes—”

“Return them tomorrow,” Temar said politely.

“First thing,” Mistal promised solemnly. “When I’ve had a look at the records, I’ll call round and tell you what kind of case we might make.”

Temar wondered how early Mistal might consider first thing, given the bottles of wine he’d helped empty down at the sword school.

Ryshad waved his brother off and settled back against the greasy upholstery. “Mist’s always full of the latest news from home,” he apologised.

Temar managed a thin smile. “I imagine Zyoutessela is much changed from the town I remember.”

“The colony expedition set sail from there, didn’t it?” Ryshad looked pensive.

He was doubtless recalling those echoes of Temar’s own memories left him by the enchantment; it was a shame he hadn’t won some of Ryshad’s knowledge in exchange, Temar thought crossly. Then he might not feel so utterly at sea this side of the ocean.

Ryshad yawned and fell silent, cradling his thickly bandaged hand across his chest. Temar watched the city go past the open window of the hireling coach. A puppet show was drawing a good crowd, rapt in the light of flickering lanterns in an alley mouth. Inns and taverns were doing a roaring trade on every side. Cheerful family groups bowled past in complacent coaches or walked along, arm in arm. Every so often some gathering blocked the flagway as people met with delighted greetings, exchanging news and embraces. The narrow houses of the tradesmen living below the old city were lit from cellar to garret, a season’s worth of candles squandered over the five days of Festival as visitors were welcomed, parties given and the births, betrothals and weddings of the previous season all celebrated in the finest style that each family could afford. As the coach wound its way up to higher ground, wealthier merchants competed with their neighbours in more decorous but ever more lavish revels.

Temar looked at the proud dwellings, struggling between sadness and defiance. He had no family, no home, not on this side of the ocean anyway, and unless Burquest, Mistal and all their clerks could come up with some winning argument, he wasn’t going to have a House or a Name to call his own either. He smiled thinly to himself at the weak joke.

What of it? He’d set his face eastwards when he’d first sailed to Kel Ar’Ayen, hadn’t he? He’d promised his grand-sire he’d raise the House of D’Alsennin to its former glories beyond the ocean, and by Saedrin he would do so still. He’d been mistaken to think all the cares of the colony were tedious and trivial, Temar realised. These so-called nobles, with their self-absorbed, trifling concerns, they were the petty ones.

Temar turned his thoughts determinedly to Kel Ar’Ayen. Rebuilding what remained of the original settlement had been their first priority, that and ensuring the remaining sleepers in the cavern were guarded in comfort and safety. Both those tasks had been pretty much complete when he’d set sail, hadn’t they? What was left of the southern settlement, he wondered, where ocean ships had escaped Elietimm attack, salvation for those few who’d escaped under Vahil’s leadership to carry the enchanted artefacts home? He’d find out, Temar decided, as soon as he got back. Making plans for an expedition occupied him as the carriage rumbled through the city and Ryshad dozed silently.

The horses slowed on the long incline leading to the D’Olbriot residence just as a new notion struck Temar. It was time the settlements of Kel Ar’Ayen had names, to honour those with the vision to found the colony, who’d shed their life’s blood in its defence. Saedrin’s stones, he wasn’t about to let Den Fellaemion just be written out of history as subsumed into Tor Priminale!

He snorted with inadvertent contempt as the carriage pulled up in front of the D’Olbriot gatehouse and the driver banged on the roof once more.

“Did you say something?” Ryshad opened his eyes, swallowing a curse as he inadvertently leaned on his injured hand.

“No, but we are back,” Temar opened the door before turning to Ryshad with a faintly embarrassed smile. “What is a fair recompense for the driver? I have coin, but—”

“A couple of silver Marks will give him something over for Festival.” Ryshad scrubbed his unbandaged palm over his face. “Dast’s teeth, I’m weary.”

“You have had a busy day,” Temar pointed out.

“I should have taken more water with my wine,” said Ryshad ruefully. “At least you kept your wits about you.”

“Avila and Messire’s surgeon were firmly agreed on that,” Temar shrugged. “As little alcohol as possible after a blow to the head, they insisted.”

“Ryshad, Fair Festival!” The chosen man on duty in the gatehouse waved at them. “One of Fyle’s lads brought the news, and the Sieur said to broach a barrel for the barracks on the strength of it!”

“Fair Festival to you, Naer,” Ryshad grinned. “What bet did you lose to be on duty tonight?”

“Is the Demoiselle Tor Arrial within?” Temar interrupted. “You really must let her see that hand, Ryshad.”

Naer shook his head. He was as tall as Ryshad, Temar realised, with the same lean build but substantially more years thickening his waist and thinning his hair. “The Relict Tor Bezaemar called for her late this afternoon, something about visiting a shrine fraternity? She’s not back yet.”

“Are the Sieur and Esquire Camarl here?” Ryshad asked.

The swordsman shook his head again. “They got back from the courts just after sunset but went out again as soon as they’d changed. I think they’re dining with Den Murivance.” The swordsman looked at Temar with ready amusement. “The Demoiselles of the Name are holding a musical evening, Esquire D’Alsennin. They were most insistent I remind you as soon as you returned.”

“Thanks.” Ryshad looked thoughtful as they walked away. “I wonder how well Master Burquest argued today.”

“Tell me about Den Murivance,” Temar invited. “What is their status compared to D’Olbriot? What is their interest in Kel Ar’Ayen?”

“I imagine the key there’s the embarrassment of eligible and marriageable daughters blessing their House.” Ryshad took a deep breath of the cool evening air but it still turned into another yawn. “Any one of whom would make a wife with rank to reinforce your claim to restoring your Name. That would certainly settle the rumours that the Sieur’s planning to marry you off to one of his nieces. Another major House stepping into play over Kellarin would give Names like Den Thasnet pause for thought as well.”

They were heading for the residence, black shadows adding their own solid pattern to the complexity of the gardens. At every turn of these paths within hedges within walls Temar felt increasingly penned in.

“Den Murivance is extremely wealthy,” continued Ryshad. “They’ve significant holdings from Lequesine to Moretayne. The only reason they don’t have quite D’Olbriot’s prestige is the last three Sieurs have been more interested in commerce than politics.” He looked at Temar with a wicked smile. “So, did you find Gelaia easy on the eye this morning? A white-feathered fan means a girl’s open to offers, did you know that?”

Temar struggled for an answer. Looking away from Ryshad’s gently mocking gaze, he saw two figures coming down the path, their sudden hesitation catching Temar’s eye. “Who are they?”

“Visiting servants?” Ryshad peered into the gloom but the men had halted in the dimness where the flaming torches of the gatehouse fell short of the glow from the windows of the residence.

Temar shrugged and continued walking. The two men did the same, passing Ryshad with eyes firmly fixed on the ground. Their steps crunched with increasing haste.

Ryshad stopped and looked at Temar. “I didn’t recognise them, did you?”

Temar shook his head. “And I have this old-fashioned habit of actually looking at servants.”

“And they look at you, more to the point, and bow.” Ryshad frowned. “All the visiting servants have been told you’re entitled to every courtesy, in no uncertain terms.”

They turned to see the two unknown men disappear abruptly behind a thick yew hedge.

“They’re cutting round the residence to the stableyard.” Ryshad was scowling.

“Honest servants with permission to go out would surely leave through the main gate?” Temar’s own suspicions were growing.

“Dast curse it,” Ryshad said crossly. “It’s probably nothing, but sometimes sneak thieves take advantage of Festival comings and goings. I’ll go back and tell Naer to verify anyone trying to leave. You get over to the stables and tell whoever’s on watch to get his thumb out of his arse. Tell them to shut the gates.”

Temar didn’t need telling twice and ran down the shadowed path on light feet, settling his sword on his hip out of old habit.

The stableyard opened on to the lane running round behind the residence. The main block was a low, wide building and Temar passed doors warm with the scent of horses stalled within, more animals housed in wings reaching back into the darkness on either side. A steeply gabled coach-house flanked the stables on one hand while on the other a squat granary perched on stone-flanged pillars to foil greedy vermin. A newer dwelling for grooms and stable boys presented a squarely Rational face to these buildings, sharp stone corners and rigidly parallel windows in contrast to older, curving lines and ornate cornices. Beyond the beaten expanse of earth where coach wheels wore a rutted circle, wrought-iron gates stood open to the night. Carefully shuttered lanterns illuminated a couple of grooms playing an idle game of Raven on an upturned barrel.

Temar ran up to the liveried sentry on duty in a cubby hole by the gate. “You — has anyone passed in the last few moments?”

The sentry stood smartly upright. “No, Esquire, no one.”

Temar had never seen him before but the sworn man knew to recognise D’Alsennin with due courtesy. Ryshad was right. “Chosen Tathel suspects thieves are in the grounds,” he said curtly. “Close the gates and let no one pass without someone vouching for them.”

The sentry immediately blew three sharp notes on a whistle hung round his neck. Four sworn men appeared from the new building.

“Ryshad says there’s rats in the garden,” the sentry explained. “You two, start looking. Iffa, rouse the barracks.” The remaining man helped him swing the heavy gates closed.

“What’s to do?” A voice called down from the parapet high above their heads.

“Ryshad reckons he saw sneaks in the grounds,” yelled the sentry.

“There’s no sign up here.” But the voice was already moving away in the darkness where the trees beyond hung black shadows over the walls.

“You’d best get yourself safe inside the residence, Esquire,” said the sentry with faint apology. “The ladies are having a musical evening, aren’t they?”

Temar nodded but didn’t reply. No, he’d go and find Ryshad. He had a blade after all, and he knew how to use it, more than could be said for whatever fashionable nobles were hiding inside the house. Shrill whistles sounded, some high on the walls, some closer at hand, answering trills from the gatehouse.

Heavy boots thudded and a liveried guard skidded to a halt in front of Temar. “Identify yourself! Ah, Esquire, beg pardon, but shouldn’t you be inside?”

“Where is Ryshad?” Temar summoned all his grandsire’s authority.

“Over yonder, sir, going to check the kitchen yard,” the man replied promptly.

“I will assist him.” Temar turned down what he hoped was the right path. These gardens were cursed confusing in the dark, he thought crossly. Light spilled across his way as an upper window in the house was unshuttered. Curious faces looked briefly out into the night and a spinet faltered to a halt before picking up its heedless merriment a moment later.

Temar tried to get his bearings, a hand on his sword hilt to balance it. If that was the new, west front, then the kitchens were on the other side of the house, beyond what would have been the great hall in his day, now given over to servants’ quarters. He rounded the low wall skirting the kitchen yard and the two men with Ryshad levelled blades at him in a single movement.

“D’Alsennin!” Temar identified himself with a catch in his voice.

“Seen anything?” asked Ryshad.

Temar shook his head. “But the stable gates are closed and the men on the walls alerted. And do not tell me I should be safer within doors,” he shot a warning look at Ryshad. “I have two sound hands, which is more than you.”

Ryshad acknowledged that truth with a grin. “Then watch my back.” He hefted a borrowed cudgel in his good hand. “You two, turn the yard inside out. We’ll take the physic garden.”

As the other two started a thorough search of every nook and cranny, Ryshad led Temar through a rose-garlanded arch into a small enclosure. At the older man’s nod Temar moved to the far side, following a narrow path between low hedges of lavender framing tidy patterns of pungent herbs. A small plinth at the centre of the garden bore a dutifully garlanded statue of Larasion, the goddess proffering a stone branch bearing bud, blossom and fruit all at the same time. Temar tasted familiar scents waking beneath the rising dew as his steps stirred thyme growing in dense mats and sage lifting downy leaves silver in the light of the lesser moon. Mint waved scatters of black leaves as he brushed past.

“We’ll check the store.” Ryshad pointed at a stone hut hidden in a thick holly hedge that screened the mundanities of the kitchen yard.

Temar peered into the recessed doorway, wondering if he saw movement or a trick of the darkness. He drew his sword.

Three urgent blasts sounded over towards the north wall. Ryshad and Temar turned as shouts rang out and in that instant a hooded figure darted out from the shelter of the holly, trampling sprays of fennel and comfrey. Temar sprang at the man but crushed slickness beneath his boot betrayed him. He fell to one knee and the thief kicked out, knocking Temar’s sword out of his hand. Temar scrambled up, catching the man round the waist and knocking him backwards. The thief fought hard, twisting, hammering at Temar with brutal fists. He punched the younger man hard on the side of the head and Temar’s grip slipped.

“No you don’t!” Ryshad was there, swinging his cudgel low, catching the intruder behind one knee. The man fell and Temar nearly had him pinned among the heady crush of herbs but the thief wriggled free with some inexplicable twist of his body. Ryshad couldn’t reach the man with his club, could only chase him out into the darkness of the gardens. Temar raced to his side, breathing hard, salvaged sword bright in the night.

“Where did he go?” Ryshad turned slowly. Temar searched the patterned shadows of hedge and flowerbed, head pounding. Whistles rang out in the distance, beyond the wall as far as Temar could judge. Had one of them got away? Saedrin’s stones, they’d best catch the other! The sound of a careless boot gouging into gravel rewarded his inarticulate prayer.

“Behind the stables,” Temar kept his voice as low as he could.

Ryshad nodded agreement and they walked warily through the dark, haste balanced by vigilance.

With the light of the lesser moon still all but full Temar noticed a black shape lying along the pentice roof of an outhouse built along the inside of the hollow square of the stables. He pointed it out to Ryshad in tense silence. The chosen man nodded him over into the angle of the buildings and moved towards the open end of the range. Temar walked carefully through stray straw, eyes fixed on the black shape. It lay motionless and Temar suddenly hoped it wasn’t merely some trick of the shadows.

No, it was a man, abruptly kneeling upright as instinct or noise alerted him to their approach. Weight spread on hands and knees, he edged across the sloping tiles, away from Ryshad. Temar discarded his sword in sudden decision, climbing quickly on to a water butt. Startled, the thief froze and made to move back. Temar swung himself up, one boot on the edge of the roof. The intruder stood and ran up the slope of the pentice, only his speed saving him as tiles slid and broke beneath his feet, crashing down. Finding some handhold he swung himself up on the gutter, on to the roof of the stables, balancing as he ran along the roof ridge towards the outer walls.

“Shit!” Temar saw Ryshad hadn’t the strength in his injured hand to pull himself on to the pentice roof. “Temar? Can you get up there?”

“I think so.” Bracing himself in the angle of the walls he used every bone and muscle to press arms and legs against the unyielding stone, scraping skin, cloth and the leather of his boots as he forced himself up. Chest heaving he pulled himself awkwardly on to the stable roof, heart sinking as he saw the empty expanse of tiles.

Temar moved cautiously up to the roof ridge, fingers pressed flat. He wasn’t about to give up. Ryshad was waiting below so the thief couldn’t get off the roof unseen, could he? Moss squelched dangerously beneath Temar’s hands and knees and he breathed a sigh of relief when he could swing a leg over the ridge, trying to ignore the bone-breaking drop on either side.

A noise pulled Temar’s head round, nearly overbalancing him, but it was just a cat, hair fluffed to an indignant halo in the moonlight. Temar drew in a sharp breath of relief but a heavier sound beneath the light patter of paws made him hold it in. He let it go slowly, turning carefully, looking at the tall chimneystack foursquare at the angle of the stable buildings. The cats in his grandfather’s yard had always favoured chimney corners, hadn’t they? What had startled that mouser out of its cosy nook? Sliding down, Temar used the roof ridge to shield him and worked his way closer.

The thief was there, motionless in the shadow of the chimney-stack, intent on the sentry pacing the parapet of the outer wall beyond, the only thing between him and escape. Temar watched, heart in his mouth as the sentry moved slowly away and the thief bent in a cautious crouch. Was he going to try and jump the gap? No, the man lowered himself over the edge of the roof, at full stretch to drop into the black shadows below.

Even if he called him, Ryshad couldn’t get round in time. Temar scrambled as fast as he could across the roof, swinging himself over the edge as the intruder hit the ground with an involuntary grunt. The stone dug cruelly into Temar’s hands. Curse it, he couldn’t chance this, risk breaking a bone or worse. But it was too late, his own weight committed him, breaking his grip on the stone. Temar fell, landed, relaxed and rolled to break his fall, instinctive reactions learned from years in the saddle coming unexpectedly to his aid. He was on his feet with a speed that startled himself as much as the thief now crouching below the perimeter wall.

The man was on him before Temar could shout an alert, murderous purpose contorting his face. The thief threw a punch but Temar caught it in an open hand, gripping and twisting, grabbing the man’s other shoulder as he did so. The thief kicked, nearly knocking Temar’s foot out from under him. Temar stumbled and lost his hold, letting the man drive a brutal fist straight at his face. Temar knocked it aside with his forearm, the impact jarring him to the shoulder, then swung all his weight behind a punch of his own, catching the thief full under the chin and snapping his head back.

The thief hooked a fist to clout Temar’s ear but Temar raised arm and shoulder in an instinctive block. The thief grabbed his sleeve, trying to pull him off balance. Temar smacked his fist backhanded into the man’s nose and the thief let go, ducking backwards. Temar stepped in but the intruder met him with fists striking one after the other, spitting blood and fury. Temar took a blow on the ribs, another, a punishing blow to the stomach. The thief drew back his arm and Temar brought his knee up into the man’s groin. The intruder went down like a sack from a broken hoist, retching and gasping.

Ryshad and a couple of sworn men came running up as Temar rolled the thief over, twisting unresisting arms behind his back. “So we’ve got one at very least.”

“Got him in the stones,” Naer the gateward observed, seeing the man’s agonised grimace and drawn-up knees.

“Always a good trick, if you can do it.” Ryshad grinned approval at Temar.

“Those mercenaries been teaching you their trade, Esquire?” Naer asked, harsh voice not unfriendly. “Take a tip from a real warrior, eyes or knees is as good as stones and most men are slower to defend them.” He was searching the intruder as he spoke, rough hands brutally thorough. “Nothing on him but that means naught. Lock him up.”

“A good kick on the side of a knee can send a man spewing,” added one of the sworn men as they dragged the unresisting thief along the path. “We’ll show you, Esquire, if our pal here doesn’t give up his friend’s den. What do you say?”

But the thief was too sunk in his present misery to worry about any new threat, from what Temar could see. “What happens now?”

“He spends tonight in the gatehouse cell,” Ryshad replied. “He’ll face the Sieur’s justice in the morning. In the meantime, let’s find out what him and his mate were after. Naer! Me and D’Alsennin, we’ll check the shutters.” He turned to Temar. “Look for sprung hinges, loose slats, bent struts. Chances are it’ll be an upper window.”

“Halcarion be thanked for at least one good moon,” Temar murmured as Ryshad began a slow circuit of the residence.

Ryshad spat as they rounded a corner. “Shit!”

“What?”

“There.” Ryshad pointed to a louvred shutter where a strip of wood hung loose to cast an angled shadow over the rest.

Temar tried to work out what room might lie behind it. “That must be where they tried to get in.”

“You think Messire’s steward would let any shutter stay broken for Solstice, when half those bearing the Name come to stay and half the nobles in the city will be visiting?” asked Ryshad grimly. “And those two were on their way out, Temar, so chances are they didn’t just try, they got in. Come on.”

Temar followed Ryshad in through a side door, the chosen man giving his frustrations free rein as they went up a servants’ stair. “We can’t lock every door, every gate, not with so many people going in and out. It’s always the same at Festival, guests arriving right round the chimes, coaches calling to take visitors hither and yon.” He stopped suddenly as they were halfway up a flight of servants’ stairs. “And half the best men will be down at the sword school this evening, three-fifths drunk. Do you suppose that’s what the challenge was all about? Clearing the way for some theft here tonight? Curse it, I’m starting to sound like Casuel, seeing Eldritch-men conspiring in every corner. Here we are.”

Temar looked past Ryshad’s shoulder into a small room cluttered with everything the ubiquitous maids needed to keep the residence in good order. Glass from the window shone like fragments of moonlight on the shadow-striped floor and the catch on the casement had been broken clean off.

Ryshad pushed the shutter open, setting moonlight free inside the room. “We’d best set the valets and maids checking jewel cases. So, is this just theft or some new plot to discredit D’Olbriot? All these if’s and maybes could drive a man distracted!”

Mention of jewel cases turned Temar’s thoughts instantly elsewhere. “What lies beneath us here?”

He saw a reflection of his own fears spark in Ryshad’s eyes. “The library.”

Temar was out of the room, running down the stairs, Ryshad hard on his heels. They reached the library door together. Temar reached for the handle, praying it would be locked, his heart sinking as it gave way on silent hinges. “Raise some light,” he snapped.

Ryshad turned to take a lamp from a table in the corridor. The subdued glow was too feeble to reach the book-lined walls but was enough to show them an expanse of crumpled linen empty on the table, a few remaining trinkets scattered beside the gaping emptiness of the ancient coffer.

“Poldrion’s pustulent demons’ arseholes!” Temar felt entitled to echo his grandfather’s extravagant rages. “Come on.”

Ryshad moved to stop Temar storming out of the room. “Where to?”

“To see what that fellow in the gatehouse has to say!” Rage and dismay threatened to choke Temar. He’d had those artefacts, he’d held the means to restore so many people in his hands. How could this have happened?

“Justice within his own walls is a Sieur’s prerogative, Temar.” There was regret as well as reproof in Ryshad’s voice. “You can’t usurp it.”

Temar stared at him. “So what do we do?”

“The one we caught will go before the Sieur in the morning.” Ryshad looked round the library and Temar realised the man’s face was hollowed with exhaustion. “But the other man must have got away with the loot. Do you think Demoiselle Avila has any Artifice that could help us find him?”

Temar was silenced by the appalling realisation that he’d be the one telling Avila about this disaster. He swallowed hard as two hesitant maids and a footman appeared in the doorway, eyes wide and wondering.

“Find out if anything’s been stolen elsewhere,” Ryshad ordered them curtly. “Come and tell me as soon as you’ve checked your mistresses’ coffers, your master’s jewels. Go on!”

Temar found his voice as the servants hurried off. “Who would do this?”

“I don’t know.” Ryshad spaced his words with barely controlled anger. “Just like I don’t know who broke into the warehouse in Bremilayne. Just like we don’t know who stabbed you in the back, or who set me up for a sword in the guts today.”

“He was Den Thasnet’s man, wasn’t he?” Rage seared Temar’s throat. “Den Muret, Den Rannion, they were setting themselves up against us in the court. Can’t we just call out the barracks and challenge them to prove their innocence?”

“If it were only that simple,” Ryshad growled. “We need proof, Temar, something absolute, undeniable to tie a Name to all this. Something to lead us to the man who got away would be a start.”

“We have his fellow in the gatehouse,” cried Temar. “He can answer to the Sieur in the morning all well and good, but can we not at least get him to talk tonight?”

Ryshad looked at him for a long moment. “What do you suggest? Beating him? The Sieur will have Naer’s hide if he presents a prisoner with the shit kicked out of him. We don’t do that, not in this House.”

“Avila’s not the only one who can work Artifice,” Temar said, exasperated. “You know that. I could work the binding you were all treating so lightly before your courts for one thing. Then we will know if the man speaks the truth or lies to us.”

The unguarded distaste flickering across Ryshad’s face set Temar’s smouldering anger ablaze. “You’re going to have to come to terms with Artifice, Ryshad! Why not now? You cannot always just reject it out of hand because you were caught up in enchantment with me. Forget all this Toremal mistrust of mages—this is me, Ryshad, not Planir, not Casuel.” He burned with sudden determination to prove to Ryshad that some good could be wrought with Artifice. “Even with the few incantations I know, I may just learn something from this scum, his name at very least. That could be enough to find some trail before the scent goes entirely cold. What would that be worth?”

He bit off his words abruptly but wouldn’t drop his gaze. Ryshad looked away first. “All right, let’s see what you can do.”

Temar was taut with nervousness by the time they reached the gatehouse, neck stiff and tension pounding in his head. He realised he was rubbing his hands over and over each other and thrust them through the belt of his borrowed jerkin.

“Naer.” Ryshad nodded as they went into the watch room opening off the wide arch of the gate. “The Esquire wants to see the prisoner.”

Naer rubbed a thoughtful hand over his heavily shaded chin. “Don’t leave any marks on his face.” He tossed Ryshad a heavy ring of keys.

“This way.” Ryshad opened a far door on to an age-darkened stone spiral. Temar followed him down steps chipped and worn at the edges. “Watch your feet,” the chosen man advised him.

The stair opened on to a room divided with rough wooden partitions between the barrel vaults held up by thick pillars. A single lamp hung by the entrance, striking dull light from the chains holding the captured thief.

“Fair Festival to you,” said Ryshad pleasantly. “This shouldn’t hurt, not too much anyway.”

The man stiffened, chains chinking, defiance in his eyes. His lips narrowed, chin jutting forward as he braced himself.

Ryshad smiled again and folded his arms with slow deliberation. “Esquire?”

Temar did his best to equal Ryshad’s air of amiable threat. “Aer tes saltir, sa forl agraine.”

The prisoner’s confusion was plain to see. “What’s he say?”

“Never you mind,” said Ryshad with a satisfaction that only mystified the man further.

“His name is Drosel,” said Temar, trying to blend an offhand tone with an air of utter confidence.

“You don’t know me,” the thief said before he could stop himself. “You don’t know that. Who told you? Who gave me up?”

“No one gave you up, pal. Esquire D’Alsennin here, he can pick things like that right out of your thoughts. You’ve heard about the Esquire, I suppose,” Ryshad enquired casually. “He’s from Kellarin, you’ve heard of that? Nemith the Last’s lost colony, all the people sleeping away the generations under enchantment? Of course you have. Well, you’re going to learn a bit more than most people about ancient enchantments, pal. The Esquire here’s going to go looking for answers between your ears.”

Temar froze and hoped the shock didn’t show on his face. He couldn’t do that. Surely Ryshad wasn’t expecting him to work Artifice that complicated? He cleared his throat.

Ryshad raised a hand. “I know you want to, Esquire, but the Sieur’s a just man. We’ll give this filth one last chance to save his sanity before you turn his head inside out. You see, the problem is he can pick your wits apart but he can’t put all the pieces back together again.” He bent close to the rough bars and stared at the man, face grim with utter sincerity. “Believe me, you want to cooperate. You don’t want him inside your head, digging through every wretched memory you treasure. I saw this done to a girl once. She said she’d rather half a barracks had raped her and slit her ears and nose for good measure.”

Temar tasted blood inside his mouth as he bit his lip realising for the first time the depth of Ryshad’s antipathy towards Artifice. The chosen man turned away from the prisoner, the lamplight harsh on his drawn face, mercilessly highlighting unfeigned fear and pain in his eyes. Then Ryshad winked, taking Temar utterly by surprise.

“So Drosel, we’ll give you one last chance. The Esquire here will work a lesser enchantment, one that tells us if you’re telling the truth. I’ll ask a few questions, and if you tell us what we need to know we won’t have to put a leash and muzzle on you when we take you before the Sieur tomorrow.”

Noise turned Temar’s head and he saw Naer and a few of the sworn men on the stairs, peering round the stone curve with reluctant curiosity.

“Esquire?” Ryshad invited with a gesture towards the thief, who was edging back as far as his fetters allowed.

Temar cupped his face in his cold hands, eyes shut to concentrate all the better on the arcane words. He’d worked Artifice as complex as this once before and that was enough. He’d seen this done before his grandsire’s seat. His own father had been accustomed to administer truth bindings for the House, after all. If Avila said she could do it, Temar most assuredly could. It had to work, or Ryshad would never trust him again.

“Raeponin prae petir tal aradare. Monaerel als rebrique na dis apprimen vaertennan als tal. Nai thrinadir, vertannnan prae rarad. Nai menadis, tal gerae askat. Tal adamasir Raeponin na Poldrion.”

He spoke the words with slow determination, every fibre of his being concentrating on the cowering thief. Ryshad took a bare instant to realise Temar had no more to say and slammed a hand into the wooden partition.

“Right, Drosel, who put you up to this? Don’t lie to me, the Esquire will know if you do. Nothing to say? Sorry, if you play dumb, he’ll just rip your mind apart and we’ll get our answers that way.”

There was a strangled noise on the stairs and someone hurried away. Temar kept all his attention on the thief. The man opened his mouth, coughed and pawed at his throat with manacled hands.

“See?” Ryshad said coldly. “You can’t lie to us, can you?” He stared down at the man, face unyielding. “And now you’ve tried, I’ll tell you something else. Unless you tell us some truth, just a little one, you won’t ever be able to speak again.”

The thief’s jaw dropped and he looked at Ryshad with utter horror.

“Tell us,” Ryshad roared. “Who sent you?”

“Master Knife, that’s all he said,” the thief blurted out in panic. “At the Valiant Flag, the tavern on the Habbitrot. He sent us just for that one box, just for whatever was in it.” He hid his head in his arms, hunched over his knees.

Ryshad turned and raised questioning brows.

“That will suffice for the present,” Temar managed an even disdain in his tone. “We can always come back.”

The thief huddled into a tight ball of misery and terror. Ryshad jerked his head towards the stairs. Temar went ahead and found himself the focus of wary gazes from all sides of the watch room. Ryshad closed the door tight behind him and tossed the keys back to Naer. “See, we didn’t even have to unchain him.”

“What in the name of all that’s holy did you do?” Naer asked.

“Have you really scrambled his wits?” whispered a white-faced sworn man.

“You didn’t really believe all that, Verd?” Ryshad was incredulous. “I’d have thought Naer would have taught you better than that.”

“Watch your mouth, Rysh,” said Naer with a fair approximation of a laugh.

“Verd, that pile of shit had few enough brains to begin with,” Ryshad said reassuringly. “Throw enough of a scare into his sort and any sense he’s got left goes dribbling out of his arse.”

“Sounded cursed convincing to me,” the sworn muttered.

“Of course it did,” Ryshad agreed. “I’ve got a brother who argues before the Imperial courts, and another who’s a stonemason—you should hear him convincing some poor sailor to build a house three times bigger than the one he had planned.” That got a laugh all around the room.

“How did he know his name though?” a sworn man by the door hissed.

Temar spoke up at the same moment. “Does anyone know this tavern, the Valiant Flag? What about this man who calls himself Knife?”

Someone laughed, abruptly silenced by a glare from Ryshad. “Master Knife’s a character in half the tales the puppetry men put on,” he explained. “You’ll find three down every alley at Festival.”

“But we can turn the Valiant Flag over and shake it till something falls out,” said Naer with relish. “Verd, drum up the sworn and put the fear of the lash into the recognised. They’ll be on watch for the rest of the night.”

“I’ll need my sword,” Ryshad told him.

“When do we leave?” Temar felt growing excitement.

“You’re not coming!” Naer told him. “I’m not taking you down to the cloth yards, the Sieur would have my hide. Nor you, Rysh. All the proven are out being entertained, Stoll’s down at the sword school even supposing he’s still upright. You’re senior man on the watch tonight, my friend, and that means you get the gate.”

“Naer!” Ryshad protested.

“He got in on my Watch, Rysh.” Naer’s face turned ugly. “I’ll go and slap his pal in chains, not you. You lot, get yourself in hand!”

Temar watched Naer round up his troops, driving them through the gate with a mixture of harsh curses and warm encouragement.

“I’m too tired for this,” Ryshad said absently. He sighed. “So we get the gate, well, I do. Go to bed, Temar; one of us might as well get some sleep.”

“I’ll wait with you,” Temar insisted. “I must tell Avila what’s occurred as soon as she returns.”

“And I can tell Messire and Camarl,” said Ryshad without enthusiasm. He pulled up a stool by the watch room fire as a handful of eager young men in livery appeared. “You, go and get the makings for some tisanes from the kitchens, will you? Plenty of white amella. And do any of you know your way around the North Bay well enough to take a letter?”

Temar watched as Ryshad rummaged in the sergeant’s desk for paper and ink. “I’ll have that pen after you,” he said.