Between each of these scenes other gods traversed the twin realms of existence in delicately painted ovals. Arimelin spun the dreams that might reach this world from the Other, Trimon raised his harp with music to echo through the Shades and beyond while Larasion summoned the wind and weather that knows no boundaries. On the one hand Ostrin healed the sick whose time to leave this realm was not yet come, and on the other he welcomed those about to be newly born, handing them the cup of wine that would wipe away any memory of their sojourn in the Otherworld.
“Impressive but none too subtle,” remarked Velindre, sardonic eyes on the centre panel, where the circle of Saedrin with his keys, Raeponin with his scales and Poldrion with his ferry pole stood equal in their authority. Lesser figures ringed the gods, echoing their stance and archaic dress.
“Are those actual portaits?” Avila studied the distant figures.
“Of the Sieurs of the day,” I confirmed.
“Do you suppose they remembered Saedrin’s grant of rank brought them duty as well as privilege?” Temar speculated pointedly.
“Shall we move on?” I suggested. “We’re blocking the doorway.”
The large room was already crowded; Messire invariably timed his arrival to impress the greatest number of people while spending the least time possible in idle chatter before any festivities commenced.
“Are you committed to any dances?” Allin was nervously fingering her own card.
I shook my head. “It’s not really customary for chosen men.” But I wasn’t the only one wearing livery. There were a few proven here and there, moving with easy familiarity among the nobles, well-dressed wives on their arms. I tried to imagine Livak making polite conversation about the latest Toremal gossip while I discussed some question of trade or dispute at the Sieur’s bidding.
“Why does the Emperor want us here?” Allin wondered aloud.
“A very good question,” I agreed. This really wasn’t my place, was it? I’d taken my turn outside the doors as part of a Duty Cohort when the honour and burden of keeping the Festival peace fell to D’Olbriot, but I’d never expected to be a guest inside.
“Temar’s not going to lack for partners.” Allin sounded resigned. D’Alsennin was with Camarl by a side-table where ink and pens were laid out. Several D’Olbriot Demoiselles were noting their initials on his card and inviting him to return the compliment. A lackey hovered close by with an anxious eye.
Allin fiddled with her dance card. I saw faint regret on her round face. “Do you like to dance?”
“Yes,” she admitted, round face colouring a little. “That is, I used to, back home.”
“Don’t wizards dance in Hadrumal?” I’d never really thought much about how mages might enjoy themselves.
“Sometimes,” Allin replied. “But there are precious few musicians, and most wizards dance as if they’d their boots on the wrong feet.”
“It’s one of the things that make a mage-born army an impossibility.” Velindre came up on my other side, her clear tones cutting through the well-bred murmur. “Nine out of ten wizards seem incapable of holding a beat so they’d never be able to march in step.”
I smiled at her wry tone but dubious expressions around us suggested few others appreciated the joke.
“Planir, as you might expect, is remarkably light of foot and dances a very pretty measure,” Velindre continued, with unmistakable sarcasm. “But then, he’s so often the wizard that tests the rule.”
“You think rules should be observed?” I queried. “Weren’t you Otrick’s pupil? He bends rules until they splinter.”
Velindre’s face hardened into unflattering angles. “At least those rules were the same for everyone, not one set for Planir and his cronies and another for the rest of us.”
“Have you any news of Otrick?” Allin peered round me with wide, anxious eyes.
“No.” Fleeting brilliance rose and vanished in Velindre’s hazel eyes. “And it’s time Planir faced up to the truth. He cannot use this Kellarin business as the excuse for continually ignoring Hadrumal’s concerns.”
“There’s Casuel.” Allin seemed more concerned with matters in hand than quarrels in distant Hadrumal.
The mage was edging his way apologetically through the crowd, clutching his card in one sweaty hand. “Has anyone asked either of you to dance?”
“Are you offering?” Velindre smiled innocently.
Casuel hesitated just a breath too long. “Naturally, if you would do me the honour. Who else has asked you? Of what rank?”
Velindre showed him her unmarked card. “You have your choice of dances, Cas.”
He frowned. “Do you think Esquire Camarl would agree to me asking some of the ladies from the lesser families? From cadet blood lines?” The wizard looked around the crowded room. “Where is he?”
I scanned the throng but couldn’t see Esquire Camarl at all. What I could see were unmistakable knots of allied families. Firon Den Thasnet was standing with two Den Muret Demoiselles while his sister hung on the arm of the Sieur Den Rannion’s youngest brother. Close by the Sieur Tor Sylarre was smiling as he chatted with an elder Esquire Den Muret. Even given the increasing press of people, they were keeping an emphatic space between themselves and Gelaia Den Murivance as she laughed with her brother Maren and Jenty Tor Sauzet. Further round the room Orilan Den Hefeken was talking to her affianced Esquire Den Risiper, other Esquires of both houses agreeing dances with a knot of minor Den Ferrand and Den Gennael girls. Beyond the stony-faced Sieur Tor Priminale stood with his extensive array of cousins in an unapproachable circle.
As I watched, a lackey in palace colours came up to whisper politely to the Sieur Tor Sylarre. A lifetime’s training kept the Sieur’s face impassive but he bid an immediate farewell to Den Muret and followed the lackey through a discreet door on the far side of the wide salon.
Temar came over, waving his dance card to dry the writing. “Be careful not to brush against my leg, ladies,” he said breezily. “Some clumsy girl has just spilt ink down me. I believe her badge was Tor Priminale.” Anger showed momentarily beneath his light words.
I looked at the barely visible dampness on his dark blue breeches. “Fortunate that the Sieur suggested that colour.”
“Quite so,” smiled Temar thinly. “Sadly, the Demoiselle’s pretty orange feathers are now an unappealing brown. What might that signify in this complicated code these girls have concocted?”
I grinned at him. “I hate to think.”
“Where does that lead?” Temar nodded towards the door Tor Sylarre had disappeared through.
“It goes round to the throne room,” I replied.
“Esquire Camarl and the Sieur were summoned as soon as they arrived.” Temar and I exchanged a speculative look.
“When’s this dance going to begin?” Casuel demanded crossly. “It’s unbearably hot.” He fidgeted with the fronts of his heavy robe.
“Just be grateful this isn’t an evening dance,” I told him. “Add the heat of candles and we’d be melting faster than the beeswax.”
The salon ran the full width of the palace but even with upper windows open to breezes too high to disturb the ladies’ elegant hair, the temperature was rising fast.
“We could work a little judicious magic, Cas,” Velindre remarked. “I can start some air moving, and drawing the heat away would be a good exercise for Allin’s fire affinity.”
“We can’t use magic here.” Casuel was horrified. “Not without the Emperor’s permission.”
“We could ask him. Where is he?” At that moment, the brass-ornamented doors into the ballroom swung open and people spilled gratefully into the cooler space. Velindre looked into the ballroom as the crush in the anteroom cleared. “Isn’t your Emperor supposed to be receiving people?”