“What are we going to wear?” she said, aghast.
The Imperial Palace of Tadriol the Provident,
Summer Solstice Festival, Fifth Day, Noon
The contrast with the morning’s empty halls was startling when we returned to the Imperial Palace. Nobility in Festival finery thronged the grounds, bright sun striking fire from diamonds, sapphires and rubies, not that the well born spent much time beneath that merciless glare. Descending from their carriages in the great courtyard where the palace made three sides of a square, they paused just long enough for due admiration from the commonalty pressed ten deep beyond the black railings before hurrying into the cool of the interior. Den Janaquel liveries were well in evidence, keeping the endless procession of carriages moving smoothly in and out through the tall iron gates.
“I had not realised the palace was so big,” remarked Temar as our coach paused to cheers from the avid populace. He raised an absent hand to tug at the lace at his neck, something he’d been doing the entire drive here.
“You don’t realise how far it goes back when you approach it from the other frontage.” The coach was getting uncomfortably stuffy and I was sweating in my close-cut livery. My stomach felt as hollow as a drum, what little food I’d managed to eat sitting leaden beneath my breastbone.
“Is the place used to any useful purpose, other than Festival frolics for the idle rich?” Avila fanned herself with a discreet spread of fluffy blue feathers that matched her summer blue gown. The shell inlay of the fan’s lacquered handle reflected the pearly iridescence of her white lace overdress.
I turned to her. “The Emperor is the main link between commonalty and nobility, Demoiselle. He hosts receptions for merchants here, meets with master craftsmen, with the shrine fraternities. If a Duke from Lescar or some Relshazri magistrate visits, this is where they stay and where anyone doing business with them has the Emperor as impartial witness. Most importantly for us, this is where the Emperor brings the Sieurs of the Houses together to discuss any concerns.”
That thought prompted me to look out of our coach window for Tor Bezaemar, Den Thasnet or Den Muret crests on passing door panels.
“Why do you suppose D’Olbriot sent us on in a separate coach?” Temar fussed with his shirt collar again, linen creamy against the dark blue of his coat and breeches.
“To remind people you’ve your own claim to rank?” I hazarded. I hadn’t a clue what the Sieur was thinking. He’d accepted the startling news that the wizards were to come to the dance with bland equanimity and made no comment at all on our unexpected, unsanctioned absence for so much of the morning.
“You think cheap theatrics will convince anyone?” Avila sniffed. “We’ve been dancing to D’Olbriot’s tune this whole Festival, and everyone knows it.”
The carriage jounced as the gate opened for us and the horses trotted in. As we drew up before the shallow stairs, Tor Tadriol lackeys were already opening the white double doors. I jumped down to offer Avila my arm.
She descended with slow dignity and paused to arrange her skirts as Temar disdained the footman’s offer of help. “Where now, Ryshad?”
“Perhaps we should wait a moment.” I indicated the Sieur’s carriage following us through the gates. As the driver pulled up his horses Messire was the first out of the door, splendid in peacock green brocade catching every eye in the sunlight. His brother Leishal, his son Myred and nephew Camarl were all dressed in the same cloth, cut in subtly different styles as befitted their ages and rank, an impressive statement of united D’Olbriot power and influence. Between them they wore an Emperor’s ransom in emeralds.
Lady Channis’s carriage drew up behind, the Den Veneta crest of arrows proud on the door. Resplendent in crimson silk overlaid with pale rose lace, she escorted a posy of the most eligible Demoiselles honouring the D’Olbriot name, the girls dressed in all the colours of a flower garden. Anyone doubting my lady’s role in the House was plainly advised to think again. Ustian and Fresil followed in an open coach, preening themselves in the same peacock brocade.
As the carriages moved slowly round to the far gate, a smaller, uncrested coach was ushered in with scant ceremony. Casuel got out, stumbling awkwardly as he trod on the hem of his gold-brocaded robe. Velindre followed with easy grace, her undressed blonde hair striking among the intricate black and brunette coiffures. Her unadorned dove grey dress struck a muted note among the bolder colours all around but style and cloth were impeccable. I looked more closely.
“I see you have a good eye for a dress, Ryshad,” Avila remarked. “Few men look at more than the seamstress’s sums. Yes, it is the one I wore to Tor Kanselin. If Guliel’s going to waste his gold buying me three changes of clothes for every day of Festival, someone might as well get the wear out of them.” She was plainly annoyed about something or someone but I couldn’t be sure who or why.
The Sieur was greeting Lady Channis, embracing her with a fond kiss that won appreciative whistles from the watching crowd. As she took his arm the rest of the family paired off in practised fashion.
He nodded to Temar. “If you and the Demoiselle Tor Arrial are ready?”
Temar offered Avila his arm with old-fashioned formality and she accepted with a glint in her eye. Seeing Casuel dithering over whether to escort Velindre or Allin, I bowed to Temar and to Messire and went down the steps.
“My lady mage, may I have the honour of escorting you?” Allin was holding herself with self-possession so rigid I wondered if she was breathing. I winked at her and she relaxed enough to give me a little smile. That was a relief; I didn’t want her fainting on me.
“Come on, Cas.” Velindre slipped her arm through his and it was hard to say who escorted whom up the wide stone stair.
“That’s a very elegant dress,” I remarked to Allin as we waited for the chamberlain at the door to admit each couple. The watered damson silk flattered her mousy colouring, and with luck wouldn’t clash too badly with her inevitable blushes.
Innocent delight lent an unexpected appeal to her plain face. “Demoiselle Avila had the maids turning out every wardrobe in the residence until they found something to fit me.”
I looked at the assembled ladies of the Name. The gown had probably come from Demoiselle Ticarie’s closets, given the expert cut to disguise a short-coupled figure. Allin was lucky D’Olbriot ladies didn’t run to height like Den Hefeken or willowy girls like Tor Kanselin.
“Your cards, my lady, my master.” We showed the chamberlain the folded pasteboard we each wore tied to our wrists and were duly ushered into a stylish salon.
“This is very impressive,” said Allin in faint tones.
“They say the floor’s inlaid with wood traded from every corner of the Old Empire and the Archipelago,” I told her with a friendly smile.
The floor’s pattern of circles and arcs was nicely balanced between rational restraint and exuberant display. Not that we could see much of it between the skirts and soft dancing shoes of the assembled nobles. The walls showed the same transition between older extravagance and later restraint, single fronds and blossoms moulded in the plaster rather than the intricate swags and garlands of an earlier age but still bright with gold leaf burnished to a delicate sheen. Vast double doors in the far wall would open in turn to the Imperial ballroom when Tadriol was ready to welcome his peers.
Temar had stopped to look up at the ceiling, heedless of people coming in after us. Plaster panels high above our heads were painted with the finest interpretations of ancient legends that the artists of the day had been able to offer the first Tadriol. In the corners, Dastennin with his crown of seaweed and shells was pouring out the seas between this realm and the Otherworld, while opposite Halcarion hung the moons in the sky before setting her diadem of stars to brighten the darkness. The animals of plain and forest knelt before Talagrin, garlanded with autumn leaves. Drianon, a sheaf of wheat in one arm, was bringing trees into blossom with a sweep of her other hand, while flowers bloomed in her footsteps.