“The Sieur Tor Arrial’s just been sent for.” Temar was still looking at the single doorway where a lackey now stood unobtrusive guard.
That prompted me to look for Avila and I soon saw her with the Maitresse Tor Arrial. The Maitresse’s brother, Esquire Den Harkeil, was writing on Avila’s dance card with a smile that was positively flirtatious.
“I am glad to see someone is enjoying the day,” remarked Temar rather tightly as he followed my gaze.
“I don’t think Esquire Camarl is.” I nudged Temar as Camarl appeared through the side door, face impassive as he hurried to his uncles. The friendly smile on Ustian’s face faded as we watched, and Leishal positively glowered. Fresil snapped his fingers abruptly to summon Myred, starting a buzz of speculation among more than the Tor Kanselin ladies so abruptly deserted.
Temar looked to me for answers but I hadn’t any to give him. Then a stir in the ballroom turned every head but it was only footmen with trays crowded with glasses.
“I hope incautious drinking does not loosen too many inhibitions.” Temar beckoned with an authoritative hand.
I took a glass of deep golden wine. “I’ve never heard of one of these dances turning into a free-for-all, but I suppose there’s always a first time.”
“You don’t seriously think there’ll be violence?” Casuel asked nervously.
“He was joking, Cas,” Velindre told him scornfully.
Looking round the gathering, feeling the increasingly fervid undercurrents, I wasn’t so sure.
A flurry of carriages outside caused another distraction. I welcomed it until I saw the late arrivals were a solid phalanx of Tor Bezaemar. The Sieur entered with his aunt the Relict on his arm, each son and nephew behind escorting dutiful daughters of the House. Every cadet line was represented, wearing the Tor Bezaemar martlet worked into pendants, rings and brooches, combined with the badge of every line subsumed into the Name over the generations. After pausing on the threshold until Dirindal was satisfied with the impact of their entrance, the family scattered like a flock of birds, alighting on every group and conversation, prompting smiles and welcomes, some less convincing than others. Dirindal relinquished her nephew to his wife and took her grandson Kreve’s arm for a slow circuit of the wide salon. I saw a Tor Tadriol lackey heading immediately for the Sieur.
“This could be interesting.” Temar’s discreet nod directed me to Dirindal, who’d drawn level with Lady Channis. Messire’s lady was deep in laughing conversation with the Maitresse Tor Kanselin and neither drew so much as a breath as they turned dismissive shoulders on the Relict. Gathering the covey of assorted Demoiselles fluttering nervously around with brisk gestures with their fans, the two ladies walked away, never once making so much as eye contact with Dirindal. The Relict was left standing, a moment of unmistakable fury on her face before she raised a sweep of mossy feathers to conceal imperfectly an expression of wounded amiability. The Esquire managed no such masquerade, plainly outraged.
“Saedrin save us, Ryshad, you’ve certainly brought me to a fascinating occasion.” Charoleia’s voice at my elbow nearly made me spill my wine. “Good day to you, Temar.”
“My Lady Alaric.” He bowed to her, eyes sparkling and won a demure half-smile in return.
I did hope he wasn’t going to make a fool of himself in public, but then again that might distract the assembled nobility. All those families with ties of blood and loyalty to D’Olbriot were taking their cue to ignore Tor Bezaemar, some with more grace than others. Indignation was swelling among Den Muret, Den Rannion, Tor Priminale, leaving minor Houses exposed as the room divided into undeclared battle lines. Den Hefeken was looking to Den Ferrand for support while Den Gennael and Den Risiper drew into a defensive circle with Den Brennain.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Casuel’s voice seesawed between rebuke for Temar and fawning in Charoleia’s direction.
“My apologies. May I make known Lady Alaric of Thornlisse. This is Casuel Devoir, Velindre Ychane and Allin Mere. All mages of Hadrumal.” The laughter just beneath Temar’s words set Casuel looking suspiciously for some hidden slight.
“You know Ryshad?” Velindre was measuring Charoleia with frank curiosity.
Charoleia returned the candid appraisal. “We have acquaintance in common.” Her words were coloured with sufficient Lescari accents to lend a hint of foreign glamour, just as her pale lilac gown had a subtly northern cut. The gentian lace overlaying the silk brought out the colour of her eyes as well as emphasising the whiteness of her skin. A single silver chain carrying an amethyst and pearl pendant circled her elegant neck and more pearls studded a silver crescent lifting hair dressed high in an unmistakably Lescari style.
Velindre swung the fan chained at her waist. “There’ll be plenty here keen to make your acquaintance.” She sounded amused.
“That’s what such functions are for,” Charoleia replied sweetly.
We were certainly attracting a fair degree of notice. An unknown beauty, three wizards and a chosen man who’d rather be outside holding the horses were certainly a welcome neutral topic for speculation in the tense atmosphere. I wondered how long we’d serve as a diversion, seeing Firon Den Thasnet draining yet another glass of wine, angry colour high on his cheekbones.
“Open hostilities here will suit no one’s purpose,” Charoleia said softly. She was looking at two Tor Sylarre youths who were casting provocative sneers at a trio of Den Murivance Esquires, stiff-necked in their first appearance at such an exalted gathering.
“It’s all this talking that’s stoking up resentments,” I frowned. “But it’s the Emperor’s privilege to open the dance, and he’s nowhere to be seen.”
“But I am so ignorant of modern courtesies,” said Temar breezily. “My lady?” He offered a hand to Charoleia.
She shook her head, smiling. “I don’t care to be quite so noticeable, Temar.”
He grinned and I realised whatever he felt for Charoleia was a fair cry from the prickly devotion he’d lavished on Guinalle. That puzzle had me tongue-tied just long enough to stop me calling Temar back when he sauntered off, idly swinging the card on its ribbon at his wrist.
I watched a touch nervously as he tapped Orilan Den Hefeken on one shoulder. The Demoiselle greeted him with a ready smile but that faltered as he spoke. She turned to appeal to her Sieur. Camarl strolled over as Temar spread beseeching hands to Orilan. Several other people drew near and a new murmur rippled outwards. We watched as the Sieur Den Hefeken sent a footman hurrying to the chamberlain, whose face was betraying considerable strain. Master Jainne was standing by a circle of musicians silent at the far end of the ballroom, pipers with single, double and double-reeded instruments of differing sizes and curves backed by lutanists and bowed lyres.
“Oh look, Cas,” said Velindre brightly. “Your brother’s leading the music. What an honour for your family.”
The mage’s strangled reply was drowned beneath a lively chord. Temar led Orilan Den Hefeken into the centre of the floor and four other couples rapidly formed a set behind them. I hadn’t seen Messire return, but he appeared on the far side, Lady Channis graceful on his arm. Assorted scions of Den Murivance, Tor Kanselin and Den Castevin followed suit. Kreve Tor Bezaemar promptly led one of Tor Sylarre’s innumerable daughters out and Firon Den Thasnet followed with another.
“Competing over who dances the neatest figures should prove harmless enough,” said Charoleia with satisfaction. She took my hand and I found myself walking out to join the nearest set. She curtsied with consummate grace and I bowed, listening hard for the beat of the music, counting silently until I could move to one side with the other men. Charoleia swept past me with a sensuous whisper of perfumed silk and we both turned to join hands and follow the set in a series of rapid twists and turns, dropping and swapping hands as we went. I hadn’t danced since Winter Solstice and that had been a servants’ affair where errors were greeted with laughter rather than the contempt I could imagine here. Livak fitted into the lower halls well enough, but with the best will in the world I couldn’t see her dancing these complex measures with a tenth the grace of Charoleia.