Temar opened the door himself with as much authority as he could convey and strode into a small anteroom. Ryshad closed the door behind the lackey and wedged a chair back under the handle. “In there.”
Temar clenched his fists before opening the plain single door. He found it a pleasant airy room hung with small paintings. A single band of floral moulding ran round the top of the walls but the room was otherwise plain white plaster, carpeted with thick bronze rugs. Walnut chairs softened with cushions in autumn hues were ranged to one side of a broad marquetry table, where a slightly built young man had been looking into a hand glass as he combed his hair into crisp waves, a jar of pomade to hand.
“What is this?” The habit of authority belied his simple shirt and plain brown broadcloth breeches.
“Esquire D’Alsennin, claiming Sieur’s right to audience.” Temar bowed stiffly.
“Of course, I thought you looked familiar. But this is neither the time nor the place—”
The Emperor was already reaching for a silver hand bell resting on a stack of papers.
“Cas!” Temar snapped his fingers at the agonised wizard.
Casuel looked at him blankly but as the first note rang out he flung a handful of blue fire to knock the bell from Tadriol’s hand. Documents fluttered in all directions as the bell toppled to the floor in uncanny silence.
The Emperor pushed his carved wooden chair backwards in visible consternation. “I’ll have your hide for that!”
“Forgive me,” stammered Casuel.
“Work your magic, wizard,” Temar ordered him urgently. “Find Lady Channis.” He turned to the Emperor. “We will explain ourselves presently, but I beg your indulgence.”
“It had better be a good explanation, D’Alsennin,” the Emperor retorted, wary eyes taking in every detail of his unexpected guests. “You, D’Olbriot’s man, does your Sieur know you’re here?”
“Lady Channis does, highness,” Ryshad answered promptly. “Messire is otherwise engaged.”
“Then what is so urgent—”
“I need something metal, something shiny.” Casuel looked vacantly around.
Ryshad grabbed a tray of glasses from a side table, dropping one in his haste. It shattered in a spray of crystal shards. “Here.” He set the other goblets aside and threw the salver at Casuel who caught it as it hit him in the chest.
“I’ll wait for my answers, shall I?” The Emperor’s self-possession was returning. Nevertheless he unobtrusively retrieved his hand bell and set it on his desk in mute warning. “But don’t try my patience too long.”
“A candle?” Temar snatched a virgin taper from a small pot on the mantelshelf. He caught Casuel’s arm and forced the wizard on to a chair facing the ornate table. Sweeping aside a clutter of letters, he thrust the taper at the wizard.
“Do you need a tinderbox?” asked the Emperor with faint courtesy. “I take it you’re one of the Archmage’s underlings?”
“One of his associates, his liaison with D’Olbriot,” Casuel stopped to smile ingratiatingly. “It has to be a conjured flame, your highness.”
“Then conjure it,” snapped Temar.
The mage snapped hesitant fingers, once, twice, but no scarlet magic flared to light the wick. Temar swallowed a curse and felt the blood pounding in his chest. A tentative knock sounded at the door and Ryshad moved to brace one booted foot firmly against the wood.
“You have done this often enough,” Temar encouraged the wizard in a tight voice. “Even Allin can work thus.”
The taper spat a flicker of crimson fire, the spark strengthening to a modest flame. Temar handed Casuel the shiny tray. It rattled against the table as the mage’s hand shook but a pinpoint of gold reflected steadily from the centre of the polished metal. It spread raggedly outwards like fire burning through paper, brilliant edges leaving a smoky void behind. Scars sparked across the emptiness like lightning splintering a stormy sky.
“It’s Velindre,” Casuel said crossly. “She’s manipulating the spell from her end.”
“Then work with her, as best you can,” Temar urged him.
“She’s not cooperating,” Casuel grumbled, but as he spoke voices came out of the emptiness to echo round the silent room.
“My Lady Channis, I confess I was surprised to get your note.”
The Emperor looked at Temar, surprise and curiosity joining forces to win out over the last of his indignation. “That sounds like Dirindal Tor Bezaemar.”
“Please look into the magic,” Temar begged. “Then we will explain, I swear.”
The Emperor rose slowly from his chair to move behind Casuel. “What’s going on?”
Lady Channis was speaking. “Granted gossip runs through this city like rabbits through corn but this particular rumour always seems to track back to your door.”
Temar looked into the magical reflection of distant reality. Lady Channis was sitting beside a round table covered with a plain white cloth where an array of gaudy feathers was carefully laid out for her inspection.
Dirindal Tor Bezaemar was standing by a fireplace filled with blue and purple flagflowers. “I may have mentioned it, but only to try and find out who’d be saying such things.” Her genial face creased in a plump smile. “Now I remember. That foolish Tor Sylarre girl was letting her tongue run away with her. I told her I didn’t believe a word of it.”
Channis picked up a long grey plume banded with blue. “That’s curious, because Jinty Tor Sauzet is quite certain that you told her.”
“Talagrin himself couldn’t tame Jinty’s tongue.” The Relict’s face turned a little weary. “You know she was languishing after Kreve last year? Since he turned her down she’s done all she can to make trouble for our House.”
“And what’s Tor Bezaemar’s excuse for brewing trouble for D’Olbriot?” Lady Channis laid down the grey feather and began examining a curling pink plume edged with black.
“My dear!” Dirindal sat down on a softly cushioned daybed.
Channis twisted in her chair to face the Relict. “Jinty Tor Sauzet has no reason to tell all and sundry I’m about to leave Guliel and return to Den Veneta’s protection. Den Muret on the other hand are plainly delighted to hear it.” Her tone was acid. “I gather it has stiffened their resolve to pursue their case before the Imperial Court no end. Seladir Den Muret was telling Orilan Den Hefeken all about it, and Orilan told me. Seladir swears it must be true. After all, she had it from your own lips, and everyone knows you’re as honest a woman as ever broke bread.”
Dirindal clasped beringed hands together. “Orilan’s a sweet child, but she’s inclined to speak without thinking—”
“Don’t,” said Channis bitingly. “There’s nothing you can say against Orilan, no threat you can use to silence her, no reason for her to lie. Our Houses have few dealings with Den Hefeken. How unlike Den Muret, whose roof would soon fall in without Tor Bezaemar bounty. Unlike Den Thasnet, whose wealth battens on your own like honeysuckle on a tree. Do you ask me to believe either House would attack D’Olbriot in the courts without Tor Bezaemar’s approval?”
Dirindal’s round face crumpled in distress. “My dear, you must be mistaken. Let me talk to Haerel. He may have said something unwise, perhaps Den Muret mistook his meaning.”
“Do you seriously expect me to believe your nephew, Sieur Tor Bezaemar though he is, does anything without you knowing of it?” Channis flung the curled feathers down on the smooth linen. “He barely wipes his arse without your permission.”
“My dear, I quite understand you’re cross,” said Dirindal faintly. “But I don’t think I deserve these unwarranted accusations.” She fumbled in the silver net purse laced at her waist and dabbed her eyes with a lace trimmed kerchief.
The Emperor glared at Temar. “I’ve no interest in hearing women scratching at each other’s corn,” he whispered.
Casuel looked up. “It’s all right, they can’t hear us.”
“Mind your magic, Cas,” snapped Temar, seeing the image waver and fade. “This is no mere flurry in a hen coop, I swear.”