Juliet McKenna - The Warrior's Bond

On the Sieur’s insistence, all branches of the D’Olbriot House heeded the retrenchments urged by Tor Tadriol earlier than most. Thus, the increased coin taxes levied on our strong rooms have not hit us too hard. It is also consolation to see Tor Tadriol’s thrift does not fatten his own coffers under the threadbare guise of Imperial necessity. This winter has seen a wide extension of Imperial munificence to the commonalty, even without unduly harsh weather, and Tadriol used the occasion of Convocation to announce that the Emperor’s Dole at Summer Solstice will be a substantial gift for the truly indigent rather than token silver for notables of shrine fraternities and craft guilds.

Speaking purely for myself I am relieved to report no return to the costly, stifling ceremonial so beloved of the Name so lately gracing the throne. The Convocation of Princes was a brisk affair, the Adjurist’s rod duly broken after the briefest of addresses by the Emperor thanking the Sieur Tor Sylarre for his many years of loyal service to Tor Bezaemar. The Sieur Den Thasnet echoed these sentiments in florid terms but was soon caught by the Imperial gaze and wound up his eloquence. Tadriol may not have that knack of making friends that so characterizes the Esquires of Tor Bezaemar, but the man has undeniable presence in debate.

My Sieur D’Olbriot proposed Messire Tor Kanselin for the now vacant office, and once Den Murivance and Den Gennael had backed him with patent enthusiasm the other Houses voted accordingly, led by Den Janaquel. Tor Priminale held aloof, but that is hardly remarkable, given the extensive bonds tying that Name to Tor Bezaemar. The Sieurs Tor Sauzet and Den Ferrand then acknowledged new Designates before Convocation. Each is a younger son, but both can claim established friendship with the newly elevated Tadriol, and, of course, our new Empress was born Tor Sauzet.

Marital propsects for the ladies now entitled to style themselves Tor Tadriol have been understandably enhanced by their Name’s accession. Within the privacy of these pages, I wonder if his superfluity of daughters influenced Messire and the Sieur Den Munvance when Den Tadriol proposed this particular scion as candidate for the Imperial throne. Alliance by marriage has to be the speediest way for a new dynasty to secure its position among the preeminent Houses, after all. As I write this, my wife sits across the library, studying cadet lines of Tor Tadriol in hopes of finding some younger son or daughter who might be amenable to a match with us, while the lesser lines of that House still remember we were both of equal standing so recently. I hope I have some success to record in these pages next year.

Betrothal of the Emperor’s eldest legitimate girl to a senior line of Tor Kanselin was announced at the dance concluding the Festival, and I imagine all five younger Demoiselles quite wore the feet out of their slippers, they were so much in demand. The illegitimate girls are being similarly courted among the upper echelons of merchantry, prompting Esquire Den Muret to tactless jokes that Tadriol’s enthusiasm for spreading his seed before marriage was all part of some long-held plan to endear himself to the commonalty. In my experience, youth needs no encouragement for such exuberance and, while such large a posy of byblown children is unusual, it is hardly unheard of. More importantly, there is no hint that Tadriol has dishonoured his vows since his marriage, whereas we can now openly condemn the late Bezaemar’s scandalous profligacy with his favours.

As we wait for the new year to open tomorrow, I find myself full of optimism. Tor Tadriol is a young man with an open mind and considerable intelligence, ready to look beyond the confines of his House, with an astute eye to the wider interests of Tormalin. After nigh on a generation of rule by that Bezaemar called the Generous but whose largesse was so often confined to those of his own circle, I am confident we cadet lineages will benefit from all manner of new opportunities over the next few years. The first of these will be playing our part in deciding what epithet to bestow on our new Emperor; I fully intend to make sure we lesser voices are heard.

I was none too keen on lessons as a boy and watching someone else learning their Emperors was truly boring. I stifled a yawn and leaned back in my chair to stare up at the long barrel of the wooden vault high above us. The lynx and chevron badge of D’Olbriot was repeated all along the top of the wall, interspersed with insignia of Names allied in marriage to the House over the years, and I squinted as I tried to identify them. At least when Casuel had been burying himself beneath parchments in libraries the length and breadth of Tormalin, I’d been able to idle the time away with other chosen men once I’d delivered any messages from the Sieur to whatever Esquire of the Name managed that particular estate. Officially I’d been advising my counterparts on their training regimens, but in practice we’d usually spent more time swapping fighters’ tales, all the while cosseted by housekeepers and stewards impressed with my new status. It had certainly made a pleasant change from my days as a sworn man, when, visitor or not, I’d been expected to take my turn at all the duties customary for my rank.

The yawn escaped me and a clerk laden with ledgers spared me an indifferent glance on his way past. We were sitting about a third of the way along a long line of identical tables running from one pair of vast double doors to another, hemmed in by serried ranks of bookshelves reaching out from the walls, dark leather bindings of close-packed tomes enlivened here and there as a flash of gilt caught sunlight filtering through narrow windows to remind us of the morning outside. In the few scant stretches of unshelved wall, niches held statues and a few ignored curios forlorn in polished glass cases.

“Do you have it straight?” Casuel demanded curtly.

“I think so.” Temar ran a cautious finger down a parchment.

“Then recite the rote, if you please,” ordered the mage.

I tried to look interested. Temar did need to know such things if he wasn’t to embarrass himself and his hosts, and the first of Festival’s social gatherings was after noon today. When Casuel had insisted on reviewing Temar’s lessons, we’d reluctantly had to agree it was a sound notion.

Temar dutifully shut his eyes, brow furrowed. “Modrical the Ruthless, Modrical the Hateful—’ He broke off. “How in Saedrin’s name could the Princes pick a title like that for their Emperor? Calling Nemith the Reckless was the worst slap in the face the Convocation could think of for him! What did this second Modrical do?”

I shut my mouth at a glare from Casuel. “No one is really sure,” said the wizard tightly. “The Chaos was still raging. Indeed, he was assassinated at the Summer Solstice Festival of his second year, when he was acclaimed as Hateful.”

“Presumably when he was already dead?” Temar opened his eyes, grinning at me.

“And who was elected to replace him?” asked Casuel.

“Kanselin.” Temar sighed. “Kanselin the Droll?”

“Kanselin the Pious, then Kanselin the Droll,” the mage corrected.

“Then Kanselin the Rash, Kanselin the Blunt, Kanselin the Confident, and lastly Kanselin the Headstrong, who presumably had not the talent of his father and uncles,” Temar suggested.

“When you have the leisure to study the period, you’ll find it rather more complicated than that.” Casuel visibly curbed his impulse to explain. “And the next House awarded the throne?”

“Decabral,” Temar ventured slowly.