“Can you tell which ones carry enchantment, Demoiselle?”
I tucked my hands behind my back as I bent over the array of treasures.
“Sadly, no.” Avila sounded more irritated than regretful. “We would need Guinalle for that.”
Temar made some slight noise but subsided under Avila’s glare.
An elegant pomander caught my eye. Shaped like a plump purse tied with cord, the gold was cut away around a circle of little pea flowers on either side, blue enamelled petals undimmed through all the generations even if its perfumes had long since perished. I searched the list in my hand, where five artefacts were still untraced for every one with a note of success beside it. Temar’s stomach growled, the only sound to break the silence.
“There’s bread and fruit.” Avila nodded absently to a side table.
“Can I bring you anything, Demoiselle?” I offered politely.
“Thank you, no. So Temar, what are your plans for the woman and her child?” Avila asked in that deceptive tone women have, the one that sounds so relaxed when in fact the wrong answer will bring the ceiling down on your head.
“We will recompense her,” Temar said cautiously.
Avila reached for a pen laid across an inkstand. “Hand her a heavy purse and send her on her way?”
Temar hesitated. Agreement would plainly be the wrong response but he was struggling for the right one. I kept my eyes firmly on my list.
“You take no responsibility for their fate?” Avila noted something with a decisive flourish of her quill.
“Perhaps the mother could be found work within the residence?” hazarded Temar. “Some menial task?”
I glanced up to see him looking hopefully at me. “The House Steward won’t be interested,” I said slowly.
“If the Sieur instructs him, as a charity?” Temar suggested with a hint of pleading.
“Messire won’t do that,” I told him reluctantly. “The Steward earns his pay and perquisites by taking all responsibility for servants’ concerns, and the other side of that coin is the Sieur doesn’t interfere.”
Avila sniffed. “In a properly regulated House, master and mistress know all their servants by name and family and treat them fittingly.”
Hearing an echo of loss beneath her tart words, I kept quiet. I found the pomander and ticked it off my list with an absurd sense of achievement. One more to be woken from the chill of enchantment; Master Aglet, a joiner, according to the record.
Temar took the quill from me and dipped ink for his own note, our gazes meeting for a moment. “Sheer luck or not, you’ve made a success of your trip with this haul alone,” I commented.
“Grant Maewelin her due,” said Avila in quelling tones. “The goddess surely took charge of these hidden minds, just as she holds seed and bud sleeping through the dark days of winter.”
“Which would explain how the pieces came to her shrine,” Temar nodded thoughtfully.
He was convinced, no question, but few people I know give Maewelin more than a passing thought beyond the close of Aft-Winter. Hunger in the lean days after Winter Solstice prompts some to cover all options with an offering to the Winter Hag, but even then it’s a cult mostly limited to widows and women past any hope of marriage. That reminded me of something.
“The shrine to Maewelin in Zyoutessela is a refuge for women without family or friends. I know the Relict Tor Bezaemar makes donations to all manner of shrines, Demoiselle. You could ask if there’s any charitable sisterhood in Toremal that might take in the woman and her daughter?”
Avila’s severe expression lightened a little. “I will do so.”
“I have one,” said Temar with relief as much to do with my answer to the question of Maedura as with identifying an artefact. He pointed to a ring, modest turquoise set within silver petals. An inexpensive piece in any age but for some reason I knew beyond doubt it had been given with love and cherished with devotion.
“The woman with three children.” I shivered on sudden recollection of a little group still lost in the vastness of the Kellarin cavern. The sorrowful wizards hadn’t wanted to wake two children to the news that their sister and mother couldn’t yet be revived.
“The boy had my belt, with the buckle you recovered from the Elietimm.” As our eyes met I saw the lad through Temar’s memory, wide-eyed but determined not to show his fear, clinging to the buckle of Temar’s belt and to the promise that everything would be all right.
“This was for the youngest child.” Avila held up a tiny enamelled flower strung on an age-darkened braid of silk, her voice rough.
“Then we can wake them all.” Tangled emotions constricted Temar’s voice.
Avila looked down on the motley collection of valuables and trinkets. “But so many of the men held to knives or daggers,” she said softly. “Where are those?”
Sudden inspiration mocked me for a fool. “Weapons would’ve been laid in sword school shrines! I’ll wager my oath on it!”
I’d have explained further if Messire’s clerk hadn’t come in.
“Oh.” He stood in the doorway, nonplussed.
“You have something to say, young man?” Avila asked with all the confidence of rank.
“Surely you should all be getting ready to attend at the Imperial Law Courts, my lady.” Dolsan bowed respectfully but there was no mistaking his meaning as he looked at Temar’s creased shirt and Avila’s plain gown.
“In my day, substance counted for more than show among persons of high birth,” said Avila with a stern glare.
“In this age, my lady, show and substance are often one and the same.” Service to the Sieur made Dolsan equal to this challenge. “Chosen Tathel, Esquire Camarl’s valet was looking for you.”
I excused myself hastily to Avila and Temar and hurried upstairs. The Esquire was still in his shirt and an old pair of breeches, sorting through his own jewels for suitable ornaments for public appearance. “You weren’t in the gatehouse or the barracks, Ryshad. How’s my valet supposed to find you if you don’t leave word where you’ll be?”
“I was in the library.” I apologised. “That coffer looks to hold a lot of the pieces Temar’s hunting.”
“That’s fortunate.” Camarl’s expression was uncompromising. “That could well be all the spoils D’Alsennin wins from this Festival.” He set down a broad collar of curling gold links and tossed a letter at me.
“I learn you are interested in acquiring certain heirlooms of my House,” I read. “Certain others have also expressed a desire to acquire these pieces. Accordingly, I intend to have three jewellers unbeholden to any Name appraise the items in question. Once I have established their value, I invite you to make an offer. From Messire Den Turquand, given at his Toremal residence, Summer Solstice Day.”
“His man must have been waving it in the breeze to dry the ink on his way here,” muttered Camarl. “What do you make of it, Ryshad?”
“Den Turquand got wind of the value of Kellarin artefacts,” I said slowly. “And he’ll sell to the highest bidder, no question. Some of the Names offering argument to D’Olbriot before the courts will be only too glad to pay thrice their value to use them as bargaining counters.” I couldn’t contain my anger. “But these are people’s lives! Hostage-taking belongs back in the Chaos.”
“How did he get wind of this?” Camarl demanded.
I looked him in the eye. “I’ve been asking various of my acquaintance if their masters or mistresses have heirlooms that might date from the loss of Kellarin.”
“Perhaps it might have been wise to discuss that with myself or the Sieur,” Camarl said bitingly. “Servants gossip and share titbits with their betters, Ryshad.”
“I’m sorry. I’m accustomed to use my own judgement in service of the Name.” I managed a fair appearance of regret. That all the Demoiselles and Esquires gossiped just as eagerly among themselves and Camarl learned all manner of valuable things from his own valet was neither here nor there.