Juliet McKenna - The Warrior's Bond

Temar looked at him somewhat uncertainly. “So we all go forward as best we can?”

“Quite so.” Messire acknowledged a hovering footman with a nod. “Are you joining us?”

“To show anyone wondering that we are still on good terms?” Temar hazarded.

“Festival is over, but the board will be set for a new game tomorrow,” Messire conceded. “There’s no harm in marking out our ground.”

“Getting ahead of those who’ve been so keen to trip us these last few days,” Camarl added.

Temar grinned. “Then we will join you and gladly.”

“We’re taking Ustian’s expensive new equipage,” the Sieur explained as we walked out into the paved courtyard. “He’s going home with Fresil and Leishal.”

Temar wasn’t listening and I saw he’d noticed Allin waiting, pleasantly pink and clutching her dance card like a talisman. “Are you waiting for someone?” he asked her.

“Demoiselle Avila, if she can tear herself away from her conquests.” Something was amusing the young magewoman. “Velindre was here a moment ago, but she’s just been invited to supper with the Maitresse Den Janaquel.”

Voices behind us made me turn my head. Casuel was stalking along beside the leader of the musicians. Amalin Devoir had shed his coat and, with shirt collar loose and sleeves rolled up, he offered a sharp contrast to Casuel’s precisely buttoned-up appearance.

“No, Cas, I insist. I’ve been well paid, and with a Festival gift from the Emperor himself I can buy you the finest meal in the city!” To my ear, Amalin’s offer stemmed less from good will than from desire to lord over his brother.

“Ah, Master Devoir, my compliments,” the Sieur called. Casuel was about to reply but realised just in time Messire was talking to his brother. “Your music was a perfect blend of the traditional and the innovative.”

The musician made a perfunctory bow. “It was a day for novelty all round.”

Casuel bridled at this impertinence but Messire looked merely amused.

“Anyway, Amalin, thank you all the same but I’d better escort my apprentice back to her lodging.” Casuel nodded proprietorially at Allin but it was clear he’d just seized on the excuse she offered.

“She can come too,” countered Master Devoir promptly.

“Come where?” The excitements of the day seemed to have lifted years from Demoiselle Avila’s shoulders.

Messire bowed. “We’re about to take a turn round the city and find a quiet place for supper.”

“I can recommend the Golden Plover,” Amalin interrupted to Casuel’s obvious irritation. “That’s where we’re going.”

Avila tapped her fan across her palm, a combative glint in her eye. “Do you propose we all travel in that?” She pointed the bedraggled blue feathers at Ustian’s open carriage, which had just drawn up, plainly only suitable for four passengers.

Amalin Devoir put finger and thumb in his mouth and split the genteel murmur of the courtyard with an ear-splitting whistle. “My gig, as soon as you please!” A man in Den Janaquel livery turned to offer a gesture that would probably have been obscene if we hadn’t had ladies standing with us. Seeing the Sieur D’Olbriot he sent a lad running out of the gates instead and a flashy gig soon came bowling into the courtyard. It was an expensive, tall-wheeled piece of work, driver’s seat perched high in front of a highly polished body whose interior was luxuriously upholstered in purple. Ustian’s carriage with its plain lines and dark green leather was a model of restrained good taste beside it.

“If you’ll ride on the box with me, my lady,” Master Devoir favoured Allin with a blatantly flirtatious smile, “there’s room for two behind us. Cas and the Sieur D’Alsennin perhaps?”

Temar’s expression instantly fixed as he tried to find some reason to avoid this. Fortunately Demoiselle Avila obliged. “I’ll ride with you, Master Mage.” Her tone suggested she was quite ready to squash the musician’s pretensions.

“Let’s make way for the other coaches.” Messire got into the open carriage with a discreet smile. “This promises to be an entertaining evening,” he observed in an undertone as I sat in front of him, my back to the driver. Temar took the seat beside me as Camarl closed the half-door. As we pulled away I saw Firon Den Thasnet looking after us with naked hatred on his face.

Temar followed my gaze. “I know Tadriol acted as he thought best, but it still galls me to think of Den Thasnet and Tor Bezaemar getting away with so much.”

“I agree.” Messire sighed. “But we know what they did, as does the Emperor. I think we can rely on Tadriol to let judicious rumour circulate as appropriate. The main thing is that they failed.”

“But what manner of punishment is that? What about the Relict?” Temar wasn’t going to let this go, and there wasn’t room in the coach for me to shut him up with a discreet kick. “She welcomed us in, all smiles and invitations, winning our trust, and all the while she was spinning snares like some fat old spider in the middle of a web. What of justice? She does us such injury and we have no revenge?”

“Revenge is overrated. We’ve half the egg each and all Tor Bezaemar’s left with is an empty shell.” Messire’s voice turned serious. “Turn your thoughts to the future. You’ve a great deal of work ahead of you, young man, you and the Demoiselle Tor Arrial.”

“I am well aware of that,” Temar replied soberly.

“But not tonight.” Camarl acknowledged a merry salute from a group of revellers. “Who did you dance with, Temar?”

The conversation turned to safely innocuous topics as the coach made slow progress through the raucous carousing of the lower city. As usual the commonalty were determined to squeeze the last drop of enjoyment out of their holiday. The morrow would see the first day of Aft-Summer calling them back to their workshops and duties, after all. I looked past Messire to see Allin giggling with the musician, who handled his mettlesome grey horse with considerable skill. Passers-by greeted us with cheers, some from dutiful loyalty, some too intoxicated to realise who was even in the coach but joining in regardless.

Once we were through the southern gate of the old town and on to the Primeway the crowds thinned considerably. An air of relaxation hung over aristocratic celebrations now that the demands of Festival had been met. The soft light of early evening gilded the city and a warm breeze caressed high- and low-born alike. Flambeaux were being readied and torches placed in brackets either side of doorways, ready to light the street when Halcarion wrapped up the sun in the soft swathes of dusk. Despite the heat a few traders were setting out braziers to cook delicacies to tempt passing revellers into spending their last few Festival pennies.

We turned into the Graceway and drew to an abrupt halt. “What’s the delay?” the Sieur called.

“Masqueraders, Messire.” The coachman twisted in his seat. “Tumblers and jugglers.”

The footman sitting beside him looked back as well. “Shall I move them on, Messire?”

“We’re in no particular hurry,” D’Olbriot said carelessly.

“Cas was saying masqueraders are not fit entertainment for the well born,” Temar began.

I was about to give my opinion of the wizard’s snobbery when movement caught my eye. We’d pulled up by the Den Bradile building where the frontage was being renewed and a wooden scaffold stood piled high with slates and heavy stone awaiting the morning’s workmen.

A shadowy figure in an upper window jerked backwards. I’d barely time to realise he was bracing a pole against the aperture before the scaffold was levered outwards. Slates and marble came tumbling down, the heavy wood following.